syllabus

I've been trying to write a song for three weeks now

2011-01-09T15:46:00.001-08:00

and failing.

This is a good sign that I'm sitting on a great song.

In other news, if anyone still reads this, it's going to be changing relatively soon.

Peace out until then,

love,

Colin

Literary Analysis

2010-11-29T23:37:00.001-08:00

just in case you missed this poem earlier....I rather like it.

Literary Analysis,

by Colin Flanigan

As I sat in the bathroom cubicle

which was like a beehive

but without the bees (which is an abstraction)

my heart

felt, (after a line break)

like a white-hot iron

(Which is a simile, signified by the word "like").

A white-hot iron,

which,

in its fiery rage,

was personified -

by my insinuation that a laundry-iron could feel rage -

spat sparks upon the laundry

and the fabric (which is a synonym)

of my soul

because you said

"I love you -

but I am sick of your explaining everything."

Education

2010-10-13T21:57:00.001-07:00

The saddest thing about my current educational career is, I think, the level to which I am excited to spend my time off next summer re-reading the books in my Literature classes and actually paying attention.

What is better, a great many books at a rushed, incoherent pace, or a great few at a pace which promotes learning?

I must argue for the latter.

Want

2010-04-02T22:18:00.000-07:00

Recently a few friends of mine and I have been talking about living together. Not in the sense of getting an apartment together while we're all still single and men and whatnot, but in the quite permanent sense. Conversation has revolved around working up the funds to purchase for ourselves either an enormous old Victorian house or an entire city-suburb block within which would be housed ourselves, our respective significant others and progeny. It's been a wonderful thought, but each time we've discussed it my instinct has argued with my heart, telling it that this will probably never work; it's impractical, improbable, and altogether un-American. The latter may be correct, but I don't know that the former statements are.
My thoughts have gone to progress. Personal progress. What about my house, my things, my family.
One of the individuals discussing the topic said "You know, if we don't all actually live in the same house together we should at least live near each other," to which another fervently responded "Don't give me "if"! I don't want your "if". This is something I legitimately want to work for. I want nothing more than this." It was my friend Josiah.
As the day progressed, Josiah said a number of remarkable things that started to chip away at my concept of the future (which has been a bit wishy washy as of late) of my life. Things like "I just don't really like having a lot of stuff. That's why I buy videogame systems, play through all the games I want to on them, then sell them to other people to make back most of the money. I don't like to just have them sitting." All this while I'm pawing through collectible trinkets which serve no actual function in a thrift store that seemed after that utterance more like a junk emporium than anything. He also said to my girlfriend "I don't think I'd be happier living anywhere than wherever you and your family are." Or something along those lines. He's been close with them for a long, long time, and is by all rights a member of their family anyway. But when he said that, something in my snapped into place.

In my formative teenage years I was not very close with my family. I could argue that I never have been, but I don't want to overstate my disconnection. Still, it is safe and not an overstatement to say that I spent most of my teenage years fantasizing about how I would graduate from high school and move somewhere far away and never speak to anyone in my immediate family ever again – at least my father and mother. This has changed drastically since then, and my relationships with my brother (with whom I never really had a falling-out), mother, and father have all dramatically improved. However, with the exception of my brother, there is this odd sense of estrangement that still lingers – the sense of familial obligation is there, but the feeling of origin is lacking if not altogether lost. And so, because in my teenage planning years I viewed myself as a completely independent being, I have continued to think this way.
And then I considered my best friends. And all of a sudden one of them was telling me that he would be happiest nowhere else than with that group of people – with me. And I agreed with him. Which got me wondering: when did I ever not agree with him?
At what point in my life did someone tell me that I had to be that independent? At what point did it become “unhealthy” in my mind for all of the members of a family unit to live in close proximity to each other if not with each other entirely? At what point did I start wanting to seclude myself and push others away, and at what point did I desire anything more than to be with the people I love continuously and without interruption by means of location? How could I want anything more.
And so, I fantasize about my ideal environment. This is my new desire, my new goal, my new list of wants and needs in life, replacing an Amazon.com wish-list of iPods and LCD Televisions and countless hours of seclusion.
I want to live with those I love. I want to do things with them regularly that, without them around, would be simply necessities – chores. I want to grocery shop with them. I want to cook things with them, and when we're finished cooking to sit down to the accomplishment of a delicious meal – to share the experience of it with them, and afterwards to sip from a glass or a cup or a mug of whatever is handy and to listen to them talk about anything and everything and contribute what I can to stoking the conversation. I want to create with them; to make physical and visible and audible and tangible the complex and difficult concepts of our perceptions of the world around us. I want to make sense of things with them, and when things don't make sense to pound out meanings with them. I want to worship the God I love with them – to experience His grace and hope and love and gifts with them.
And yes, I want to take in the unimportant things. I'd like the flat-screen TV to be in the home theater we've built for ourselves. I'd like the expensive instruments and the temperature controlled room. I'd like to stay up late having father-son videogame tournaments among families, and to have things. But I don't really need these “things”. I recognize that easily and immediately. What interests me is that I'm not so sure that I don't need these people, and I'm not so sure that I would be as happy living anywhere else than right where they are. I agree with Josiah.

unity

2009-11-11T10:25:00.001-08:00

When everyone's your favorite person, you don't really like anybody, now, do you?

Sorry for the lack of updates all, I've been hard at work on the new band I'm heading up, the Aches & Pains [www.myspace.com/aches] and working on a novel that I'm trying to finish up by the end of November, all while working near 40 hours a week and taking three online classes.

I'll be back someday soon.

Need Vs. Want

2009-10-05T11:43:00.001-07:00

can't afford the brushes
can't afford the pens
can't afford the means
can't produce the ends
can't afford the teaching
can't afford the rights
can't afford the daylight
can't afford the night
can't afford the property
can't afford the tools
can't afford the southern wall
can't afford the roof
can't afford your art school
can't afford the text
can't afford your contract
can't provide the act
can't afford the tools
can't provide the craft
can't afford the tools
can't provide the craft
can't afford the tools
can't provide the craft
can't afford the tools
can't provide the craft

Last Year/How To's

2009-07-12T11:51:00.001-07:00

insomnia, vol. 1

2009-07-09T00:02:00.001-07:00

They say I have a minute and thirty seconds to write whatever comes to mind about the object on the table in the center of the room, and from one of twenty some-odd desks forming the outer ring of the seminar, I stare furiously at a bright red apple.
The clock starts and I wax philosophical as I write about tough, crisp skin that hides tender, white flesh. I write how that skin will bruise when dropped, the flesh inside turned brown and unattractive, never to be white again. I write about how that same skin will eventually, if left alone, will rot and cease to be able to protect what lies within. I write about the rotten apple that spoils the bunch, the juices turned to vinegar and about the worms that so easily eat their way through the apple that I have herein personified as “the poor, dead creature.”
I write about the core. The seeds. The skin serving not only to protect the meat, but the seeds, and the meat to protect the seeds as well. The seeds being at the core, and the core being comprised of skeleton and seed, and symbolism. And I put myself in the core, in the fetal position and a white tuxedo, nestled gently within the cream and green of the apple's gut.
As my mind flashes and sifts through its roll-a-dex cross-referencing allusions and metaphors involved with apples I scribble something about never falling far from the tree, but if thrown hard enough with the aid of the wind planting a new tree entirely with no proper memory of origin. I write about the bark of the tree, and how it is far worse than the bite of an apple, the crisp tartness seeping through my teeth and piercing my jaw with its sweetness. I make swift and passing references to Adam and Eve, but I know that no one really knows what the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil looks like. I think it looks like a metaphor. So, I write a few more down before the clock runs out and heads look up and pencils go down and people start to speak.
And when they ask me what I've written about, I say
“An apple.”

It is red, the color which apples of its kind are meant to be.
There are lines in its skin, stretch marks where it has grown.
Underneath a bruise, the flesh is brown and damaged, un-appealing but still as sweet.
Someday the skin will rot and develop holes, and worms will eat through the poor-dead creature. Unless, of course, someone beats the worms to it. Then the apple will be good. Not poor, not dead. Just sweet and refreshing and nourishing, provided the eater likes apples. Nourishing, at least.
Teeth will pierce the skin and reveal the sweetness inside, the tartness of skin.
And if the teeth are ravenous, they will bite through to the core and suck on the seeds.
The seeds, removed from their casing, will be worthless.
Worthless, like a white tuxedo at a funeral; a wedding for a friend.
The apple does not fall far from the tree, unless it does, in which case it will have to have help not only to fall farther than usual from said tree, but to build for itself a new tree; new progeny that will, perhaps, not be so hesitant to stay underneath the shade already provided for them.
The teeth pierce the apple, and the apple pierces the senses.
Adam and Eve.
The apple falls underneath the tree, and is sweet, and is brown where it has been bruised or exposed to the air, and is red where it still has skin. It is all of these things because it is an apple, and it is not me.
And no matter how much I put myself in the apple, I am no less myself, and the apple is no more me than it is a grapefruit, or a banana, or any other fruit that they might decide to have me write about next time.
I don't mind writing about myself,
but I think, sometimes,
that I'd much rather write
about an apple.

hypnotherapy

2009-07-02T17:19:00.001-07:00

It's as if I'm choking,

no, no

wait.

It's as if I'm swimming,
but I'm drowning,

so I'm choking.

No,
still not right.

It's as if I'm swimming,
but I've opened my mouth

and I've opened my lungs

and I am thoroughly
opened
and swallowing.

And as I'm swallowing,
I am also wondering
"Is my being open;
my swallowing
the real problem here?"

"Or is the real problem
that when you're completely submerged
there's just too much
to swallow?"

I am a college freshman
with a beer-bong in his throat
and a worried grin
written all over
my sour stomach
no, no!
Wait!

I am swimming.

It's as if I'm swimming,
but I've opened my mouth

so I suppose
it would not be inappropriate to say
that I am choking

which is to say,

I'm drowning.

fascination

2009-06-12T15:58:00.001-07:00

Interpretation

2009-06-02T20:52:00.000-07:00

When I was young, I saw Ouroboros,
the serpent that eats his own body
day in and day out.

With mouth full he spoke to me,
and with teeth clenched he sang his song,
but I could not understand the words,
and my spirit hurt to look upon a creature
so starved that he should feed himself
upon himself.

And so I looked away,
and with back turned,
I said to him
"creature, stop your foolish swallow,
forget your task,
release yourself and grow new limbs!"
But he did not listen,
for I was just a child
and he an immortal image.

As I grew,
I learned what he was saying,
and learned the song he sang.
I learned his ways,
and it did not hurt to look.

But still I know,
that though his tail is long,
it is only so long,
and though his heart is in his throat
his teeth are in his jaw,
sinking swiftly into flesh to
swallow
swallow
swallow
swallow
dive
bite
tear.

Ouroboros is dead now,
and I am left here
growing new limbs,
forgetting foolish ways
and growing very
very
hungry.

Graduation

2009-05-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

Graduate
verb |ˈgrajoōˌāt| |ˈgrødʒəˈweɪt| |ˈgradʒʊeɪt| |-djʊeɪt|
1 [ intrans. ] successfully complete an academic degree, course of training, or high school : I graduated from West Point in 1965.
• [ trans. ] informal receive an academic degree from: : she graduated college in 1970.
• [ trans. ] confer a degree or other academic qualification on : the school graduated more than one hundred arts majors in its first year.
• ( graduate to) move up to (a more advanced level or position) : he started with motorbikes but now he's graduated to his first car.
2 [ trans. ] arrange in a series or according to a scale : [as adj. ] ( graduated) a graduated tax.
• mark out (an instrument or container) in degrees or other proportionate divisions : the stem was graduated with marks for each hour [as adj. ] : graduated cylinders.
3 [ trans. ] change (something, typically color or shade) gradually or step by step : the color is graduated from the middle of the frame to the top.

I remember what it felt like to graduate from high school. It felt odd, like I was witnessing the whole event from outside of myself. I wasn't sure where I would be going from there, and wasn't positive that I'd be receiving my actual diploma in a tangible format because my balance owed to my private school had not yet been payed. It was a strange experience, as I assume every graduation is and will be. It is liberating and terrifying. It is the end of an era; of guidance and safety.

But what if we took into account all of the things we graduate from daily?
I could not count the number of times I've heard a mother or father tell me that their child has "graduated" from diapers. Or that they've "graduated" to a two-wheeler bicycle. Nothing to do with education, only with progression, a state change towards something more challenging.

I have "graduated" from several jobs. I graduated from Jewel Osco long ago, when I had not yet graduated from high school. Not too long after, I graduated from a coffee shop. Many of us have graduated from yard work, from chores done for allowance, and from scheduled bedtimes. Still more of us have graduated from relationships, taking with us hard-earned diplomas showing our new-found knowledge on the subjects we were studying. Some of us graduate from our families, becoming less dependant, along with the unfortunate few whose families have graduated from them. But regardless of what we are graduating from or into, it should be a desire of ours to graduate from each day, leaving the twenty-four hour periods during which we exists consciously with greater knowledge and ability than that with which we started.

"Learn something new every day, I always say" my grandfather used to say to me when I was a little boy. "Learn one new thing every day, and imagine what you can learn in a lifetime!" A few years later, he graduated from living, but he graduated with quite a bit of knowledge about the world and things surrounding him. In his own way, he made life into a study all its own. I can only hope that when I graduate, I will have mastered something.

And Leave Them There

2009-05-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

Blind Willie Johnson was not born blind
and although nobody really knows how he got that way,
one of two wives told somebody
who told somebody else
that it was because his mother
(not his real mother,
but the woman his father married
shortly after his real mother's death)
in a fit of rage
(brought forth by being beaten by his father,
who had caught her gallivanting about with another man)
picked up a handful of lye
and threw it in his face
(meant for the father,
received by the son)

Blind Willie Johnson
was married
two times
(or at least that's what they say)
Once to a woman named Willie,
who did not really love him
(I assume, because she left)
and again to a woman named
Angeline
(who, though she did not sing with him,
receives the credit for doing so)

Blind Willie Johnson
never hit it big
never struck it rich
never had nothing
and seemingly,
never complained.
He played songs like
"Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there"
and
"Praise God I'm Satisfied"
many of which he did not write,
but perfected in his interpretations.

Blind Willie Johnson
didn't see his house burn down
(although I'm sure he knew
when he walked in
and crawled into his bed
soaking wet from the buckets
meant to douse the flames)
and got pneumonia
and died
because the hospital wouldn't take him.

But the Lord would.

Blind Willie Johnson
played the blues.

The Blues aren't what they used to be.

More on Submarines

2009-05-18T11:22:00.001-07:00

This is the new ending to a song that I recently wrote.
I fell asleep the night before I wrote this with the "Writing down numbers" stanza in my head, then wrote the rest when I woke up.

I have scraped the bottom
of the ocean floor
trying to shine a light in places
where it's never shone before
and the rocks are all familiar,
as if I've seen them all before
way off in some forgotten town that I don't visit anymore
and in the echo chamber
of my underwater tank
the silence is so thick that I can hear my own thoughts think
and underneath the water, I saw a sparkling stone
but I didn't take it, 'cause only reminded me of being alone
and I've been reading all the numbers
trying to tabulate a score
but lately I'm much less a hunter
than wondering what I'm hunting for
still the thundering of silence
at the bottom of the sea
makes me remember that no matter where I go, You're here with me.

Thank you.

I never was much of a dancer

2009-05-16T08:43:00.000-07:00

Everybody dance,
please

I'd really appreciate it
if you would

shuffle your feet just a bit.

Because, you see
I've got these

blues.

And Eddy said,
that I should dance them all away...

But
I'm not much of a dancer
and I've only got
these blues
because I am alone,
so if I dance,
badly,
by myself,
I don't think it will work.

And if you could please
keep your mouth shut,
i think that might help, too.

These blues,
they are something
of a fuel...
something
like gasoline for thoughts
that drive cars around my skull
and crash,
drunken,
into my mind.
And when you speak,
all the thoughts start street-racing
in their lowered pintos and japanese imports,
which I've always thought were tacky,
and they,
for whatever reason,
play chicken
like some modern-day ethnic James Dean.

And when you speak,
James Dean goes blind
in the middle of the race,
and the no-name actor
driving the other car
screams at the top of his lungs
as one "chickee run"
turns into a twenty car pile up
in my brain.

So please,
for my sake,
and, if you need to see it this way,
for the sake
of James Dean,
and for Eddy, who told me to dance away my blues in the first place,
just
keep your eyes closed,
and be silent,
while I try my best
to dance away these blues.

the mind at work in a submarine

2009-05-13T11:58:00.000-07:00

Johnny Cash Covered This Song, I Think

2009-05-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

When I was 9 years old, my mother enrolled me in Karate classes, and as any 9 year old boy who had ever seen a Jackie Chan film would be, I was thrilled. When I showed up for my first class, I had already watched the Karate Kid enough times to know all about the standard code of honor; how you never hit anyone unless you are defending yourself, and even then you are not to harm anyone unless absolutely necessary. It was the first thing they taught us. No punching, no kicking, no focus, just the code. It was the core of the martial arts, they said, and if you didn't understand that principle then you didn't belong in the class. I've always been something of a pacifist, so I was fine with this code.
Years later I started to help teach classes under the supervision of my sensei The kids were all around the same age that I was when I first started. I watched them spar, and it was hilarious to see how delicate some of them were, throwing punches as if they were all little figurines made of glass. Nobody wanted to hurt anyone else.
By that time I had joined up with the adult classes. The ages ranged from 15 to about 40 something. It was much more intense training, but I still never wanted to hurt anyone. Then one day I was sparring with a kid named Keith. We were both about 16 years or so old, and he was being a real jackass, making fun of me and throwing in cheap hits. I told him to stop. I told him several times. But eventually, I just exploded.
He fell faster than I thought he would, and was more startled than he was hurt. Still, I knew what I had done. I had lost control. I had broken the cardinal rule of martial arts. I felt horrible, and prepared myself for my impending punishment. But to my surprise, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my Sensei. I expected him to have a frown on his face, but he just looked serious. Not happy, not sad, but serious. Then he leaned towards my ear and said "It's alright, Colin. He deserved it."
And just like that, the rules changed. I had lost control, and it was okay. And besides, I didn't mean to hurt him. But it couldn't be okay. Keith wasn't hurt badly, but he was bleeding a little. It wasn't right. I knew it wasn't right. But the instant that those words were softly spoken in my ear, it was. A few years later I left the dojo to focus my efforts elsewhere.

There's a guy that I used to work with who was about my age that let me in on a little secret of his. He was something of a sociopath, and for whatever reason he chose to confide in me truth about his sociopathic tendencies. He lived to break hearts, just to make people fall in love with him; to see how much they loved him by the time he decided to say goodbye to them. Even when they were in perfectly happy relationships, he told me, he loved the idea of stealing them away, even though he knew that he would just break things off as soon as he got bored. He hurt people, and he knew that he hurt people, but he just couldn't help himself. He hated that he did it, but he did it anyway. And he probably still does.

At what point foes it become permissible for us to hurt others knowingly? What strange synapse fires when we grow older that suddenly gives meaning to the words "malicious intent"? What monster hatches inside of us that drives this intent to action? It's in me, and I know it's in me. I try my best to fight it, but the destruction put forth by my human nature is constantly revealed as being nothing short of completely inevitable. And it all started when they told me "it's okay, he deserved it. you deserved it."

I deserve it.

I just don't want to hurt anymore.

[Not an Essay. Scroll down for those.]

2009-05-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

Didn't people used to be private?
It's funny, because I write a lot of fairly personal material here, but I write it as literature, not as a journal or anything. If this were my journal, I'd be mortified at the idea of having people read it. This is just a book that I write a few times a week.
But really, weren't humans private at one point? When did that stop?
The information age hit, and we all went from private shut-ins to worldwide lookee-loos, small-town boys and girls to international town criers. We've acquired the gossip and the pity-monger's most treasured fantasy, and everyone is listening. "And remember, don't let your boss see your facebook photos from the bar last night."

Really?

It's all very unsettling.
More on this in my future book "I, Human: Being a Person in the Digital Age".

The Problem With Hats

2009-05-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

There are some things that we must enjoy from a distance. Things that we enjoy, admire, and sometimes even love, but know to be dangerous. You may love a certain specific wild animal, for instance. Or perhaps you love the edges of tall buildings or cliffs. But one must know that these things are dangerous, and inherently knows that one of the best measures of safety is distance from what is not safe.

Personally, I like hats. I like hats a lot. Particularly those from bygone eras, such as the stovepipe top-hots from the roaring twenties, the timeless and comical bowler hat, and the classic and always dashing fedora. Every now and then I'll watch an old film from one of these aforementioned bygone eras and think to myself "Man, I should really get one of those hats." I wonder to myself where one might get a quality hat like that, like the ones that Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart, Dick Van Dyke and Charlie Chaplin used to wear.
On rare occasions I will see people wearing these hats in public. Usually they are old men, walking softly with their canes and their wives and their retirement off to some undisclosed location where everything is still the way it was when they were young. But sometimes they will not be old. Sometimes the men in hats will be young, my age or perhaps a bit older, and the most surprising thing about them is that from where I'm standing, they don't look stupid. The hats suit them, and they do the hats justice. But for myself, I know better.
I have hat problems. I have gone out in search of a hat that would suit my strangely shaped skull on several occasions, but have returned with nothing but an uncovered head and a sense of defeat. They never fit, and if they do fit they look in some un-discernible and humiliating way...off. I feel as if I am one of those little organ-grinder monkeys attempting to "pull of" a white-sox baseball cap instead of the traditional miniature fez. It's almost cute, but something about it is just not right. And so, I admire the hats from a distance.
Because the problem with hats is this: no matter how much I love them, they will never love me back. I will continue to see them, become slowly enamored and, after a short time, trust them enough to place them on my head and see how they look. But as soon as I do this, they will reveal their true feelings. They do not really love me. There is another. They don't know who yet, but someday someone with a prettier, more well-sculpted head than I is going to come along and sweep them off their rack and they will live happily ever after. But it will not be me. Not because I cannot give them what they want, of course. I can give them the appropriate wardrobe to go with their particular feeling, I have a pleasing face for them to augment, and I dare say my style fits them. It's just that they don't fit me. I have even found hats that have looked good on me for a time, but after a certain point they decide that things just aren't working out. Perhaps I have gotten a haircut that they don't like or bent their brims just a bit too much, but for whatever reason they always quit on me. And maybe it is because i am incapable of having a long-term commitment to a hat. Perhaps there is something within me, some divinely providential defect that has caused me to be utterly inadequate in the realm of hat-wearing. Perhaps the problem is not that the hats don't love me back, but that I am incapable of hats.
But whatever the reason, after several years of hunting for a hat of my very own, I have become firmly committed to the idea that hats, in my case, are dangerous. So, I admire them from a distance, and let them have the well-sculpted skulls upon which they rest, the store windows in which they reside. And I do not resent them for their choice. I do not cringe when I see them. Quite the opposite, really, I still smile. I am above the want for a hat, and I have come to terms with that fact. Mostly. I have, for the most part, come to terms with my hat-curse.
But somewhere, deep inside of myself, I still hope that one fateful day when God is smiling down on me and the heavens rend open and grant me a glorious favor, I will find my hat. And it will fit.

The end.

(Arcade Fire - Wake Up (live acoustic session)

There's an American in PaPua, New Guinea

2009-05-01T14:42:00.000-07:00

and he's learning how the Coca-cola tribe mummifies their dearly departed.
A father is teaching his son how to mummify him when he dies, so that he can live on forever with the rest of their beloved tribal warriors. It is a great honor.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting on the couch wishing I were still sitting on a fence wishing that I wasn't sitting on the particular fence that I was sitting on and that I was staring at clouds lit by other lights in another place.

I wish that I were still out there.
It was 1am, and I could only imagine what the few people that drove down my street were thinking when they saw me, half-crouched, sitting on the fence that separates the side of the road from the farmer's field. But I didn't really think about it. What I did think about is how beautiful the sky is at one in the morning, even when there are clouds in the sky. I was thinking that if my tax money had already come around, I would be smoking a pipe full of vanilla cavendish right now. I was thinking that I can't wait until this phase of my life is past and the future is upon me.
But most of all, I was thinking that those golden-gilded clouds in the distance made me want to walk across that field and into the darkness, forever towards them, until I was in the presence of their golden light and was warmed by the soft edges of their cotton.
I was thinking that I can't believe I stay inside as much as I do after the sun goes down. There is so much to be seen in the midst of darkness, so much to discover when you've become blind.
I was thinking that I need this more than anything.
This time where I shut my mouth and open my eyes, calm my mind and make myself aware. Where I put myself in very minor danger, just so that I can know that I am. Where I look up at those golden clouds in the blue-violet sky, lit up by the unnatural light of progress and humanity (a phrase ironic enough in its own right), and think to myself "Enough. This is enough. Thank you."
And then I jump from the fence and walk to my front door and walk into my comfortable house, where a man is on television learning to mummify people in Papua, New Guinea, and I am typing up narcissistic, self-involved stories on my laptop that I can't afford, wishing that I was still on that fence.

There is so much to see when there's nothing to look at.

:
from a moleskine
april 29, 2009

"This Is Just To Say"

2009-04-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

American Poet William Carlos Williams once wrote a poem called "This Is Just To Say". It was an imagist poem, where the imagery given actually meant a bit more than the actual material itself, the feeling more than the message. It is a poem about apologies, and meaning what you say (or not meaning it). Today, many poets and English teachers alike use the poem to teach poetry, using it as a sort of template for rooting out feelings in students, and within themselves. After all, sometimes we need to be shown where to put things, a mold into which we can pour out our souls so that they look like something other than a mass of un-molded material. No one wants to see their soul in that un-formed, naked state. And so:

"This Is Just To Say", by William Carlos Williams.

"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"

"This Is Just To Say"
by Colin Flanigan

I wrote down all of the words you ever said to me
on index cards
one word each.

Then I tore them up.

I am sorry,
I should have respected your words enough
to recognize the symbolism
within this childlike tantrum.

But if you will help me,
I will glue the pieces back together
and form new words
which will mean much more
than the ones I say alone.

.Your turn.

Rummaging for Treasures

2009-02-02T09:50:00.000-08:00

Hello.
Recently, I've been rummaging through old journals and sketchbooks and scanning things for posterity. I'll probably work with some of them in Photoshop, who knows.
Would you like to see some?
Okay, sure.

The Woods

2008-08-27T13:14:00.001-07:00

The woods, as everyone knows, can be a dangerous place. Sometimes you ought to be in those woods, searching around to see what you can find behind the branches. But sometimes you ought to be out in the open, exposed to daylight without shelter, and visible to those around you.
For years and years in many different countries the woods have been associated with danger. Cautionary tales of babes wandering into the woods and finding houses made of treats and being eaten by witches, stories of bodies being found mangled and torn, trolls in the trees, fearful students making shaky documentaries about occult phenomena; the woods are surely a dangerous place. But they're just so damn beautiful.

In the final stretch of summer days before school starts back up for the both of us, I am spending one last day with my best friend. He lives a ways a way, so we don't get to see each other all that often during the summers. Still, we manage. Today, though, we are trying to fit in all of the things that one should do in a final day before not seeing one another for quite some time. The problem with this is that neither of us knows exactly what those things should be. Neither of us have ever been much for normal celebration, and so we wander around with ideas of what to do and settle on as many as we can fit in before the day is done.
We go to the woods.

It is daytime and we are walking around aimlessly in the Van Patten Woods Forest Preserve in Zion, Illinois. Neither of us know where we're going, but there's a gravel pathway between all of the forestation that is quite nice. We are discussing Bigfoot, or more specifically the alleged discovery of several Bigfoot-like creatures by some men in Georgia. It was on Fox News, so it must have been true.
We postulate on how the original Bigfoot legend could have started out and what sort of confusion there might be within Bigfoot researching circles. Jeff says that he thinks it would be funny if all of the wood-tapping and whooping sounds that researchers report when they're on the field studying Bigfoot turned out to just be another group of researchers trying to communicate with the same creatures as the first bunch. I laugh at the plausibility of this situation. Then I hypothesize that perhaps the first Bigfoot was actually a man with a genetic mutation such as giantism or something like it combined with a hair growth disorder, or that wore animal skins or something to that effect. And then we turn the corner.
Van Patten Woods is not in the best of areas (though certainly not in the worst either), and it is not unusual to spot a homeless person ambling around in the woods half-crazed but mostly harmless. I knew this, and both Jeff and I are extremely accustomed to seeing bizarre or unusual things on a daily basis. We are magnets for the stuff, really. But I doubt either of us were prepared for the image that we were about to see as we turned the curve in the gravel path.
Directly ahead of us on the right side of the path facing mostly away from us was a large man urinating onto the plants beside him. On his head he wore a dirty blue baseball cap, undoubtedly with the logo of some professional some sports-team on the front, a blue T-shirt, and women's underwear. Jeff and I instantly turned away and started walking in the opposite direction, equal parts shocked and mildly terrified. We continued our conversation, but now it ambled in a manic circular pattern.
"What if we had just seen Bigfoot?"
"What the hell was that?!"
"Let's walk onto that bridge."
"Ok. What the hell was that?!"
"He was peeing. I think he was wearing women's underwear..."
"I know. Where are we going? The Bridge?"
"Yeah. It wouldn't have been so bad if they weren't the frilly kind!"
"I know! What in the hell was that?!"
"Look, turtles!"
"Oh yeah, those are really cool.
...do you think that guy was a rapist?"
And there it was. The common theme of the rest of the conversation until we got back to the car and drove home and made food and forced ourselves to think of something else so that we could digest. "What the hell was that?" had suddenly become a far more sinister question. Something that at first was bizarre and funny had now become dark and somewhat frightening. Still humorous, to some point, but disturbing, too. This would be the kind of thing for Jeff and I to see together, I thought to myself.

In the car we began to talk about it further. What if he had been a rapist? What if there was someone nearby that, dead or alive, we could have discovered? Why didn't Jeff have his knife with him so that we didn't have to rush away so quickly?! That was a particularly frustrating detail of the day. If whatever or whomever we might have discovered had in fact been alive, then what sort of people were we for running away? If there had been a dead body, what sort of further scarring could we have just avoided? Should we have notified someone? But whom? There were no park rangers to be found in the ranger's station.
We had passed another group of young men on our way out of the woods. Should we have warned them of what was in there? Why didn't we? Perhaps it was in the hope that if there was indeed anything to find that they might find it instead. If there was apprehension to be made, that they might apprehend him in our stead. As I sit here and write this, I realize that we probably should have reported something about the event. But we were both so shocked at the time that the idea of doing anything other than getting out of those woods had no place in our headspace.
But now, I am safe. Now I am sitting comfortably in a coffee shop, surrounded by what I assume to be safe, sane, upstanding members of society. I am wearing clean clothing. I have showered and I just got a haircut from a complete and total stranger. I trusted a stranger to wield sharpened implements around the area of my skull. And now, I am pitying all involved in the incident. I am pitying the assumably homeless man that we encountered in the woods, who was quite obviously unstable but not obviously dangerous. I am pitying the imaginary victims, both dead and alive, that exist in my head – the ones that I neglected to save or to discover and bring to justice. I am pitying the imaginary rapist, understanding that he is out of his mind, and wondering why he is an imaginary rapist in my mind to begin with. I am regretting my simply running from the situation. But, at the same time, I am safe. I am warm. I am clothed and unmarred and healthy. It seems silly to say so, but had we further investigated the situation I may not be so lucky at present.
So, as I sit typing this, my question is this: where do we draw the line between a funny anecdote and a disturbing image? Where do we draw the line between curiosity, bravery, and stupidity? When do we stay and when do we turn tail and walk back out of the woods? Is it ever okay to assume someone is something as nefarious as a rapist, regardless of their garb or lack thereof? And why does everything like this always seem to happen in the woods?

2008-06-15T12:08:00.001-07:00

Your world gets so much bigger when you learn how to be small.

If You're Hip

2008-05-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

Then you already know.
But sometimes even hip aren't open enough to find something great when it's disguised under a genre that they don't often appreciate.
That's right, I'm talking about hip-hop.

Ask everyone you know what sort of music they like, I can assure you that one out of three will say "Oh, I listen to everything...except rap and country". Then they will shudder and you will smile, either because you identify with this statement or you recognize it as the cop-out that it is. Not to be harsh, but everything? So do you listen to neo-classical jazz-fusion? How about Armenian speed-metal? Icelandic drone or Australian twee-pop? Nope. Nuthin'.
And thusly, a point it proven. As music lovers, it's not that we listen to everything, but it's that we listen to everything that we can find that will land on our earssoftly and without aggravation. That's why I write this blog in the first place. So, I ask you; if you'll listen to Bazillian psych-rock, Indie-anything, or Architecture in Helsinki (remember when I mentioned Australian twee-pop? That's them), just how far are you willing to branch out.
I won't ask you to listen to country, but for this post I ask that you open your mind a bit, because I'm going to give you some hip-hop. Hope you don't hate it.

The Roots recently released a new album. Their song "The Seed" came out a few years back and was immensely popular. It had a serious groove, brilliant hip-hop lyricism, and an interesting topic. I didn't like it. I don't like it today. It's the topic that bothers me, but whatever. The point is that it was a great song whether or not I could comfortably deal with the subject matter. And today, with their new album, they've got all-new subject matter, all-new production, and all-new newness. It's hot. Real hot.
This is not your "let's put on some hip-hop and dance" kind of stuff. Nor is it your "I need to chill, let's put on some hip-hop grooves" sorta stuff. This is your "let's sit down and listen to some serious social commentary and storytelling coupled with aggressive lyricism and formidable flow over seriously awesome beats" kind of stuff. Dig it.
The instrumentation is at times sparse and at times grandiose, but always unexpected. For instance, one of my favorite tracks on the album so far is called "I Can't Help It" and it starts off with what sounds strangely like a harmonium (accordion-like instrument). If you're not listening for it, you might not even notice it, but it adds a lot to the song.
Anyway, I could say more about the album, but I think that listening to it will do more for you. Try it out. You have my most sincere apologies if you hate it, but I think you will enjoy.

the roots - i can't help it

and as an example of their instrumentation, I present to you the dancing tuba.

Now, if David Letterman can listen to hip-hop, can't you? I mean, listen to that reaction? He's eatin' that stuff up! And so should you, friends. So should you.

If you just can't handle the flow, then perhaps you're a fan of the beats. Talk to people about who makes the best hip-hop beats and they'll already know where you're going. Kanye. Mr. West. Mr. Kanye West. Whatever, yes he makes good beats. Fantastic ones, in fact. But, that doesn't change the fact that I just don't like him. If this shocks you, my reasoning is this: Kanye makes great beats. He does not rap well. Therefore, all logic assumes that he would make great beats for rappers who are good at what they do. But unfortunately, because of his ego, he raps over his own beats, thus ruining a good groove. Therefore, I do not like Kanye West. However, one of the other, lesser-known greats of beat making in the indie world is a man that calls himself edIT. Peep the jams.

edIT - straight heat

edIT - crunk de gaulle (feat. ttc, busdriver, and d-syles)

And finally, an oldie but a goodie. His more recent work was done with DJ Danger Mouse as the Danger Doom duo, but he's super sick by himself, too (pardon all the hip-hop lingo, but it's necessary, fool). Madvillain has been on the scene for a while, but as far as I know he gets neither a lot of play nor a lot of acclaim. Still, he's incredibly talented and one of the most un-abrasive rappers I think I've ever listened to. His flow and presentation is relaxed and smooth. It's easy to listen to, even if sometimes his subject matter is a bit obscure or confusing (much like one of my other favorites, Aesop Rock). But the best thing by far about Madvillain is that he is playful. He likes to mess with his listeners, regardless of the fact that he's a great lyricist. So, have fun and play nice, I leave you with Madvillain.

madvillain - accordion

Check back next time, pilgrims.

Peace, we outta here.

A Coat For All Seasons pt. 2: What Does It Mean?

2008-05-18T16:44:00.000-07:00

A COAT FOR ALL SEASONS

Legs spread wide as I sit slouching in a chair at the end of a long and taxing day, not much comes to my mind very quickly. My mind works like lightning as soon as the clock strikes nine am, rushing from one task to the next, and when the day is done and I have no lightning left molasses begins to leak from my ears; the sweet and hazardous byproduct of the industry of thought. I am tired and slow and a sleepy tortoise with insomnia. I don't want sleep, I'm just tired. But then, that's what they all say, isn't it? The tortoise thing, I mean. I don't know, there's molasses leaking from my head, I'm probably not making much sense. Either way, my legs are spread wide and I'm slouching and it's eight thirty p.m.
People are walking past me as I sit. It isn't very late at night, so it makes sense that so many of them would be out at night. There are two walking hand in hand. They are both male. One has short , dark hair and the other's is down to his shoulders and is curly and blonde. They are wearing polo shirts and jeans, and the one with the longer hair is wearing a brown jacket. They seem happy, and they seem nice. Why don't I ever hold hands with my best friend? There was that one time, of course, but that was more of a joke than anything. There aren't many people you should be more comfortable holding hands with than your best friends. These guys seem to have it figured out alright, I think. Next time I see my best friend, I'm going to hold his hand.
Sitting here in this position, I feel comfortable with these people. I don't much like people all of the time. They're noisy and loud and they have too many stories. Everyone has a story. My mother told me that when I was very young, and again and again until I was older and almost the age I am right now. About half an hour ago I was sitting in this same spot in a slightly more upright position, waiting for a bus, and I was watching the people pass and trying to imagine everyone's individual story (based on stereotypes and generalizations and the like) as they went. It gave me the most incredible headache, which is primarily what started the flow of molasses. My brain finally reached its giving point, and it gave. Imagining everyone's story was particularly difficult, mostly due to the fact that everyone around here seems to walk so very fast.
People walk too fast. I understand having places to go and things to do, but why does everyone have to have something to do and somewhere to go all day long? I saw several of the same people walk back and forth and back and forth. I wanted to ask them where they were going, but then I would have to stop imagining their story and I would lose track of everything and the molasses would have only started to flow sooner, the headache would have only gotten worse. Still, people walk too fast. What about all those people with shorter legs or smaller lung capacities; the one's who just can't walk that fast? How are they to keep up? What if one of the slower ones is friends with one of the faster ones? Do they compromise and find a speed where one is almost going too fast and the other almost too slow? Or do they avoid each other altogether because they just can't make it work? And what if it does work at first, but then one of them is injured or something and can't keep up? I don't know, but I do know that people walk too fast. They're here and then they're gone, and when they're gone and I've gotten to know their story, I miss them. I can only imagine that everyone else is the same way. If I can't run to catch up with you, will you be gone within the year?I sincerely hope not.
It's cold out, but not the sort of cold that the sun can do anything about. It is the end of a sunny day with a cool temperature and a breeze, and I'm wrapping my thin jacket around me, keeping my current posture. Something on my chilly insides is telling me to sit up straight, to gather warmth from my legs by holding them together, but the molasses flowing from my ears is causing a disconnect and my body just doesn't care enough to do anything about my current temperature. But the temperature isn't the problem; I'm not even all that cold. This cold is exclusive and particular. It wants only me. It wants only the sort of people with little legs and little lungs that move slower than everyone else. It wants to cut through us and chill our insides. It is the wind of the fear of loneliness, of being left behind. But I have a coat, and am growing impervious to the wind.
In recent months I have been growing. It's as if I can feel my torso and legs sprouting out from under me at this very moment as I sit here on this bench, and pretty soon people are going to have to start stepping over and eventually underneath my legs to get around. I'm just getting so darn big. The, however, growth does not come without side-effects, even if it is natural. I've grown a bit more reclusive as the result of everyone's stories and constant motion; I can only keep up with so many people and remember so many stories. This is not to say that I don't care about anyone else, I consider myself very much to be in the category of "people-persons", whatever that means. It's just that when it comes to the list of people that I think of when I consider whom I would like to spend time with, the list is fairly short. Acquaintances no longer thrill me, and friends are a conundrum. Brothers and sisters, close friends – those are the key.
I'm getting warmer just thinking about it. Spread out across the US are people I know. I consider these people my closest friends; the ones who stick around. The ones who have stood the test of time and made me wonder why I try to spend time with anyone else. The sort that you could almost imagine as family because it's almost as if you grew up with them (and in some cases, you sort of did). The thoughts of these friends are piling in my head now, slowly, climbing and climbing and forming a tower to warmth. It isn't cold out, it's quite nice, but these thoughts are warming me in a season of particular iciness. That's how people work, I think. We work in cycles; in seasons.
Today is a cold one. Perhaps tomorrow will be warmer, it depends on who I see and how I feel and what I do. Maybe it will be swelteringly hot, maybe it will rain, who knows? The seasons that people live through daily are fairly unpredictable and short-lived. And then there are those seasons that people live through that last a bit longer: months or even years. Seasons of light and darkness like they have in Alaska. The sun never sets and the moon never goes away. Sometimes they are seasons of no weather at all so that you can't tell wether you're in a desert or a tropical rainforest, but either way all you really want is for a change in the seasons. But no matter what season you're in, it can always get cold. Natural seasons are categorized by their amount of sunshine and their temperature because we're moving towards and away from the sun; the earth is, I mean. But people-seasons are different. We're moving towards and away from something, but I still haven't pegged down what it is. Either way, it can always get cold wether it's summer or winter, spring or fall.
That's where those people that you know come in. The ones that are willing to meet you where you are wether you're running or walking or both. The ones that are family regardless of what color blood you've both got or what kind of molasses flows from your ears when you're tired and can't think anymore. These people are patches of a patchwork quilt. They are feathers in a down pillow. They are thermal underwear and polar mittens. And when you stitch them all together with arms and a hood, they form a coat. A coat for all seasons, no matter what season you or they are in. And you become of their coat, or part of it, anyway. You trade warmth in those cold seasons, and sometimes just the knowledge that they're willing to contribute is enough to warm you. It is for me at the end of a day like this. So I pull my coat around my shoulders and shield myself from the bitter cold of too many stories and the biting wind stirred up by too many people walking around far too fast, and I am warm being wrapped in the love of the people who love me back. And the molasses stops flowing from my ears and is replaced by the remaining steam from the heat of the whole process, and I close my eyes and relax and wait for the bus as I am warmed in my coat for all seasons.

Colin Flanigan,
5/15-5/18/2008

A Coat For All Seasons

2008-05-13T08:38:00.001-07:00

Things are warming up around these Chicagoan parts, and finding an apartment is hard work.
But even so, I've still found a wonderful website for you to pre-view (if you've not heard of it already) and utilize (if you so desire). I have taken the liberty of utilizing it myself for two reasons.

The first reason:
This blog is at least half music. Thusly, I have made a mixtape for you all so that you can enjoy the music of this website without having to click on a bunch of links this time.

The second reason:
I wanted you to see how the website worked in action.

So, without further ado, I give you:

Muxtape

[A Coat For All Seasons (A SfSS Mixtape. Listen to this while you read.]

Remember back when you used to sit next to the radio waiting for that one song to play so that you could add it to that mixtape you'd been making for your friend for the past month? Remember how it was the twelfth song, and after that the tape would be full and complete? Surprisingly, I do, and it is a wonderful memory. Muxtape is a website that brings all of those memories rushing back, and forcibly.

Muxtape is a simple website for people to make mixtapes. You don't have to sit next to the radio, which, considering what they play on the radio these days, is a considerable mercy. But it is limited to twelve songs. Once you start an account, you can add, delete, and arrange songs as you see fit, as well as creating a name and a tagline to customize your mix. It's fast, convenient, simple, and the smallest bit nostalgic. Now let's just hope copyright laws don't tear it down before its first birthday.

So, there you have it.
I'm incredibly busy, so I haven't had time to be as philosophical or ponderous as I've been in the past few posts, but I have been working on a short story that will start off a series of short stories that I will amass into a collection and try my hardest to publish in the most marketable, readable format that I can. So, there's that.

Have a wonderful day, and let me know if you make any mixes.

Sincerely,
Thomas

mid-week-breath

2008-04-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends.
I'm at the tea shop where I work, but I'm not working. Instead, I'm sitting and sipping a special drink that a co-worker of mine makes that tastes like a fruit roll-up. Not those nasty artificial ones that are made by Kraft and other such companies, but the natural "Fruit Leather" ones. Delicious. I'm also sitting behind two women who are talking about their relationship frustrations. I can't help but hear snippets of their conversation, especially because one of them has an adorable proper British accent. I love those. Their conversation is considerably familiar. I estimate that they are both in their mid-to-late twenties or older, and they are still having the same conversation that I have with my young friends who are still stuck in the dangerous throes of high-school.

"Why doesn't he/she just ask me out?"
"Would it be okay to date my ex? It wasn't a messy break up or anything."
"What's wrong with men/women?"

It's all the same stuff.
The conclusion that I draw from these snippets is this:
With relationships (notice that I don't say love, just relationships. love is a completely different thing entirely), you never really learn. That's all. I could extrapolate, but it seems unimportant. Anyway, it's an interesting conversation. Even beautiful people sound surprisingly desperate when talking to their closest friends (I hope that's not a terrible thing to say, but sometimes I think that in a way everyone is desperate all the time until they're not, and then it's all over).
Anyhow, I like my workplace, even when I'm not working.

A co-worker of mine just gave me his band's EP, I'll get back to you with that. But for now, here's something for a little mid-week breath; because the week can be stressful and it's easy to stop breathing properly. So, here. Sit down and take a breath:

BON IVER:
Justin Vernon stayed in a remote cabin in the woods of Wisconsin for about four months last year, and the result is his album "For Emma, Forever Ago". It's gorgeous. If you're a musician, it will most likely make you want to go spend four or more months alone in a cabin in the woods somewhere until you've got something as good. If you're not a musician, it's going to make you want to go spend some time in a cabin in the woods, too, just so you can better appreciate the music. With a beautiful and unique falsetto voice chirping and churning, Justin weaves his melodies and sparse, curious (but nevertheless meaningful) lyrics across a loom of sticks and branches, creating a beautiful musical blanket that should not go unnoticed. Listen and be blanketed.

bon iver - flume

bon iver - skinny love

bon iver - creature fear

and a few more:

shearwater - seventy four, seventy five

frightened rabbits - yawns

and the final gasp before the long release:

the cinematic orchestra - to build a home

hope it was a good breath.

Love,
Thomas Archer

Love is Simple

2008-04-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

Loneliness is a cold, blank stare from a deer in headlights.

Today I met up with an old friend of mine, still in high school. We went to the beach where we talked about life, family, and predominantly, girl troubles, and all the while I was wishing I had brought my camera. I could've gotten some really great shots. Oh, well, maybe next weekend. Either way, today has been one of those days.

Loneliness is a surprisingly cold wave in a lake on a windy day.

At the beach we saw about thirteen deer in total. One fawn, too. And a skunk, but that was as we were driving off. The deer caught us off guard, and I let out a little chuckle when my friend first saw it and said "holy shit!". That's not something that I think to say when I see a deer. More like "woah!" or "look at that!". Either way, it made me laugh, and my laughter didn't bother the deer at all. In fact, nothing really seemed to bother it, so I approached it. I dared not get any closer to it than about a foot as it was a doe and there may have been an accompanying buck around there somewhere, but I got very close. As I stared into the doe's eyes and it stared back into mine, I seemed to realize some sort of subconscious truth that felt peaceful and serene, and lonely, too. It felt like something started to make sense, but I have no idea what that something was. All I know is that deer have some of the most beautiful eyes of any creature I've ever seen, except for when they're mounted above someone's fireplace. That's a sad sight, a deer without emotion in its eyes.

Loneliness is listening to songs you listened to at the exact same time last year and realizing what they meant to you at the time; what they mean for you now. And it is that cold chill that you get down your spine while you remember who you were with, what you were talking about, and what it felt like to be there and then, not here and now. Like I said, it's been one of those days; nostalgic, with a hint of sadness. So, that's our theme today: songs for lonely, beautiful days.

So, without further ado, I give you, the Songs From Sunday School original Mixtape:

A Lonely Day Without Rain

1. akron family - don't be afraid, you're already dead

2. death cab for cutie - summer skin

3. american analog set - the postman

4. okkervil river - a king and a queen

5. m. ward - chinese translation

6. clem snide - joan jett of arc

7. mountain goats - get lonely

And, one lonely, but positive one to top it off. After all, loneliness is the catalyst for many things, including freedom, discovery, art, self-evaluation, and investigations that lead to new and better relationships.

7. mountain goats - woke up new

Cheers,
Thomas

BIRTH

2008-04-16T18:16:00.000-07:00

Have you ever gotten the feeling that you were born at the wrong time?
Have you felt like you would be more comfortable if only you had been born in the Victorian Era, or perhaps the Roaring Twenties? It's a popular feeling, so don't feel alone. I've felt that way myself. When I was very young, I was the only one in my family who at olives. I loved eating olives so much that I thought I might have been better off being born in ancient Greece, where I had heard that they had a lot of olives. It was a stupid idea. Those sorts of ideas usually are. Usually, people are born at the exact right time – or at least that's what I've come to understand. Still, every now and then I (and probably many others) still feel that tug that says "you were born at completely the wrong time."
But instead of ancient Greece, I often feel as if I was born either two years too early or two years too late. Usually the latter; the former is a new concept that just hit me today. Either way, occasionally I feel a bit pigeonholed by the year in which I was born. When your best friends are all a few years older than you, as is everyone you've ever dated [because I have so very much experience in that field], that will happen, I suppose. But then, that's the way it goes. Some days you feel forty, some days you feel 19. Most days you just wander around looking for love. Maybe not.

Anyway, here's some music. The first of the batch is a band from way back, and the rest sound like they ought to be, but in all actuality they aren't! Golly!
Learn much from the mention of this first act, it'll change your life, or at least your social status. Knowledge is power, and all that.

Os Mutantes
Old? Check. The album I'm most familiar with came out in 1968. Weird? Check. Just listen. Foreign and obscure? Double check. This, my friends is a band of rebels from Brazil. Think of them as the Beatles, or more appropriately, as the Velvet Underground of Brazil during some of its most turbulent times. Move over, Che Guevara (yes yes, I know how irrelevant that statement is...). So, when you feel discouraged in the middle of an extremely pretentious crowd, whip out this crazy little trio and set your chin upright. Or, you know...just enjoy them or whatever. That's cool, too.

os mutantes - ando meio desligado

os mutantes - le permier bonheur

note: if you don't know who the Velvet Underground is, please, for the love of all things good and musical, find out.

Sugarcubes
Another band that will up your social status, if that's what you're about (then again, if that's what you're about you really shouldn't be listening to them). Do you know Bjork? The crazy Icelander in the goose-dress with the little-girl voice? Yes, her. This is the band that she started out in. And really, whether you like Bjork or not, they're worth checking out. Imagine all of your favorite 80's pop bands with crazy Icelandic tendencies, and you've got this one right here.
Give it a spin and see what you think. If you don't like it, at least now you can namedrop (I can't believe I keep promoting this sort of thing).

sugarcubes - birthday

[intermission]

Beirut
You know what, on second thought, no. If you haven't heard about them already, they're great. They sound like gypsies. Just go buy their album, someone else has likely already told you about them. Gulag Orkestar's the name, look it up and buy it.

Dr. Dog
All this band ever listens to is Credence Clearwater Revival on vinyl. Or at least it sounds like they do, sometimes. But then come the David-Byrne-esque cries and the slightly better than the seventies production. Still, even with those elements, if you had played this band for me and asked me what year it sounded like they jumped out of, I most definitely wouldn't have guessed 2007. It's impressive what they do, really.

dr. dog - worst trip

dr. dog - the girl

A Band of Bees
I shouldn't even have to write anything here, just listen to the song, you'll see why they're here.

band of bees - chicken payback

seriously, now, come on.

Well, that's all for now. Feelin' some age-confusion yet? Me too. Let's roll with it and see what happens.

Have a great day,
Archer

P.S.

the pipettes - i think we're alone now [yeah, that song]

How to Feel Good

2008-04-14T10:48:00.000-07:00

Last night I came up with an idea for a movie on the Lifetime Movie Network with my sister Bethany. It's about a single woman who is unhappy with her life, so she decides to have a child to pass the time via invitro-fertilization. However, the baby is stillborn. But, all hope is not lost, as an orphan is dropped off on her doorstep that very night! She raises the child as her own, until a few years later she realizes that it is mentally handicapped, at which point she has to learn to deal with the trials and tribulations of such an ordeal.
The title of the film would be "Still a Miracle".
Also, there's a romance with a mailman. Also, the mailman loses his leg in a freak mailman accident. Also, it's formulated to make you cry and crave ice cream, and all of the commercials in between would be for those little microwavable personal dessert bowls.
We hate the Lifetime Movie Network.
I laughed way too hard when she suggested the name and had to stifle myself with a pillow.
I love the weekends when family comes home.

We felt a little bad after such a hefty amount of cynical jokes, but then I remembered something, and I realized that we shouldn't have felt bad. And do you know why? Because it's ok to be yourself. I learned this from a little man from Hokkaido, Japan named Kazutaka Nomura. After all, you are you. Allow me to explain:

PWRFL POWER
I'm not always one for the cute little Japanese acts out there, but when they're this good, you can't ignore them. Kazutaka Nomura, a.k.a. PWRFL POWER, sings songs about silly little things. He has a silly little voice. He likes the idea of being silly and little. However, his guitar playing is neither nor. If John Mayer was Japanese and heavily drugged and even more heavily Japanese, this is probably what he would sound like. And with that, I give you PWRFL POWER. Its okay.

PWRFL POWER - its okay

PWRFL POWER - alma song

Doesn't that just make you feel nice? It does me.
Another thing that makes me feel nice is some good Swedish electro. Here, I found some.

Familjen
No, I don't know what he's singing. No, I don't know what all of the songs are about. And yes, I realize that he's probably listened to Abba. But none of that matters, because this thing that he's doing...it's just so right. Familjen is Johan T. Karlsson of Sweden, and he is tired of guitar-based, droning indie-rock (see Interpol). He's also tired of droning, boring techno. So, he decided he would blend the two together and see if it became more interesting. It did. The resulting synth-pop is glorious.

familjen - det snurrar I min skalle

and last, but certainly not least,
the band that cheers me up and enriches my spiritual life at the same time...

Half-Handed Cloud
John Ringhofer is a man, and a child, and a believer. He lives rent-free at a church in Berkely, California in exchange for his custodial duties. He plays many instruments and writes happy little (sometimes only lasting twenty seconds or so) songs about faith and growing.
When I first heard this band, I thought it sounded like a crazed Brian Wilson (of the Beach Boys) with orchestra instruments and a ukelele had taken over a youth-group praise band. And I loved it. The blatant Christianity in John Ringhofer's songs is, well...blatant. It cannot be ignored. But it can certainly be appreciated, as can his musicianship, as he plays a ridiculous amount of instruments on each album he releases. This is the stuff I'm having my kids listen to instead of The Wiggles.

half-handed cloud - can't even breathe on my own two feet

half-handed cloud - feed your sheep a burning lamp

half-handed cloud - we're very greatly loved

So, feel good about yourself and have a great day!

Love,
Archer

Dreams

2008-04-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream that hung out in a diner with Rivers Cuomo, the lead singer of the band Weezer. I was surprised at my mind's ability to mimic Rivers' attitudes, actions, and mannerisms. It was very authentic; one of those dreams that you remember and have to force yourself into remembering that it was only a dream.
Tonight I had a dream that I hung out with the guys from Anathallo (whom I actually have met) and Blur, and some guy from a band called Ozma. We were in a park in Chicago looking for coffee. It was also very authentic. I think I need to start meeting more musicians. Either way, these dreams gave me ideas of what to post for the weekend.
Here's a mixtape based on my dreams.

weezer - buddy holly

rivers cuomo - chess

ozma - natalie portman

anathallo - hanasakajiijii four (a great wind, more ash)

BLUR - gene by gene

BLUR - coffee and tv

and that's all, folks.

Have a nice weekend.

A Few Things

2008-04-10T22:21:00.000-07:00

© Colin Flanigan, 2008

I think I'm going to have to make a list of the people that I am closest to so that I can make sure to keep in touch with them regularly. I know that may seem callous, but it's just not natural for me to keep in regular touch with people that I don't see all the time. I've forced myself to be good at it with my brother and my best friends, but it's not a trait that runs in my personal or family history. So, I think I'll compose a list.
Maybe the website I discovered today will help.

Thing one:

www.jott.com

Jott is one of the most interesting services that I have had presented to me in a long time.
The basic idea is this: you sign up for an account, enter your e-mail, type in your phone number and jump through a few security hoops, then you can call the website at anytime and speak yourself a verbal reminder or anything that you need to remember and the website will send a transcription to your e-mail. It's pretty amazing.
I screwed up in my first message to myself and had to pause halfway through. The voice recognition software picked up both the comma from when I realized I had said something wrong, and the period after I said "scratch that". Pretty impressive. So, the next time someone tells you about a band you need to hear, a book you need to read, or a movie you should really see, don't forget the name of it and call them later to find out. Instead, send yourself a jott. It's pretty handy.

Thing 2:

www.hulu.com

Hulu is website that apparently has syndication of some sort with Fox and Universal pictures that allows them to host all sorts of television shows and even full movies that belong to those companies. It's probably one of the best things to happen to me in the last few months, considering that they have every single episode of Arrested Development on there. Did I mention it was all free? Because it is. From It's Always Sunny in Philedelphia to 30 Rock and even great classics such as The Tick or Firefly. It's an off-the-beaten-path TV nerd's best friend.

Thing three:

I have decided that this blog is going to be a bit of a music blog, in a way. I'm not dedicated enough to keep a blog entirely about music, there's too much involved. Besides which, I like having a personal blog where I can just write what's on my mind. But I also really like music and recommending it to people. So, I'm going to do that once in every post, hopefully.
Todays top artists are these:

The Most Serene Republic

One word describes this band near perfectly: epic. Imagine a collective of classically trained jazz musicians well-versed in musical theater and with an incredible sense for songwriting forming an indie band, and you've got how I imagine the Republic got its start. Epic, layered sounds, catchy vocal hooks, interesting, if not a bit perplexing lyrics, and a drummer that makes my draw drop every time he changes beats. It's like Sufjan Stevens meets Explosions in the Sky, but a little more...well...ballsey.

The Most Serene Republic - Present of Future End

The Most Serene Republic - Humble Peasants

Foals

British. Indie. New-wave. Math-rock. What more do I need to say? Jangly, angular guitar riffs with syncopated timing and harmonics galore blend with body-rocking dance groove and equally rocking anthems for the mosher in all of us. These boys could start a riot if they wanted to, but they prefer to sound like brilliant musicians. The math rock aspect of their music is fairly obvious, and while perhaps not as complex as the Republic with their beats, they certainly know what they're doing. The video for their song "Cassius" is particularly endearing as their lead singer seems to know exactly how to be a frontman for a band like theirs. Play this in your car stereo with the windows down and confuse the people on the outside.

Foals - Olympic Airways

Foals - Mathletics

Microphones

Not a new discovery by any means, and not a new band (although I do think he just released a new album), but a good one for sure. A lo-fi act mostly comprised of a man named Phil Elvrum, also the principal member of a band called Mount Erie, Microphones is a constant sound shift. Equal parts folk, noise, experimental, and rock (sometimes even at the same time!) listening to a Microphones album all the way through is less of a task and more of an adventure; you never know what's coming next. The one thing you can be sure of is that it's going to be lo-fi, and it's going to be good.

Microphones - The Moon

Microhpones - The Glow, Pt. 2

Thing 4:

That picture up at the top? I did that. It's an old sketch that I did back sometime a year or two ago that I decided to rework in photoshop. As far as photoshop re-works go, it looks rather nice. Still, I'm not entirely sure that I like it. Oh well.

Now, I'm off to prepare some wedding music.

Thank you, and goodnight.

The Art of Fighting: An Introduction

2008-04-09T23:56:00.000-07:00

That's what I almost named this blog. Seemed a bit too violent or desperate for me, because, after all, life's not all fighting. Sometimes it's thinking. Sometimes it's forgetting. And sometimes, it's just sitting back and thinking to yourself "This is life". So no, this isn't about the art of fighting. This isn't about how to survive. It's not even about how to live. This is what it's about:

It's about the past, and everything that you learned, and how it's helping you to learn now.
It's about what you remember and what you've chosen to forget that you'll probably have to remember later (whether you want to or not).
It's about what's happening here and now and how your past affects your future and how your future turns out as a result.

It's about all of those old songs you learned in sunday school when you were young that you still try to remember, and what to do when you've graduated from sunday school. When you're too old for "Jesus Loves The Little Children" and you've learned to spell "The B-I-B-L-E"
This is a metaphor.

This is a hymn.

Amen.

P.S.
Because this was an introduction, the actual "new" post is below.

Funeral Songs and New Perspectives

2008-04-09T22:30:00.000-07:00

I met up with my pastor today before venturing into the city to look for a job. It's always nice to meet up with my pastor, and it's not really a meeting between a member of congregation and a pastor, per-se, so much as me just meeting up with a friend of mine that I work with who just so happens to be a minister. Either way, the coffee was good.

We met up in the morning, and as soon as I got in his car we started talking about movies and television shows and ideas for short films to make for church (we regularly shoot short films for church services as supplemental material for the sermons as well as just for fun). We discussed his son's television watching habits and how much he was enjoying watching Justice League with his son and debated on which superheroes were better or worse (which is something I find myself doing an increasing amount in coffee-shops lately).

Eventually, we arrived at the topic that I had wanted to discuss with him when I asked him to meet with me. I brought up my parents' divorce from several years back and how it has affected me, both mentally and spiritually. For the most part, I have risen above and grown past the pain of the divorce, and most of my bruises have healed. However, there is one lingering feeling that I cannot seem to shake. I described it to my best friend a few days back, and the description I gave him was the same one that I offered my pastor today:
People whose parents stay together until they die have this wonderful gift in their sense of home and family. They grow up and leave their old home and separate from their family, but no matter where they go, they know that there's that one house full of those particular people that they can always return to, the people that have that special sort of familial love that never dies, and the kind of home whose warmth never fades. Or at least, that's my idealistic view of what those people have. However, because of all of the events entailed in my parents' divorce, any chance of my having such a gift in the future were essentially ruined and replaced with feelings of abandonment and a lack of validation. Frankly, it's no good. It's the one scar from the whole situation that I still haven't been able to buff out after all of these years, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. So, I called my pastor, described the problem, and asked him if he had any ideas.

This is what he said:

"It is going to be a problem.
It's not going to just get fixed.
God's not going to magically remove that longing from you, and you can't expect Him to, nor can you expect for that sort of validation to come from people. Not anymore, anyhow.
However, God does (as I have already seen) and will continue to provide those people that you need to ease the pain and help the situation rather than 'fix' it.
This is similar to mourning a death. You can't fix the fact that the person is dead. You can't fix the fact that you were abandoned and went through what you went through. But you can mourn and move forward. That's what you can do."

I was instantly refreshed, mostly because all of these years I had been viewing this incredibly vague affliction of mine as a problem that needed a solution. But after years and years of searching for solutions and not finding any, even where you most and least expect them, gets a bit frustrating after a while. And, with a simple few words, it was no longer a problem to be fix, but a mistake; a death that will be mourned.

My grandfather died over four years ago. My mother still cries about it every now and then. Now I understand why. But still, even as I am going to be "mourning" for, oh, who knows how long, I'm not sad about this. I don't have to try to fix it anymore. I can face it bravely as a matter-of-fact sort of problem and say that I have it and I am doing all that I can to cope with it. "Cope" is another good word for the situation. I can move forward without being afraid of this problem anymore, and I am at peace with it. I'm incredibly happy about what my pastor told me today, and no amount of mourning will change that.

So, instead, I thought I'd "mourn" the death of my frustration. It's gone, and I don't plan on returning to it in the near future. This is my plan:
I have always had an insatiable love for music, and I hoard and catalog the stuff like a squirrel collecting acorns for the winter. It's disgusting, really, but I can't help it. You know you've become a musical encyclopedia when and one of your friends can ask you what song is playing over the intercom in a clothing store and you can give them the song title, artist's name, album title, and release date all in one breath. So as a result of this musical cataloging addiction of mine, I've developed several permanent mental playlists for the future; songs I want played at my wedding, songs I want to put into films and, inevitably, songs I want played at my funeral. What with all this talk of mourning and funerals and whatnot, I got to thinking about that list again and I decided to share a few songs on that list with you. So, if I die in the next few days, here's your reference list for the funeral. Enjoy.

Colin

Song 1: Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
Song 2: Sufjan Stevens - For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti
Song 3: Neutral Milk Hotel - Two Headed Boy

And one last appropriate song for the road:
Clem Snide - The End of Love