Change Changing Places

Today it stopped being Fall, and started being Winter.

[Edit/Add: No, it did not snow. Not to speak of, anyway, although a few flurries have periodically danced on the air throughout the morning. But most of the leaves have finally fallen, and it's very cold (33 degrees), and everything is grey in a decidedly wintery, not autumnal, sort of way. And I feel as though, even if warmer temperatures return, they somehow won't bring Fall back with them.]

Blog Malaise

I wish I could blog while I was driving. See, I write the most fabulous, literate blog postings in my head while I'm driving to work, or when I have some other fairly long road trip, like the one I took this weekend to the South Shore to meet my two college roommates for lunch. (One of whom, we figured out, I haven't seen for ELEVEN years. Seriously. Eleven. This is just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.) Anyway, by the time I get back to my computer, all thoughts are gone, and I'm reduced to writing lists of recent album purchases. (Band of Horses, Guster, Modest Mouse, Muse, Silverchair, Sufjan Stevens) And wishing I was prolific and disciplined and could write daily postings filled with philosophical musings and interesting life tales that others would want to read. Alas, today, this is all you get. Malaised whining. My apologies.

Letting Go

I have a recurring dream. There doesn't see to be a common trigger, and the dream takes two forms-- one has my grandmother in it. The other, my dog from childhood, Dusty. Yeah, it's a little strange that my dog & grandmother could be interchangeable, especially given the level of emotion associated with the dream, but...

Dusty was a sweet-tempered mutt, mostly English setter, with a white skunk-stripe running up his black muzzle and forehead, and brown eyebrows gave him a perpetually quizzical expression. He lived to be 14, around which time he started to be unable to keep control of his "functions" overnight, and would have accidents in the kitchen. We would come down in the morning, and he would be absolutely miserable with guilt (even though we of course would never punish him for something he couldn't help). He got worse & worse, and eventually we decided to put him down.

My Gram was my outdoorsy grandmother, my Mom's mom. She used to tell me all about her Scottish grandparents, and how much she would like to have seen where they grew up--- and I like to think my own trip to Scotland a year and a half ago was fulfilling her wish by proxy. Several of my mom's cousins say how much I remind them of her, and if it's true, nothing could make me prouder-- she was an amazing, smart, warm, compassionate, and strong woman. She had what was probably alzheimers later in life, and her mind failed to the point where she didn't even recognize us anymore. Before it got that bad, it was actually worse-- she had moments of clarity where she knew what was happening to her and would beg my mother, terrified, to help her.

Anyway, the dream. In the dream, one or the other (Dusty or Gram) is alive again. Not in that "this is all perfectly normal" dream-acceptance kind of way. In the dream I know that they are supposed to be dead. But alive again they are, healthy & vibrant, and I am filled with joy. I rough-house in the yard with Dusty, playing with the soft fur on his floppy ears like I did as a child. Or, I take walks with my grandmother; she identifies plants & birds for me like when I was in high school.

My joy is short-lived. I become aware with deadly certainty that I have a choice to make. I can let them go now, and they will just quietly cease to exist again, their "real" life being the only one that ever happened. Or I can keep them with me; they'll stay alive this second time, but will have to live... and die... just as they did in the first. Their bodies & minds will fail as they did in real life. Again.

I always make the same choice in the dream. I always choose to let them go, rather than watch them suffer all over again in trade for more time together. But it always breaks my heart. I sob bitterly in the dream as I give them up, and wake up feeling the loss all over again.

My Earthly Pleasures

Yes, I finally gave myself the treat of that trip to BullMoose on Saturday. (Well, first I lay around the house, after JR and Antoine departed their whirlwind stopover at "Chez K", bemoaning the return of the heat yet stubbornly refusing to put the air conditioner back on. THEN I summoned enough energy to drag myself to Portsmouth.) So, the purchases, in alphabetical order by artist:

• Fields, Everything Last Winter
• Maximo Park, Our Earthly Pleasures
• The Polyphonic Spree, The Fragile Army
• Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
• Wilco, Sky Blue Sky

The ritual... what? Karen, a ritual, NO! (I hear you Michaela.) Yes... Drive I95 to Portsmouth, the fastest, most direct route. Park in the garage, and walk to the promised land. Promptly become overwhelmed by vastness of selection, unknown artist blasting overhead, and impossibly beautiful record store boys. (And, alas, they ARE boys, but so cute with their vintage look shirts and carefully careless mops of hair.) Wander the bins, settling in, pulling out all the potential candidates. Shuffling the stack, trying to do math in my head, and making choices based on arbitrary factors like cover art, random song titles, and general whim. Now make my way through checkout, and walk back to garage clutching the prizes, pondering the next big question-- which one to listen to first? Which will grace the beginning of the trip home? The trip home, which is undertaken now not by way of the speedy I95, but down route 1A-- meandering along the shore line and marshes. A pretty ride but also an excuse to listen longer.

So it's Spoon that's first in queue, despite having quite possibly the worst album title EVER. Not exactly what I expected. A little edgier, less accessible... which is not a bad thing, just means it won't be the one I latch onto first. Instead it will be the slow burn that could grab me unawares when I least expect it. Pass a scenic overlook and swap out to Fields. Lush and swirling. Harmonies. Orchestration. Sigh with satisfaction. Then swap out again... and oh god, the immediate choke hold. Maximo Park. I couldn't even remember what snippet put it on The List, but the risk was worth it, this is the one. The one I will be listening to non-stop until I wear myself out and sneak back apologetically to the other purchases to begin letting them in too, bit by bit. Poppy and raw all at the same time and really, can anyone write lyrics like the Brits?

Find me an American band that rhymes hypothetical, alphabetical, theoretical, and dialectical in a refrain so catchy you have to sing along.

Go ahead, I dare you.

2 Pieces of Advice

1. Read The Book Thief.
2. Don't read The Book Thief.

There are expectations that naturally come along with a novel about the holocaust. A novel narrated by Death yields further expectations.

None of these expectations include a happy ending.

So why, encircled protectively in my armor of expectations, was I still so singularly devastated by this novel? To the point where I cried for close to a half hour after reading the final page last night, and remain in a sort of fog today, trying to focus on process documentation and project roadmaps while my mind still lingers on Himmelstrasse.

The Book Thief is beautiful. And terrible.

Read it.

But don't say I didn't warn you.

Long Overdue

It occured to me on my way to work this morning that the last time I went to The Happy Place (otherwise known as BullMoose Records), there was snow on the ground. Yes, snow. Now granted, that winter spree was a particularly good one and therefore had some staying power (Klaxons, Fratellis, Decemberists, Cinematics, Shins and Arcade Fire-- oh yeah, it was ALL good) but still... a new spree is LONG overdue and that must be rectified soon.

Some snippets from The List to consider:

• Editors... have the last one, but a little iffy on the new single. still, potential.
• Muse... gloriously prog. need to fill in the back catalog.
• Spoon... every time i hear the single, i get the inexplicable urge to dig out Basher, the best of Nick Lowe. so maybe i really just want to buy more old Nick Lowe?
• Fields? Headlights? Maximo Park?... heard bits and pieces from various sources and i'm just not sure yet. i always like to take at least one risk within a spree, though, so one may make the cut. my notes indicate a chick singer for Headlights, making it the biggest risk. (yes, JR, my aversion to chick singers still runs rampant.)
• Peter, Bjorn & John... the darn whistling song. do i really want to do this? probably not, but it's on The List anyways.
• Modest Mouse... now that i've given in, one question remains-- start with the current and work my way backwards? or go the other way around? suggestions welcome.
• Wilco... the new one. have all the others. this is a definite.
• The Polyphonic Spree... so wacky, so delicious. so... polyphonic.
• Guster... it goes like this: i hear a song i like. i wonder "who is that"? the dj comes on and says "that was Guster". i think, gotta get me some Guster. and then never do. why is that? i really should support the local boys. at this point, i think i just don't know where to start.
• Crowded House... was skeptical when i heard they reunited. then heard the single. i should have known-- it's Neil Finn for god's sake, how can you go wrong?

Tune in later to see what I end up with!

I give up, I give in...

... to both Interpol and Modest Mouse. I'm not sure why... actually, I do know why, it's that contrary streak that rears its head from time to time... but I've struggled for ages now NOT to like them. Interpol seemed too monochromatic. I need variety. And for a stretch there it seemed like everyone who was actually familiar with the sort of bands I liked would insist that I MUST like Modest Mouse. And there, of course, is where that contrary streak kicks in. MUST like? I think not. I will like what I want to like, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, now I find myself wanting to like Modest Mouse. And trying to convince myself it's not hypocritical to do so. And that I'm not jumping on a bandwagon too late-- we all know I like to stay one step ahead of the masses in these matters. Interpol... well, every song I hear still sounds like a blur of sameness, but somehow it's become comforting instead of monotonous.

So I just close my eyes and jump on...

The more things change...

A recent conversation about blogging made me think "hey, it's been awhile since any of us have posted to Salt Water Chronicles". Imagine my chagrine when I looked at the blog and realized it had been close to TWO YEARS!

I suppose there are things I could have blogged about in all this time, but when I look back, precious little seems to have really changed. I'm still in the same job. Still love it some days, completely bored by it other days, and completely overwhelmed by it on still others. I still live in the same apartment. I'm still single, and still trying valiantly (with occasional success) to be optimistic that the 13 year relationship I ended several years ago was not the end of my relationship career, and that somewhere out there is the right guy who will appreciate my many charms... really, I do have charms...

It's grey, damp, and relatively cool out again today. The weather forecast for the past 4 days has been promising blistering temps in the 90's, and each day has dawned grey and subdued, and in the 70's. The kind of grey that looks like it will burn off by noon except so far, it hasn't. I can't pretend to be upset about the cooler temperatures, because god knows I hate high heat and humidity. But somehow these past days have felt oppressive nonetheless. Oppressive in their sameness. And in the threat that any moment now the veil will lift and the sun will wilt us all in our tracks.

For some reason, I remembered an odd incident from a couple of years ago on my way to work this morning. I had gone to the mall for something (had to have been Xmas shopping, because I usually try to avoid malls at all costs) and came back to the parking lot to find that someone had parked their car at a crazy angle next to mine, leading me to believe I might not be able to get in via the driver's side, but would have to climb in and over through the passenger door. My initial reaction was a flare of anger and annoyance, and then I realized that the driver of the offending vehicle was still in the driver's seat. On closer inspection, I realized that said driver was a guy about my age, and that he was crying. Sobbing, actually-- the way you only do when you have lost someone, or been given some similarly devastating news. I opened my driver's side door as much as I was able, and did manage (just barely) to squeeze into my driver's seat. And then sat there for several minutes, torn. Should I see if he was OK? (I mean, clearly he wasn't, but should I ask if he needed help?) I wrestled back and forth with myself for a few, and then put my car in gear and drove away. I guess the chances are good that he would not have wanted someone intruding on his obvious grief. But when I thought about the incident this morning, there is still a part of me that wishes I had at least tried to offer some comfort...