'New Rose' (1976)

Dear God,
Thank you for giving us bands like the Damned.
Sincerely Yours,
Mara

fifteen.

around this age i found a battered cassette on the ledge behind the kitchen stove that introduced me to the lyrical greatness of Leonard Cohen. i remember my aunt telling me how much she had loved him when she was that age. the solitary, rhythmic monotone still reminds me of sitting in my bed, writing through the angst of my teenagerdom.

recently, I came across a fantastic set of covers done by the Walkmen (they require a whole different set of stories), diligently captured by the good people over at Daytrotter. go check out their take on Leonard.

thirteen.

i said.

no one likes to feel as though their life has been decided for them. to feel fully reliant upon oneself means experiencing the joy of the fact that even though all failures are your own,

so are your successes.

dreams in waking.

in the late fall, when all of the leaves had fallen and the days darkened already in the afternoon, columbia would string lights up on the trees on their main walkway. this was always done with the grandiosity of a state visit, an army of black-clothed men balancing on ladders with wires strewn across the way, marking each branch with the precise amount of glowing pieces and hiding all additional wires from view, making the larger statement that the university itself was grand and precise and perfectly-thought out. once completed, the lit trees gave an air of romance, exaggerated one hundred times over by the humongous black wrought iron gates and the stone path, all of which was eclipsed by the old architecture surrounding. the trees were perfectly linear, branches cut back and tamed, establishing two parallell rows traversing the width of the university, only leaving an open space in the middle for the larger-than-life view of both classically styled libraries (one used, one for show). there were fleeting moments that someone would stop and look up into the trees, somehow expecting to steal away a piece of the light and stillness. in a different world, we would have been glad to pause and drink hot beverages on the steps or to sit and read poetry that reflected the mood of the cooling weather. but we were hurried, harried, and only had the brief line of small lights to enjoy before scurrying off to another project or things that just had to get done. those were the times that we dressed up into the most absurd winter outfits, large knit hats and scarves with bare legs, spring dresses with layers of sweaters, representative of our wish to remain somewhat bohemian, yet show off our priviledged student status. on lucky days when someone had a date, or the roommate who couldn't write another paper dragged you out, a little more time was spent beneath the trees, and perhaps a run to the hungarian pastry shop, if there were a few extra dollars to spare. you laughed and talked about the adam sandler movies you'd seen, reflecting how young and anti-elite (in hiding) were really were, while i trailed behind quietly, breathing into my cup, forcing steam to rise across my face.

when i think about the four years of my life spent within the four blocks of that school, of all the hours i must have spent running back and forth, the classes, the people, the books, the things to do, the opportunities to be had... out of everything, what i still remember most are the lights.

Referenced below.

that's DR. sue to you

When I grow up, I want to be a serious writer who writes about whatever the heck I please and still be highly respected. This includes making crazy links from songs to scientific research.

Star of the County Down

for Mac.

My grandfather was a sailor in his youth. As can be typical of sailors, he had quite a few stories about his years traveling. He was a tall and handsome man, visible even to us at the point that much had already faded. He was also a reserved man, and it was that quality that made the times he spent whispering snippets of his stories to us little cailins that much more precious. His stories were otherwordly--the Irish have a knack for treading the line between real and supernatural. Thinking now, there was one in particular that writes like an old ballad, that I still remember vividly, sitting in the corner of my grandparents' living room, rapt with attention. As an adult, I sometimes wondered whether this story included the other very Irish characteristic of embelishment, but that really is here nor there. What follows is my best attempt at doing it justice.

It was the 1940s, right after the war, and his ship was docked in County Cork, the first time he had been back to Ireland in over 6 months. Although his family was originally from Cork, he essentially grew up in the metropolis of Dublin, so this was still somewhat foreign to him. There normally wasn't much to do in this little town, though by some force of luck, the village fair was in town for the week. On a meager sailor's pay, this was perfect, as he could earn a bit of extra money and free food working at one of the booths, even though the oddness of the carnie regulars put him off. They put him at a knock-down-the-milk-bottles booth, surrounded by giant shelves of cupie dolls. It was right next to a small black tent, covered completely and set back from the others, which he knew was the place where men met to bet on cards. As darkness fell, they would saunter in, travelling gamblers, in dark coats and hats pulled down over their faces, only the glint of their pocket watches or an occassional pistol giving them away. Night after night, they came in. Grandfather purposefully never paid much attention to their dealings, thinking it better not to get mixed up with that sort. And just as well, he normally closed up for the night hours before they were through.

On the third day something quite different caught his eye, a petit young woman fresh as the countryside, with beautiful blue eyes and raven hair. Black Irish they used to call it. Her body was lithe and her walk more of a dance than anything else. Her hair had blue velvet ribbons tied in; she passed by several times before he realized that she must be part of the show. Later that day, during his lunch, he followed her at a distance until they both came to the far field where a several families had set out their lunches on blankets and a few old timers sat precipitously on unfolded wooden chairs. She carefully stepped past them all until she had reached the edge of the crowd, then turned about. Only when she began to sing the most beautiful version of Carrickfergus he had ever heard, did he notice the small group of musicians to her left. From that day forth, he took his lunch in the field, watching Carra McConnell sing. All in all, he only had eleven days in port, and with the work, they passed quickly. He could not work up the nerve to speak with Carra and felt it was best, as he was about to leave anyhow, so he continued to watch from afar.

In the blackness of his last night, after the crowd had filed away to bed and he was closing his booth, he suddenly heard shouting from the black tent--some man desperately arguing his loss. He turned away, and the shouting soon dissipated into shuffling, drunken steps. Fortunately, a sheet covered the front of the booth and he didn't have to look the poor sod in the face. They soon passed. The manager came round and paid him for his time and he filled one of the bottles with water for his long walk to the ship. he headed towards Carra's field--a shortcut. He reached it and began to cross, aiming his gaze at a large rowan tree swaying in the middle. As he neared, he noticed dark figures moving, so he slowed and quieted his approach. It was a squat, bullish man in a crumpled suit. By his shuffle, grandfather knew that it was the same man from the card tent. But his heart quickly dropped to his feet, as he realized that the man had another, smaller person--a woman--that he was dragging by the wrists. It was Carra. She was obviously putting up a fight, but her petite frame was no match for his more powerful one, and she whimpered and pleaded with him. Acting on instinct, grandfather crept up behind the tree, as close as he could get to survey the situation. The man, though strong, was stumbling due to the drink, and as he turned his back, a full milk bottle crashed down over his head. He crumpled to the ground. Grandfather quickly scooped up Carra and ran away from the fair, towards the small lights of the town, and only when they had reached the first row of houses did he put her down. She had been roughed up, but was not seriously hurt, and he could not help but gaze into the sorrow in her eyes as he asked her whether he could assure that she reached her home safely. She nodded, and they proceeded in silence along the streets until they reached the water, not too far from his ship, and a small and old blue house. She bowed her head and walked towards the door, but stopped not five steps short. Turning and taking his hands, she stood up on her toes, leaning ever so slightly against his chest, and gave him a kiss.

The next morning as he shipped out, he swears that on the shore, beyond the crowd that had gathered, he saw Carra McConnell in her Sunday dress, waving to him with her handkerchief.

a rainy day.

today was the perfect day for hot coffee and reading curled up in blankets. the fog rolled in around noontime and hung thick, barely above the ground. as night fell, porch lights distorted into free-glowing orbs and rain began to fall, laying out a carpet of grass, wet and green.
my favorite weather is warm rain. it is the one time that i truly feel like the heavens open up and envelop me. tonight, taking a moment, i laid down in the grass and let the drops fall on my closed eyes.

the morning began early, at a smoky club called the grey eagle in asheville. despite being ready to fall asleep at about 6pm Thursday night, I trudged on right through drawing, and gained enough momentum to go to the felice brothers show.

let me tell you, kids, you have not seen passionate and true american balladry like this since the seventies. i hadn't heard a single song, as i went to the show on a name and a hunch, but this performance sealed the felice brothers a top spot in my heart.

it's been a long time since i've stayed out this late, or since i've been to several shows in one week. all i have to say is,
look out world.

jose gonzalez.

orange peel, asheville. march 4, 2008.

the fonz.

i've been trying to up my cool quotient since i was a kid, but have never been quite successful in being effortlessly together.

though i emulate those women who never have a single hair out of place and there are times in more recent memory that i quite nearly pull it off, you can never fully take the mara out of me. fact is, i'm an all around awkward kind of person, at times lucky enough to be still acknowledged by those around me. i say things at the wrong times and have reactions that even make me ask wtf in retrospect. i'd like to think that at times i cover well, with stupid jokes, and a childish sense of cuteness that i will use to my advantage to distract from the actual truth. actually, it's not always that i'm awkward, but that i make other people feel awkward in my presense. by myself, i'm usually quite comfortable in my oddness, quite oblivious to anything outside of my world. i make up songs and sing loudly to myself, i speak in nonsense words and sounds, and talk to my dog as though he understands it, i make screwed up faces both on purpose and not, and dare i not mention what my sister finds especially hilarious--i insist on talking in the most serious of manners about the most menial of things without even realizing it. but out in the social world it is another story. in the words of paulie bleeker--i try really hard.

dancing in my head.

asheville, how do i love thee? let me count the ways...
jose gonzalez, march 4th, the felice bros, march 6th, N.E.R.D., march 25th, the dodos (yeah yeah!), march 27th, the everybodyfields, april 12th, andre ethier (deadly snakes), april 26th, french kicks, april 27th, josh ritter, may 2nd, british sea power, may 4th...