tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17268902202217312842024-03-12T21:48:52.447-05:00Chasing the End of My Rainbowmy rants & rambles along the wayAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.comBlogger526125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-56841461029145021972014-09-29T19:42:00.000-05:002014-09-29T19:42:01.793-05:00I Don't Live Here Any More!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://33.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrw9c8t0pF1qehxx0o6_250.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://33.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrw9c8t0pF1qehxx0o6_250.gif" height="264" width="400" /> </a></div>
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...which is to say, I'll no longer be posting here.</div>
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But don't worry, the Rainbow Chronicles aren't dead! We've just moved. Please come visit! I can promise more frequent posts, and ... well, that's about it.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Find me here: alisonhamm.com </span></div>
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Thanks for reading, and following, Chasing the End of My Rainbow. </div>
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love,</div>
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Alison (composes)</div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-20010557325530959262014-09-22T19:54:00.000-05:002014-09-22T19:55:06.926-05:00Monday Mix Tapes: Autumn Leaves, Old IdeasLeonard Cohen made it hard for me to work today. <br />
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This Monday started like many do in late September—sun pouring through the leaves, green but tinged with the hints of yellow, orange, and amber soon to come; a slight briskness in the air that hints at the cold soon to come; and me visiting <a href="http://www.npr.org/series/98679384/first-listen">NPR First Listen</a> and squealing with glee at the albums soon to come. <br />
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At the top of the First Listen page, there's a black-and-white shot of<a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/09/21/348713419/first-listen-lucinda-williams-down-where-the-spirit-meets-the-bone?autoplay=true" target="_blank"> Lucinda Williams</a>, badass as ever in her leather jacket, heavy eyeliner, and a look in her eyes like she’s either just knocked out a man or put back a double shot of bourbon, maybe both. (Lucinda, I'll get to you soon!)<br />
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I scrolled down: <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/09/14/347755339/first-listen-perfume-genius-too-bright?autoplay=true" target="_blank">Perfume Genius</a>! <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/09/14/343680033/first-listen-mapei-hey-hey?autoplay=true" target="_blank">Mapei</a>! <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/09/14/347375935/first-listen-sondre-lerche-please?autoplay=true" target="_blank">Sondre Lerche</a>! And finally, <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/09/15/347480040/first-listen-leonard-cohen-popular-problems?autoplay=true" target="_blank">LEONARD COHEN</a>.<br />
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Because Mapei has one of the catchiest pop songs I’ve heard in quite some time (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33mjGmfy7PA" target="_blank">“Don’t Wait”</a>), I listened to her album first. And while I think the reviewer got a bit heavy-handed with the whole theme of ear-candy/candy/pop music/sugar, “Don’t Wait” certainly has that “kick of cayenne” that makes a caramel go from merely tasty to memorably delicious. Which is to say, <i>okay,</i> I get it. Overall, it’s definitely a pop album I’ll return to, even though the second half starts to feel a bit flat, and I could really do without the majority of Mapei's rapping. <br />
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<b>Back to Leonard.</b> Prior to his 2012 album, <a href="http://www.leonardcohen.com/us/music/old-ideas" target="_blank"><i>Old Ideas,</i></a> I was a scattered and halfhearted fan at best. I realize of course that this admission would make most Leonard Cohen fans snort, or pat me on the head and say, “Okay, dear.” That said, ask me how many fucks I give, now as well as then. I was too busy, at the time I was falling in love with <i>Old Ideas,</i> writing lyrics from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-saMZaooAbE" target="_blank">“Different Sides”</a> in my journal and committing them to heart (“Both of us say there are laws to obey/but frankly, I don’t like your tone/You want to change the way I make love/I want to leave it alone”). <br />
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I fell in love with the low growl of his voice, his lyrics (!), and his backup singers. I listened again and again. I revisited his old songs, the albums I’d once listened to halfheartedly, and marveled at my former self. Who was I, that I wasn’t enthralled by “Dance Me to the End of Love,” “In My Secret Life,” and “Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye”? I guess it’s no different, really, than how I now cringe at the memory of the Good Charlotte poster that hung in my college dorm room in 2002. <br />
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Our tastes change and adapt over time. Today the trees outside my Chicago window are full of yellow- and orange-tinted green leaves, but too soon, there will only be bare branches. Leonard Cohen’s voice sounds pretty much nothing at all on both <i>Old Ideas</i> and <i>Popular Problems</i> like it did in 1969 on <i>Songs from a Room.</i><br />
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It feels fitting that the 80-year-old musician—yes, he turned 80 years old, yesterday, Wikipedia informs me—would release his latest album, <i>Popular Problems,</i> in the fall. A season, that for me at least, marks some of my happiest and saddest memories, and for those of us in Chicago, some of our last days of warmth as another winter looms. As <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2011/09/morning-walk.html" target="_blank">I wrote several years ago</a>, “the air has that crisp, cool feel once again. It's my favorite time of year, but it also makes me feel homesick as well. Not even homesick, exactly, but more like longing for something lost, a place that no longer really exists.”<br />
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Of course, Leonard puts it better, on one of my favorite tracks from the album, "Did I Ever Love You?":<br />
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<i>Was it ever settled<br />
Was it ever over<br />
And is it still raining<br />
Back in November<br />
The lemon trees blossom<br />
The almond trees wither<br />
Its spring and its summer<br />
And its winter forever<br />
</i><br />
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This album is packed with songs that tackle everything from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina to torture, killing, and all “my bad reviews,” and even though it—tragically—is a mere 36 minutes long, Leonard’s clearly in no hurry. After all, he kicks off the album with “Slow,” a song that feels equal parts sexy and self-deprecating, and all parts fucking terrific. <br />
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The seasons will change, as will my tastes and probably yours, but I can guarantee that my still-recently acquired love of Leonard Cohen is here to stay. <br />
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“It’s almost like salvation; it’s almost like the blues.”<br />
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="100" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3Yk6KgDKwpp3UqidVR6cWv" width="400"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.leonardcohen.com/us/music/popular-problems" target="_blank">Popular Problems</a> <i>comes out tomorrow. </i></span>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-85150721097990757652014-08-25T20:32:00.000-05:002014-08-25T20:34:23.111-05:00Monday Mix Tapes: ***Feminist <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://33.media.tumblr.com/6f1cd688c351179ccbeed96b2586708b/tumblr_naufb6OFwI1qc3ni5o1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://33.media.tumblr.com/6f1cd688c351179ccbeed96b2586708b/tumblr_naufb6OFwI1qc3ni5o1_500.gif" /> </a></div>
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In case you had forgotten that last night, FEMINIST flashed in giant words behind the <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2014/08/25/beyonce_vma_performance_watch_the_singer_s_16_minute_video_vanguard_award.html" target="_blank">"greatest living entertainer" during the MTV VMAs</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://music.thetalkhouse.com/talks/nico-muhly-talks-beyonces-beyonce/" target="_blank">Je suis içi 4</a> this performance. </div>
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="325" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/embed/mgid:uma:video:mtv.com:1066933/cp~id%3D1729744%26vid%3D1066933%26instance%3Dmtv%26uri%3Dmgid%3Auma%3Avideo%3Amtv.com%3A1066933" width="360"></iframe><br />
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Get More: <br />
<a href="http://www.mtv.com/ontv/vma/" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">2014 VMA</a>, <a href="http://www.mtv.com/artists/" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">Artists.MTV</a>, <a href="http://www.mtv.com/artists/beyonce-3/" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">Beyonce</a>, <a href="http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/1066933/mtv-vma-video-vanguard-medley.jhtml#id=1729744&vid=1066933" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">MTV VMA Video Vanguard (Medley)</a>, <a href="http://www.mtv.com/music/" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">Music</a>, <a href="http://www.mtv.com/music/video/" style="color: #439cd8;" target="_blank">More Music Videos</a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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"By lifting verses from Adichie’s TED talk on gender equality and using it to inspire her own music, Beyoncé is bridging the gap between academic feminism and everyday feminism. If young women attendees at her On the Run tour can scream out the lyrics to “Flawless” and mean every word, who says they can’t eventually read Audre Lorde?" <br />
— <a href="http://msmagazine.com/blog/2014/08/25/beyonce-at-the-vmas-feminist-and-flawless/" target="_blank"><i>Ms.</i> Magazine</a></blockquote>
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Oh, once is not enough: <br />
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<a href="http://33.media.tumblr.com/6f1cd688c351179ccbeed96b2586708b/tumblr_naufb6OFwI1qc3ni5o1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://33.media.tumblr.com/6f1cd688c351179ccbeed96b2586708b/tumblr_naufb6OFwI1qc3ni5o1_500.gif" /></a></div>
<br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-42194177455378610512014-08-21T21:51:00.000-05:002014-08-21T21:51:58.473-05:00to be sorted laterI’ve been writing a lot of emails to myself lately. Mostly, I’m sending articles, essays, and short stories, but I’m also sending notes, quotes, and music. I get a strange kick out of emailing myself, because while on the one hand it seems like a completely logical method of reminding oneself to do something, on the other hand, it feels and is completely ridiculous. “Dear Me, read this later.” <br />
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These things that I've been emailing Me are not at all related to one another, really—mostly they're just different things that interest me and that have threatened to destroy my productivity at work on that given day. So instead of letting the Internet win, I have created a chain of emails to myself, all under the subject line "to be sorted later," not that I know what it is exactly I plan on sorting later. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4x0pcOngA1rn70v8o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4x0pcOngA1rn70v8o1_500.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">(Source: </span><a href="http://violetas-verdes.tumblr.com/post/24168000466/necesito-un-buen-libro-ahora-i-need-a-good" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.2s linear; background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.2s linear;" title="violetas-verdes">violetas-verdes</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">)</span></td></tr>
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Currently, I am planning to sort the following things out later: a recent <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/08/25/one-saturday-morning" target="_blank">short story</a> in the <i>New Yorker,</i> submission guidelines for a website that I'd like to write for, two <a href="http://karavanderbijl.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">writers'</a> <a href="http://durgapolashi.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">tumblrs</a>, <a href="http://adult-mag.com/mornings-after-durga-chew-bose/" target="_blank">an interview</a> with one of those writers, and something about Lars Von Trier, and something about walking. Specifically, something. One email says only, "LARS VON TRIER - ?" and “on walking…”<br />
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Yes, I am aware I sent these notes to myself, so I probably should know what these things mean. But I don't. Well, I sort of do. Two Sundays ago I watched "Nymphomaniac," Volumes 1 and 2, and it left me feeling odd and unsure of my feelings and vaguely disturbed, but not as disturbed as I thought maybe I was supposed to feel. I think I wanted <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/feb/06/nymphomaniac-charlotte-gainsbourg-stacy-martin-lars-von-trier" target="_blank">some critic to tell me</a> if Von Trier was a <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/culturebox/2009/10/is_lars_von_trier_a_misogynist.html" target="_blank">misogynist</a> or <a href="http://flavorwire.com/450363/lars-von-trier-doesnt-hate-women-so-why-wont-the-myth-of-his-misogyny-die" target="_blank">pro-woman</a>. Then I thought that maybe I should be an adult, and come to my own conclusions. Then I got annoyed by the whole thing and put the question of Lars Von Trier out of my mind entirely.<br />
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As for the "on walking..." note, your guess is as good as mine. I like to walk?<br />
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Moving on: I still have more to sort. Come to think of it, I haven’t actually sorted any of these things yet. I haven’t read <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/08/25/one-saturday-morning" target="_blank">that short story</a> yet. I haven’t yet read Roxane Gay’s <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/aug/14/ferguson-occupation-peace-calm" target="_blank">piece in The Guardian about Ferguson</a>. I still haven’t read <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/08/25/the-lost-art-of-letter-writing" target="_blank">the poem</a> “The Lost Art of Letter Writing,” for fucks sakes! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lioh4luWj01qagbjfo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lioh4luWj01qagbjfo1_500.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">(via </span><a href="http://razorbladesalvations-deactivate.tumblr.com/post/4112826501" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.2s linear; background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.2s linear;">razorbladesalvations-deactivate</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">)</span></td></tr>
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<a href="http://alisoncomposes.tumblr.com/post/21944617521/one-of-my-problems-is-that-i-want-to-read" target="_blank">One of my problems is that I want to read everything at once.</a> Sometimes this gets more out of hand than others. I still haven’t finished my summer Shakespeare project. My brother and I are in our third year of doing this. We pick a different Shakespeare play each summer to read, and then we might talk about it a lot, or a little, or not at all. The point is the reading of it, mainly. Jay texted me three weeks ago, saying, “Finished Lear” and still, I’m not done. The underachieving younger sister strikes again! Ha, ha.<br />
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It’s no wonder I haven’t finished <i>King Lear</i> yet. I’m also currently reading: <i>The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles,</i> <i>Living History</i> (because I felt it was required reading before reading Hillary Clinton’s latest book), and <i>Bad Feminist.</i> Oh, and <i>A Wrinkle in Time,</i> because I learned it was <a href="http://www.latimes.com/books/jacketcopy/la-et-jc-a-wrinkle-in-time-movie-20140806-story.html" target="_blank">going to be made into a movie</a>, so of course I needed to read it again. (My most recent reading of it was in 2010. I am insane.) I’m supposed to be halfway through another book, <i>Cutting for Stone,</i> as part of a book club my friend Natalie invited me to join. I haven’t opened the book. It is 658 pages long.<br />
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I’d say I’m not always like this, but I’m always like this. I have a permanent stack of books. The other night I grabbed <i>Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention</i> off the shelf, and then <i>The Dream Songs,</i> and then I realized I had two other books, and my journal, in my hand. And then you add the Internets, including <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/books/double-take/summer-archive" target="_blank">access to the <i>New Yorker</i> archive</a> (!) to this equation, and that’s it. I’m dead. <br />
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Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get around to sorting it all out later. Constantly, I’m reminded of my mother, sitting in her green chair, which is now my green chair, with a stack of books on the floor next to her. She had bookmarks in all of them, including <i>Les Miserables,</i> which I stole from the pile after my mother died. I’ve added it to my own stack of books from time to time over the last 12 years, but it never makes the cut. It always ends back on the bookshelf, to be sorted later.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5o5x7nPBe1qix0dvo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5o5x7nPBe1qix0dvo1_500.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">(via </span><a href="http://brittanickel.tumblr.com/post/26645557556" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.2s linear; background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.2s linear;">brittanickel</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #110510; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: start;">)</span></td></tr>
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<br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-83938813884028116152014-07-14T22:38:00.000-05:002014-07-14T22:38:35.051-05:00Rehearsing a Limited Openness: Sharing, and Hiding, So Much<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://37.media.tumblr.com/b753aa8b9bbe1ac8b3f973337d56d29e/tumblr_n1iy8nHRrF1s62eh7o1_1280.jpg#http://31.media.tumblr.com/b753aa8b9bbe1ac8b3f973337d56d29e/tumblr_n1iy8nHRrF1s62eh7o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://37.media.tumblr.com/b753aa8b9bbe1ac8b3f973337d56d29e/tumblr_n1iy8nHRrF1s62eh7o1_1280.jpg#http://31.media.tumblr.com/b753aa8b9bbe1ac8b3f973337d56d29e/tumblr_n1iy8nHRrF1s62eh7o1_500.jpg" height="278" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>[via <a href="http://slobberingdarkness.com/post/77748241372" target="_blank">here</a>]</i></td></tr>
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I can’t stop thinking about this <i>New Yorker</i> article I read last week, <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/joshuarothman/2014/07/virginia-woolf-idea-of-privacy.html">“Virginia Woolf’s Idea of Privacy,” by Joshua Rothman.</a> To be clear—and I write this feeling incredibly sheepish—I have not read much Virginia Woolf. In particular, I’ve not read <i>Mrs. Dalloway,</i> which Rothman focuses on specifically in this article. <br />
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But thinking about privacy, and what that means today when there’s a constant opportunity to share, and over-share on the Interwebs, fascinates me. This is a rather long excerpt, but it’s important regarding how Woolf’s sense of privacy could remain relevant today in the world of Facebook (all <b>emphasis</b> is mine): <br />
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Woolf’s abstract, inner sense of privacy bears the stamp, of course, of a very particular time and place (not to mention Woolf’s very particular biography—she had an unusually rich hidden life). <b>It’s indebted to feminism, and to the realization that men, but not women, have long been granted a right to solitude. It also flows from the particularly modernist idea that there is a coherent, hidden, inner self from which art springs.</b> Today, we may be more likely to see art as a collaborative process—the product of a scene, rather than a person. We are also, I suspect, especially aware of <b>how much we rely upon on social networks to help us know ourselves.</b> In recent years, philosophers have argued that other people may know us better than we do.<br />
<br />
<b>To me, though, Woolf’s sense of privacy still feels relevant; when I keep it in mind, I see it everywhere.</b> Adelle Waldman’s novel “The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.” is, among many other things, a gender-reversed retelling of the love story at the center of “Mrs. Dalloway”: like Clarissa, Nate chooses the lover who can’t know him over the lover who’s determined to. (He does this, in part, so that he can continue to surprise himself—that is, continue to create.) Meanwhile, on Tumblr and Facebook, we seek out the same private sociality that Woolf described. Usually, we think of social media as a forum for exhibitionism. But, inevitably, the extroverted cataloguing of everyday minutiae—meals, workouts, thoughts about politics, books, and music—reaches its own limits; it ends up emphasizing what can’t be shared. <b>Talking so freely about your life helps you to know the weight of those feelings which are too vague, or too spiritual, to express—left unspoken and unexplored, they throw your own private existence into relief.</b> “Sharing” is, in fact, the opposite of what we do: like one of Woolf’s hostesses, <b>we rehearse a limited openness</b> so that we can feel the solidity of our own private selves.</blockquote>
Now, while I haven’t read<i> Mrs. Dalloway</i> (how did I get that English degree? I forget), I did read <i><a href="http://us.macmillan.com/theloveaffairsofnathanielp/AdelleWaldman" target="_blank">The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.</a>,</i> last summer. I don’t know about Clarissa, but Nate was mostly just an asshole. I look forward to reading and seeing how Clarissa relates to his character. <br />
<br />
Do I rely on my social network to know myself? What do other people know about me—or more accurately, think they know about me, based on my social network persona? Recently I met up with my friend Beth as she was finishing up a work happy hour. She introduced me to one of her colleagues, who gave me a knowing look and said, “Oh, you’re ‘alisoncomposes,’” as if we’d met before. <br />
<br />
<i>What does that even mean? Who is "alisoncomposes"? </i><br />
<br />
I think about, with some degree of nervousness, how much a complete stranger could learn about me from a quick glimpse at <a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes" target="_blank">my Twitter</a> feed. If Stranger on the Internet looked at tweets from the last two weeks, for instance, he or she would learn: <a href="https://twitter.com/PPact/status/484373593783275520" target="_blank">I’m a Planned Parenthood supporter</a>; my mother is dead, and <a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes/status/486536716233486339" target="_blank">her birthday was last Tuesday</a>; <a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes/status/487285800909156352" target="_blank">I’m a John Legend fan</a>; and that <a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes/status/486692958775672832" target="_blank">I may or may not have have watched ‘Coming to America” recently</a>. Among other things.<br />
<br />
That’s a lot! And it’s also nothing at all! Because:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
But, inevitably, the extroverted cataloguing of everyday minutiae—meals, workouts, thoughts about politics, books, and music—reaches its own limits; it ends up emphasizing what can’t be shared. Talking so freely about your life helps you to know the weight of those feelings which are too vague, or too spiritual, to express—left unspoken and unexplored, they throw your own private existence into relief. </blockquote>
<br />
With all that sharing, there was still much left inside, and off my Twitter feed. With the “limited openness” of sharing these moments online, it did exactly what Rothman writes about: “emphasizing what can’t be shared.” I’m not sure if my “private existence” was thrown into relief by tweeting, <i>“My mom would have turned 63 today, so I'm celebrating her life while I work the only way I can: blasting Fleetwood Mac in my earbuds.”</i><br />
<br />
Those 140 characters shared a lot, all at once. But certainly, there was much, much left unsaid with those 140 characters, and those are complicated feelings I hold on to tight, unable — and frankly, unwilling— to share with anyone, especially the Internet. <br />
<br />
Because, well, it’s private. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<i>There’s so much more to this article than I just gibbered about. <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/joshuarothman/2014/07/virginia-woolf-idea-of-privacy.html">Read it now, will you?</a> <br />
</i><br />
<i>love,</i><br />
<i><a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes" target="_blank">alisoncomposes</a>/Alison</i>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-63400869525670470372014-05-14T22:17:00.001-05:002014-05-14T22:17:44.499-05:00Your Love is Killing Me / Promises<i>“Break my legs so I won’t walk to you/Cut my tongue so I can’t talk to you/Burn my skin so I can’t feel you/Stab my eyes so I can’t see”</i><br />
<br />
Fuck, that sounds outrageous just to read it, doesn’t it? Not so when Sharon Van Etten sings — no, wails — these lyrics in <a href="http://pitchfork.com/reviews/tracks/16931-your-love-is-killing-me/">her new song</a> “Your Love is Killing Me,” the most recent single she’s shared off her forthcoming album, <i>Are We There.</i> <br />
<br />
<iframe width="100%" height="450" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/148733961&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true"></iframe><br />
<br />
I didn’t think she’d be able to produce an even swifter kick in the gut than she did with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYgyQ20TJAs">“Serpents,”</a> from her last album <i>Tramp,</i> but I’ll be damned with this one. I'll. Be. Damned. Before we get to the requests for leg-breaking, tongue-cutting, skin-burning, and eye-stabbing, she begins the song:<br />
<br />
<i>"it’s understood<br />
you’ll be a man<br />
by the time I see you<br />
we’ve been through<br />
better days<br />
and you’ve tasted all my pain"</i><br />
<br />
At least, I think that’s what she’s singing. With each listen — and I’ve listened to it maybe 10 times in the last several hours — I keep straining toward my speakers, trying to catch every syllable through all the emotions she’s managing to convey with her voice. I mean, her voice: just listen to how it bends and turns and wrecks you in this song. No wonder I’m having a hard time understanding things like: <br />
<br />
<i>"try to tell you this when I’m sober<br />
how I feel about loving you<br />
try to remember all the turn of events"</i><br />
<br />
and later: <br />
<br />
<i>"You love me as you torture me." </i><br />
<br />
I absolutely cannot wait to hear her perform this live. Whenever that may be, I hope I’m just a little wine-drunk, enough not to care if my knees buckle and I choke back a sob or two. <br />
<br />
I don’t know when that will be, but as <a href="http://thetalkhouse.com/talks/owen-pallett-final-fantasy-talks-tori-amos-unrepentant-geraldines/">Owen Pallett wrote in his The Talkhouse review on the new Tori Amos album</a>: “In the meantime, I’m a trembling mess.”<br />
<br />
Sorry to get a little out of order there, but being a "trembling mess" described it all too well. But this leads me to the next song I’d like to write about, the other new song that has me hitting replay and feeling in utter awe about the badassery of my favorite female musicians. <br />
<br />
Yes, it's by the one, the only: <b>Tori Amos.</b> She’s just released her 14th album, and boy, are people talking about her. Over at NPR, one take wasn’t enough, so they gave 10. (It’s amazing. <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/therecord/2014/05/13/311864823/why-tori-amos-connects">Read it.</a>) And, as I mentioned, <a href="http://thetalkhouse.com/talks/owen-pallett-final-fantasy-talks-tori-amos-unrepentant-geraldines/">Owen Pallett has written</a> a rather incredible piece on his fandom experience with Tori Amos, which I identified with on many levels. <br />
<br />
My complete experience with loving Tori deserves a standalone written ode, though, so I’d like to focus on this one particular track from <i>Unrepentant Geraldines.</i> It’s called “Promise” and I’d really love it if everyone would listen to it, now:<br />
<br />
<iframe src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:3ZZS2pYJmjkjyw8VDPowcU" width="300" height="380" frameborder="0" allowtransparency="true"></iframe><br />
<br />
You’ll notice that this isn’t Tori alone on the vocals: her daughter, Tash, sings with her on this, this utterly gorgeous “mother-daughter vow” — as Pallett describes, “their voices joining together like ivy and brick; it is devastating.”<br />
<i><br />
“Where the sun shines/ I will be there/ You are the light/ That follows you everywhere” </i><br />
<br />
<i>“Will you look for me?”<br />
<br />
“I will rescue you”</i><br />
<br />
Devastating. Well, Ann Powers at NPR might describe it as an "alternately intimate and trivial mother-daughter exchange," and maybe that's also so, and maybe that's why I find it so devastating. <br />
<br />
It, like "Your Love is Killing Me" is a song I don't want to end, but when it does it's almost a relief, because I can take a deep breath and just think about how beautiful it is. Even the parts that are painful. Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-30640899085064788172014-05-12T21:41:00.001-05:002014-05-12T21:44:33.467-05:00'Like a Last Rain' on Mother's Day<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“And what about those who don’t have a mother?”</span></i></span></b> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">— <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2014/05/the-unmothered.html" target="_blank">“The Unmothered,” by Ruth Margalit</a>, <i>The New Yorker,</i> May 9, 2014</span></blockquote>
<br />
Last week an acquaintance of mine asked if I was celebrating Mother’s Day. I was caught off-guard. We were on the bus, and had been making small talk prior to this question; I hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning; and I was not at all prepared to be reminded that one of my least favorite days of the year was on the horizon.<br />
<br />
“No,” I said flatly. He looked away for a moment. I decided to be a normal human being and try again. I asked, brightly, “What about you? Does your mother live nearby?”<br />
<br />
I knew it was safe to ask about his mother, because his upbeat and unassuming way of asking about the holiday made it clear he had a mother around to celebrate. I was right, of course. He told me about his lovely plans with his family and I continued to smile, wondering if it was at all obvious that inside, I was screaming. <br />
<br />
The conversation moved on, as conversations do, and soon enough I got off the bus and walked toward my office, feeling more annoyed with myself than anything else. Sooner or later, I tell myself, I’ll handle these types of questions with grace. And maybe I almost did, this time. I’m not really sure. But what was my alternative? Drop the “No, my mom is dead” bomb in the middle of the 66 bus at 9 a.m.? No thank you. I guess I’ll just sound like a jerk.<br />
<br />
With each passing Mother’s Day that Mother’s Day continues to, somehow, exist in this world without my mother alive, I convince myself that this year, I won’t have these moments. I won’t have the conversation I manage to have every year, where some perfectly nice, clueless person who still has a mother and doesn’t really know me asks about my Mother’s Day plans. (<a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2010/05/trying-mothers-day-on-for-size.html" target="_blank">I wrote about this dilemma</a> on this very blog four years ago, actually.)<br />
<br />
All of this is to say that I’m fine. No, <i>really,</i> I’m fine. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Trust me, I’m too aware of the fact that my mother is gone to wish her here in any serious way on Mother’s Day. But does the holiday have to be in May, when the lilacs are in full bloom? When a gentle breeze stirs—the kind of breeze that reminds me of days when she would recline on a deck chair on our Jerusalem porch, head tilted back, urging me to ‘sit a while’?”</span></blockquote>
<br />
<hr />
<br />
Mother’s Day often has a way of making me feel very alone in this world. That, of course, is insane. Over the course of the day, I got thoughtful texts and messages from different women in my life who are the proof that I am far from alone: my aunt Deborah; my cousin Micaela; my sister-in-law Tina; my friends Lauren and Natalie. But to not have my mother here on this Earth is to feel a specific sort of aloneness, something that, in spite of all the messages in the world, can never be replaced. This reality used to—and sometimes, on low days, still will—fill me with despair. <br />
<br />
That feeling began to threaten me yesterday, if only for a brief moment. I started to feel the sadness take over. I made coffee and didn’t drink any of it. Everything had been fine, but then it was not fine. I sat down at my computer and <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2014/05/the-unmothered.html" target="_blank">found this article that I keep quoting</a> here. I thought it would make me feel better, and it would have had I let it, but after I read it I just felt vaguely sick, nauseous. I went outside to my back porch and sat directly in the sun, my bare legs prickling from the heat for the first time in a year. I looked up and squinted into the sun. <br />
<br />
I knew what I needed to do. I went back inside to get my phone so I could call my dad. I saw that he had already beat me to the punch, with a short text that said nothing and everything: “hey al hope you’re having a good weekend.”<br />
<br />
I went back to my piece of sunshine and called him. The feeling that had threatened to turn this day into a nightmare faded. He is still here. It’s okay. It really is. <br />
<br />
The sun was hot on my face. I was not alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"What is the death of a loved one if not an oxymoron? My mother isn’t here, and yet I see her everywhere. I kept on looking for hints of her on the page, as though by retracing her beloved books and poems I would get to reclaim a part of her that was already slipping away."</span></blockquote>
<hr />
<br />
Later in the afternoon the weather shifted from warm sunshine to a cool thunderstorm. When the weather turned, I curled up with my cat Layla next to the open window, the blinds flapping gently from the breeze. I found a movie that I knew Mom and I had watched together, more than once—Sense and Sensibility. <br />
<br />
Mom was not there. <br />
<br />
Or was she? Next to my television, the framed photo of the two of us at my high school graduation stared back at me. In it, our cheeks are pressed together; our smiles are big. We look just alike. I remember, that spring, counting down the days until I would graduate. If only she can stay healthy to see me graduate, I would think. We made it to graduation. She made it even through that long, hot summer, to come move me in my college dorm. But that would be it. There would be no more landmark moments after that. No more. We’re done. <br />
<br />
These thoughts are exhausting. These are the thoughts that take over on Mother's Day. I stared at our photo, not even paying attention to the movie, and I remember posing for it. I remember the feeling of my mother’s warm cheek against mine. I tell myself I remember. <br />
<br />
Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet were still talking about something or other on my television screen. I stopped thinking and staring altogether and fell asleep, my fat cat’s paw resting in my hand.<br />
<br />
When I woke up from my nap, the feelings were gone. The rain had stopped. The day was once again, just another day. <br />
<br />
And I will miss my mom again tomorrow. And then again the next day. And all the days after. But it doesn’t have to be a Day. It just is. We keep on living. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“There’s a word in Hebrew—<i>malkosh</i>—that means 'last rain.' It’s a word that only means something in places like Israel, where there’s a clear distinction between winter and the long, dry stretch of summer. It’s a word, too, that can only be applied in retrospect. When it’s raining, you have no way of knowing that the falling drops would be the last ones of the year. But then time goes by, the clouds clear, and you realize that that rain shower was the one. Having a mother—being mothered—is similar, in a way. It’s a term that I only fully grasp now, with the thirst of hindsight: who she was, who I was for her, what she has equipped me with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like a last rain, my mother left behind an earthy scent that lingered long after she was gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like a last rain, for a fleeting moment, everything she touched seemed to glow.”</span></blockquote>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-63318103735026587902014-04-21T23:03:00.000-05:002014-04-22T10:53:43.703-05:00Monday Mix Tapes: A Gunshot, A Breakdown, An Interlude<a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2011/03/monday-mix-tapes-get-some.html" target="_blank">My main squeeze Lykke Li</a> has a new album, <i>I Never Learn,</i> coming out May 5th, and of course I am over the moon about all of the singles she's released thus far. (Listen to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7iLERCEznI" target="_blank">"Love Me Like I'm Not Made of Stone"</a> and <a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/54411-listen-to-lykke-lis-new-song-no-rest-for-the-wicked/" target="_blank">"No Rest for the Wicked"</a> for evidence.)<br />
<br />
This latest one, <a href="http://gunshot.co/" target="_blank">"Gunshot,"</a> is my favorite. Partly because only Lykke Li can sing "I am siren, I am ivy / I'm no one, I'm nobody" and make it sound like perfection. But also, as another writer put it at <a href="http://consequenceofsound.net/2014/04/listen-lykke-lis-new-song-gunshot/" target="_blank">Consequence of Sound</a>, she "pairs emotionally-gripping lyrics with surprisingly bombastic musical accompaniment."<br />
<br />
Give it a listen: <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/1SP-PgW7U1M" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
It seems that yet again, <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/04/mix-tape-may-madness-gatsby-demons.html" target="_blank">May is going to be the month all my dreams come true. </a>Because along with a new Lykke Li album, <a href="http://sharonvanetten.com/" target="_blank">Sharon Van Etten</a> is also coming out with a new one, A<i>re We There,</i> and if that's not enough, <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2011/08/monday-mix-tapes-little-dragon-love.html" target="_blank">Little Dragon</a> is too<i>, </i>titled <i>Nabuma Rubberband</i>.<br />
<br />
Is it too soon to predict that all 3 of these albums will make it to my top 10 list for 2014? Probably not. I mean:<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/143739910&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
As much as I'd like to go on and on about my girlfriends Sharon, Lykke, and Yukimi (and co.), <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/prince-releases-new-surprise-single-the-breakdown-20140419" target="_blank">we have to talk about PRINCE right now.</a> He just released a new single, which starts off, "This could be the saddest story ever been told," and that's really not much of an exaggeration. I've never been so utterly delighted to fight off the urge to cry silently at my desk, which is what happened today at work when I first heard it and then proceeded to listen to it six times in a row. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/prince-releases-new-surprise-single-the-breakdown-20140419" target="_blank">Listen to "The Breakdown" here</a>, because due to what must be some sort of Prince magic spell, the Internets is not letting me embed it.<br />
<br />
So not only does Prince have a new album on the way, we can also get ready for a digitally remastered, deluxe 30th anniversary edition of <i>Purple Rain.</i> <b>Are you listening to me right now? </b>A new Prince album AND a remastered <i>Purple Rain</i>??? Dear Universe, what did I do to deserve these beautiful gifts? <br />
<br />
Finally, here's a little something from <a href="http://disconaivete.com/post/83209141784" target="_blank">a new artist I discovered today, Rachel Foxx. </a>Lawwwd. Yes. I had no idea a mere one minute and 47 seconds could be so much. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>"What the fuck she got on me?" </i><br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/123289441&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-64837536636861164182014-03-31T20:38:00.000-05:002014-03-31T20:45:42.289-05:00The Trumpet PlayerOutside my apartment, but somewhere just out of view from my windows when I peer between the blinds, someone is playing a trumpet. This person does not know how to play a trumpet. At least, this person does not know how to play a trumpet well. Every other a minute, after a few (semi) successful notes, I hear those sharp, painful squeaks one might associate with sounds coming from a middle school band practice room. <br />
<br />
With each new squeak, Mufasa, my cat, jerks her head around wildly. At first I was trying to drown out this noise with music, but now I’ve put it on pause, indefinitely.<br />
<br />
The trumpet player has started to shout, or laugh, after each screw-up. At first I was confused: <i>Am I imagining all this? Are the neighbor kids playing a prank?</i> (I guess now that I’m 30, I legitimately have thoughts that include <i>“the neighbor kids”</i>?) <br />
<br />
After one of the most offensive of the squeaks thus far, someone clapped. A dog barked—yipped, rather. Another squeak. <br />
<br />
But then. Then! Back to the playing. <br />
<br />
It’s been about 20 minutes. The squeaks are not as constant. Below the dim of traffic passing on California Avenue, I can hear it. The playing continues. It’s fainter, now, but steady. Every so often, there’s another squeak. Another shout. The playing goes on.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
When I was about 8 years old, my mother bought a used piano. She had taken lessons as a child, but she decided she wanted to practice again. Whether this urge was driven by her purchase of the piano, or vice versa, I’m not sure. Regardless, she was going to take lessons, and as such, so would my brother Jay and me. <br />
<br />
While my talent for the piano never went much past repeated one-handed playings of the Tarantella, or my other favorite, songs from The Little Mermaid book, my mother continued to practice. Our miniature poodle Tinker was not a fan of her playing. In particular, the dog was less than fond of her repeated attempts at learning to play Für Elise on Saturday afternoons. <br />
<br />
From my bedroom, a short hallway away, I’d often be reading a book when Mom would take up her playing. She wasn’t bad, really; she just reached a point in the song where she’d miss her key, and then Tinker’s whine would get louder. She’d stop, yell at the dog, then start over. With each new beginning, she’d play the start with renewed confidence. You could hear it. I’d perk up a bit as I’d rest my book in my lap, listening. And then, the fumble. The dog whining. This would continue, until finally I’d hear her close the piano and open the front door to let “the damn dog out.” <br />
<br />
Those opening notes of Für Elise have been burned on my brain since childhood. I can even picture her sitting at the piano, her posture perfect, just as it was whenever she sat at the computer.<br />
<br />
She never did master the song. But better still, the memory of her perfect posture; the intensity with each fresh start; even her annoyance at the poor dog. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
It’s quiet, now. The cars pass by on California Avenue. Mufasa is asleep, next to me, her head resting on my knee. <br />
<br />
The trumpet player has retired for the evening. Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-80339323012605296292014-02-13T22:38:00.000-06:002014-02-13T22:38:41.865-06:00Mixtapes, Pre-Valentine's Edition: You Got Me So PatheticIf, like me, you're dreading getting through the work day tomorrow because it's just SO MANY HOURS UNTIL YOU CAN WATCH <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBabKoHSErI">HOUSE OF CARDS</a>, never fear. I have some jams for you. <br />
<br />
Oh yeah, it's also going to be <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/02/lets-go-get-shit-kicked-out-of-us-by.html" target="_blank">Valentine's Day</a>, so I can think of no better way to start this off than with a song that goes, "You got me so pathetic." Ugh, I know. Don't remind me. But for a song called "Pathetic," it's really a lot more fun than you'd expect:<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/134046095&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
And then here's one for all you with one foot in, one foot out. (And yes, this is the same <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGL2rytTraA&feature=kp" target="_blank">Kelis of "Milkshake,"</a> and if you have an issue with that, we clearly need to talk.) "I know I said, 'leave,' but baby don't go":<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/123220785&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
Finally, <i>oh hai,</i> Boots. I don't really know Boots and maybe you don't either, but we all should because: <a href="http://pitchfork.com/features/articles/9309-beyonces-muse/">Beyoncé</a>. Also, if this song isn't just <i>the sex,</i> well then, I don't know what is.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/134191397&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
Happy almost-<i>House of Cards</i>/Valentine's Day! I love you.<br />
<br />
<i>PS - for you Chicago peeples,<a href="http://www.groupon.com/articles/three-easy-date-free-dates-this-valentines-day-fd" target="_blank"> I wrote about three date-free date ideas</a> for tomorrow night, or any Friday really. Yes, </i>House of Cards <i>is mentioned in this, too. </i>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-3242096305111434612014-02-13T21:41:00.000-06:002014-02-13T21:41:31.125-06:00But Today, We Got to 30<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/7d32fe92229bdd534c22d2bbeeac2929/tumblr_myxetj1FfM1qhk5s5o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/7d32fe92229bdd534c22d2bbeeac2929/tumblr_myxetj1FfM1qhk5s5o1_500.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Winter on California Avenue</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To say this has been a rough winter is to grossly underestimate. <i>The Chicago Tribune</i> <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/ct-met-0127-cold-weather-gfx-eps-20140126,0,7874623.graphic">ranks it as #13 on a list</a> of lowest temperature seasons in Chicago. Considering this list includes winters as far back as 1886, I think it gives us ample cause to say: It’s been really fucking cold.<br />
<br />
One afternoon in January while I was working from home, my furnace started to crap out. As I waited for my landlord to show up, I shivered in front of my space heater, wearing a scarf, fingerless gloves, and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I felt so ridiculous I wanted to laugh, but I was too cold to laugh. I thought of <a href="http://www.chicagoreader.com/Bleader/archives/2014/01/11/laura-ingalls-wilder-knew-about-long-winters">Laura Ingalls Wilder and <i>The Long Winter</i></a> and told myself it wasn’t so bad. After all, it’s not like the snow was making my eyeballs bleed; I hadn’t been house-bound for months, I had just been sitting in my until-then warm-ass apartment watching <i>Bob’s Burgers</i> with a cat on my lap. Things weren’t really all that bad.<br />
<br />
Yet I still keep finding much to complain about, if only in my thoughts, to myself. Like the evening the 66 bus was delayed and I waited for 20 minutes at the bus stop, the cold shooting needles of pain through my toes and fingers. Or how every time I’ve had to do laundry since before Christmas, I fear my death from the climb up and down to the basement on the steep ice- and snow-covered stairs. Or the mornings the thought of putting on all those layers, yet again, and stepping outside to start my commute made me feel so despondent that I stayed in bed for a full extra hour than I should have. <br />
<br />
I try not to complain, because again, it’s really not that bad, <i>right?</i> I have heat and a home and all those layers to keep putting on, morning after morning. I have enough hot tea to last for months. And I can almost always afford to add one more bottle of wine to the shopping cart (it helps when it’s $3 Winking Owl from Aldi). Last week, leaving the bar with a friend, we got in a snowball fight. One snowball smacked me in the ear, and slid down my neck below my scarf, but I was so flushed from laughing that the cold felt good. Yeah, it’s not all that bad. <br />
<br />
Today, the temperature made it all the way to 30 degrees. I forgot my hat, and I was okay! It was utter madness. I missed my first bus leaving work, but in the four-and-a-half minutes waiting for the next one, at no point did I feel murderous from the cold. I came home, and made enough pasta to feed myself for the rest of February. I had to do laundry again. My steps are still so covered in snow and a thin sheet of ice that I probably should have just luged down to the basement. But I made it down, one small step after another; and up, one hesitant step after another. <br />
<br />
As I walked back up the steps the last time, clutching my laundry basket, the neighbor’s dog jumped at the fence, barking at me like always. I almost lost my balance, but I didn’t fall. Beau, the dog, continued to bark.<br />
<br />
I grinned back at him. After all, my bathroom is inside. And so is my wine. <i>Ha, ha, I win this round, Beau. </i><br />
<br />
Every day I don’t fall down in this ice and snow and slush and shit is like a gift. And the bus always shows up eventually. <br />
<br />
Today, we made it to 30. Spring awaits. We can do this.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-54849228804745012472014-01-27T21:26:00.000-06:002014-01-27T21:26:22.657-06:00Monday Mix Tapes: Toni, Babyface, and Another Time Next Tuesday, all my dreams come true.<br />
<br />
That's right! On 2.4.14, <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/love-marriage-divorce/id778208733" target="_blank">Toni Braxton and Babyface are releasing their duet album</a>, <i>Love, Marriage & Divorce. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i> About damn time. Cause, duh:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rnyav7pbBbk" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
Look, I know I'm being a little flip about this whole thing, but I should probably be clear that my heart <i>aches </i>every time I listen to this song. (And I've been listening to it, often.)<br />
<br />
Not only do I absolutely love Babyface and Toni Braxton collaborating <i>with every fiber of my being, </i>every time I listen to Toni Braxton sing, I'm transported to <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2010/03/in-another-time.html" target="_blank">a different time</a>. A time when I'd put my mother's Toni Braxton CD on in our living room while we'd be cleaning the house on a Saturday afternoon. A time when I so often snagged her <i>Waiting to Exhale</i> soundtrack to play in my room, she finally laughed and told me to just keep it.<br />
<br />
So yes, while I can only assume that this duet album will be jam-packed with tunes to make my heart ache about love and romance and breakups (unless of course it's just an incredibly misleading album title), it's also going to make my heart ache in a wonderful, separate way.<br />
<br />
It's like hearing my mom laugh again. <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2009/07/4th-of-july-syndrome.html" target="_blank">It's the two of us in my little Dodge Neon</a>, and her turning up the radio to one of our favorite R&B songs and tapping her hand on her oxygen tank to the beat.<br />
<br />
I couldn't be more excited.<br />
<br />
So let's take it back for a minute to one of mine and my mom's favorite Toni Braxton songs.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2yQ0Fll_9pM" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-2764580736048469402014-01-23T21:13:00.001-06:002014-01-23T21:13:40.802-06:00Poetry Slam: Our Whisper Woke No Clocks<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/b117cecdc4d4075f90d5d2d0000537d0/tumblr_mzntijrzpD1stmli1o1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/b117cecdc4d4075f90d5d2d0000537d0/tumblr_mzntijrzpD1stmli1o1_400.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[via <a href="http://sleepwalking-bmth-sykes.tumblr.com/post/73847888102" target="_blank">here</a>]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">THE DREAM</span><br />
<i>by W.H. Auden</i><br />
<br />
Dear, though the night is gone,<br />
Its dream still haunts to-day,<br />
That brought us to a room<br />
Cavernous, lofty as<br />
A railway terminus,<br />
And crowded in that gloom<br />
Were beds, and we in one<br />
In a far corner lay.<br />
<br />
Our whisper woke no clocks,<br />
We kissed and I was glad<br />
At everything you did,<br />
Indifferent to those<br />
Who sat with hostile eyes<br />
In pairs on every bed,<br />
Arms round each other's necks,<br />
Inert and vaguely sad.<br />
<br />
What hidden worm of guilt<br />
Or what malignant doubt<br />
Am I the victim of,<br />
That you, then, unabashed,<br />
Did what I never wished,<br />
Confessed another love;<br />
And I, submissive, felt<br />
Unwanted and went out.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-46206502652330549592014-01-06T13:00:00.000-06:002014-01-06T13:02:40.152-06:00Monday Mix Tapes: Spend Your Snow Day with Sharon, Stephen, & SITAHappy 2014, geeks!<br />
<br />
It's really fucking cold outside! <br />
<br />
Today in Chicago, it's <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/breaking/chi-chicago-weather-20140106,0,1049815.story" target="_blank">record-breaking cold</a>. We're talking wind chills of minus 50 degrees, here. In other words, it's the perfect time to wrap up in three different blankets, a scarf, and write while wearing fingerless gloves!<br />
<br />
There are so many great things happening out in the world of music while I huddle with my Macbook in front of my space heater. First up, the much-anticipated arrival of Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings' new album, aptly titled <i>Give the People What They Want. </i>(You can <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/01/05/259143137/first-listen-sharon-jones-and-the-dap-kings-give-the-people-what-they-want">stream the full album on NPR.</a>)<br />
<br />
"Retreat" (and its delightful, animated video) almost makes me forget that I'm currently living in the Arctic. This was recorded before her cancer diagnosis and battle, but I still take it as further proof that Sharon Jones will kick anything's ass. She is the boss. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/PrOYkHjdpdM" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
Next on my list is Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks, largely because I'm geeking out over their upcoming album's name (<i>Wig Out at Jagbags</i>) and this video for "Lariat" accompanied by the lyrics, in French. (Also, to the girl applying eyeliner and the dude reading in the tub, <i>je vous aime tous les deux.</i>) You'll have a crush on the star of this video by approximately 34 seconds in, too. I promise.<br />
<br />
"Tu n'est pas ce que tu n'est pas."<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/zYC5JASqWnI" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
I can't stop listening to this next one from James Vincent McMorrow, either. Maybe it's just how high and perfect his voice gets when he sings, "I remember my first love." I can't wait to hear what else he's bringing on his new album <i>Post-Tropical.</i> <br />
<i><br />
</i> <br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/115283761&color=ff6600&auto_play=false&show_artwork=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
I found this next gem over at <a href="http://disconaivete.com/post/71663708722">Disco Naïveté</a>. Brace yourself. This girl can sing. Here, she's doing a cover of James Arthur's "You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You," and I can't wait to hear an original. Holy shit:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/-lTJRzSTnwI" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<i>What's on your music radar this January? <a href="https://twitter.com/alisoncomposes">Tell me everything.</a></i>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-8999980943427554612013-12-17T23:56:00.000-06:002013-12-17T23:56:15.244-06:00End of Year Mixtapes Special Edition: My Top 25 Tracks of 2013Are you ready?! Are you ready to feel all the feelings? <br />
<br />
I know I am.<br />
<br />
That's right: It's <b>Year Three </b>of my End of Year Mixtapes Special Edition blogtastic music celebration! <b>My top 25 tracks of the year! </b>(For a blast from the past, check out my favorites in <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/12/end-of-year-mix-tapes-special-edition.html">2012</a> and <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2011/12/end-of-year-mix-tapes-special-edition.html">2011</a>.)<br />
<br />
Let me preface this year's list by saying a couple of things. One, this is not the place to celebrate Yeezus. (Or Miley. Or Robin Thicke. Though I will still agree/argue that "Blurred Lines" was catchy as fuck.) Two, it was a little hard to focus on finishing this, as THE QUEEN—yes, <i>duh,</i> Beyoncé—just dropped <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/music-arts/beyonce-sells-600-000-albums-days-article-1.1549471" target="_blank">her surprise album</a> last week, and I've pretty much listened to nothing else since. That said, I wasn't quite prepared to change this list into 14 Yoncé songs and ignore all these other tunes that have been near and dear to my heart.<br />
<br />
So, let's do this! Behold, the songs that had me hitting replay again and again.<br />
<br />
I hope you enjoy them even a fraction as much as I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>25. Laura Mvula — “That’s Alright”</b><br />
<br />
You know how I love my Brits. And while I enjoyed the entirety of <a href="http://www.lauramvula.com/" target="_blank">Laura Mvula’s album</a>, <i>Sing to the Moon,</i> this track was a clear standout for me. Her other songs, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wn_AHzit2JE" target="_blank">“Like the Morning Dew”</a> and <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/01/monday-mix-tapes-l-is-for-lion-babe.html" target="_blank">“She,”</a> might showcase her classically trained voice more, but this song (and video) showcases that she is a <b>boss.</b> This stomping, snappy bizness starts off with her declaring, “I will never be what you want and that’s alright” — followed by my favorite, “Tell me, who made you the center of the universe?” <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hYjHixQ9Ns4" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>24. Jay Z featuring Beyoncé — Part II (On the Run)</b><br />
<br />
I just can’t help myself. I love when these two collaborate. “She was a good girl until she knew me” — uh huh, Jay, uh huh. Wonder what it’s like being married to the Queen? (Oh wait, I think I just found out this past week. Ahem, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1JPKLa-Ofc" target="_blank">"Drunk in Love"</a> ... which is terrific, aside from the troubling/confusing Ike Turner reference. The fuck, Mr. Carter?) Wait, I'm getting off track here. The return of Bonnie and Clyde!<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/VNI6pNjeqjQ" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>23. Foxygen — “No Destruction” </b><br />
<br />
2013 started off with a bang, thanks to Foxygen’s <i>We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic,</i> which I promptly fell into a deep, deep obsession over. This song absolutely delighted me, and made me want to sing to any Logan Square hipster who annoyed me: “There’s no need to be an asshole, you’re not in Brooklyn anymore.” <br />
<br />
This summer I saw Foxygen perform at Pitchfork, and I think singer Sam France actually thought he was scaling <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cq7aPbhTqdQ" target="_blank">that Blue Mountain</a> he sings about as he climbed all over his set with his pants constantly falling down. He was absolutely off his rocker, and I loved every minute of it. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/87jIdvGPDj4" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>22. Marques Toliver — “Magic Look”</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdHVpJB5C1k">My love of Lianne La Havas</a> led me to first stumbling upon Marques Toliver, and that promptly turned into love of his beautiful violin-playing and soulful voice. He put on a great performance at Lincoln Hall this year—which included him scolding audience members who wouldn’t put down their damn phones and stop chatting—and afterward I met him and was exactly as dorky and awkward as you would imagine. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGKstXJL7XU" target="_blank">“If Only”</a> was a close runner-up for my favorite on <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Land-Canaan-Marques-Toliver/dp/B00BTHR0S8" target="_blank">Land of CanAan,</a></i> but there was just something about “Magic Look” that was just, well, magic. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nNlAJweBWO0" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>21. Arctic Monkeys — “Do I Wanna Know?”</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/11/monday-mix-tapes-you-never-could-have.html" target="_blank">I was late to the game</a> with the new Arctic Monkeys album, and then was pleasantly surprised how much I loved the whole damn thing. This song killed me, with: “(Baby we both know) / That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day.” Well, shit. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/bpOSxM0rNPM" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>20. John Legend — ”Made to Love” </b><br />
<br />
John Legend is my husband. Yeah, yeah, so he had to go and get married in real life or whatever, but it doesn’t stop me from loving him, his new album, and this one in particular.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nRpjsFcb2uo" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>19. Low — “Just Make It Stop” </b><br />
<br />
When I first heard this song in January, <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/01/monday-mix-tapes-she-had-history-but.html" target="_blank">I was feeling all kinds of smug</a> that I could listen to this tear-jerker and not weep. I was lucky enough to see Low twice in Chicago this year. While I was maybe having a wee bit too much fun at Pitchfork to get too sentimental about anything, when I saw them the second time, with the Chicago skyline behind them and a warm breeze blowing (yes, it was a warm, gentle, breeze, don’t take this away from me), I’ll be damned if I didn't choke back a tear during the few minutes this song played.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/5rAdzJ1U0RU" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>18. Kelly Rowland — “Dirty Laundry” </b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-power-of-music-malis-ban-and-kelly.html">When I first heard this song</a>, it felt like a swift kick in the gut. On top of the fact that it’s a beautiful, personal song, <a href="http://www.wbez.org/blogs/britt-julious/2013-05/why-kelly-rowlands-dirty-laundry-one-most-important-songs-2013-107213">it’s an important one</a>, too. I listened to it again and again. I still cry when I listen. Kudos to you, Kelly Rowland.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/xuFUR6ZH5Zg" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>17. Rhye — “Open”</b><br />
<br />
“I’m a fool for that shake in your thighs.” And from there, Rhye had me. <i>Woman</i> was one of my favorite albums of the year, and this track in particular just slays me. <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/02/monday-mix-tapes-suddenly-im-hit.html">I said it before</a>; I’ll say it again: "I wanna make this plain / Oh, I know you're faded / Mmm, but stay, don't close your eyes"<br />
<br />
(For some puzzling, yet awesome, reason, Rhye released two videos for this song, so I’m sharing my personal favorite of the two.)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/D0xE5iL2mjE" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>16. Phosphorescent — "The Quotidian Beasts"</b><br />
<br />
I was listening to the Phosphorescent album non-stop right <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/03/monday-mix-tapes-once-we-get-across.html" target="_blank">around the time I was reading</a> Cheryl Strayed’s amazing book, <i>Wild.</i> So that might have had some influence on the fact that this song made me want to run off to the wilderness alone and just howwwwwl. But, umm, maybe that’s only me? <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/H3PHDLMAacY" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>15. Blood Orange — "You're Not Good Enough"</b><br />
<br />
Ohmygod, Dev Hynes. I loved you <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUmFlZTCRks">at Pitchfork</a>, I loved <a href="http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/18736-blood-orange-cupid-deluxe/">your album</a>, and most importantly, I love this song, even if you tell me, “I never was in love / you know that you were never good enough”:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NbZ3s8XWJlA" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>14. Disclosure featuring Sam Smith — “Latch”</b><br />
<br />
My devotion to Sam Smith <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/07/weekend-mix-tapes-edition-tossin-off.html">has been pretty well documented</a> here this year, so this shouldn’t be much of a surprise. And while I do recognize that this is a Disclosure song <i>featuring</i> Sam Smith, whatever. It’s all about Sam Smith for me. And yes, this beat certainly helps. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/93ASUImTedo" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>13. Alice Smith — “Cabaret” </b><br />
<br />
Alice Smith released <i>She,</i> her follow-up to <i>For Lovers, Dreamers, and Me</i> (only one of my favorite albums of all time) this March, just in time for my birthday, and just in time for me to spend the better part of my year blaring this song way too loud into my earbuds. Maybe cause no one has ever demanded, “Where are you going with your life?” and sounded so damn great. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gfMv9klOlqY" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>12. Lion Babe — “Treat Me Like Fire” </b><br />
<br />
I kicked off the Mix Tapes in 2013 <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/01/monday-mix-tapes-l-is-for-lion-babe.html">with this one</a>, and I still quite agree that there was no better way to start the new year than with this: a big, sexy ROAR. Lion Babe, aka Jillian Hervey, aka Vanessa Williams’ daughter, aka lioness goddess. I mean, Lion Babe. You’ll see.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" height="315" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/55116247" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<b>11. Tegan and Sara — “Goodbye, Goodbye” </b><br />
<br />
Tegan! Sara! My darlings! My long-standing love affair with these two took a turn this year, when they transformed into a pop smash, and I couldn’t be more delighted. While I did wish the teenyboppers surrounding me at Lollapalooza this year knew a single word to any of their older songs, I can’t blame them. Cause I was freaking out right along with them when this song played, jumping up and down, yelling, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!”<br />
<br />
I spent many winter mornings at the start of 2013 walking downtown with <i>Heartthrob</i> blasting, feeling alternately defiant during this track and then crushed and defeated when it segued into <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZHGeg_0Rlo">“I Was a Fool,”</a> one of my other favorites from the album. So let’s stick with the fun defiance, shall we? <br />
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<b>10. Arcade Fire — “Reflektor” </b><br />
<br />
Look, just cause <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/noel-gallaghers-epic-year-end-gripe-session-20131205">Noel Gallagher has a bunch of gripes</a> about Arcade Fire doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them. This <a href="http://pitchfork.com/reviews/tracks/15999-arcade-fire-reflektor/">“sleek, dark disco epic”</a> got a little help <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/david-bowie-sang-on-arcade-fires-reflektor-20130910">from David Bowie</a> and had me constantly singing, “Entre la nuit, la nuit <i>blah blah</i>” to myself with delight. <br />
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<b>9. J Cole featuring Miguel — “Power Trip” </b><br />
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I’m just going to ignore completely how utterly creepy this song becomes when you pair it with the music video. But know that I recognize that, okay? Okay? The point is, it still hasn’t gotten old every time Miguel comes in and sings, “Would you believe me if I said I’m in love?” I believe it. And that second verse just kills me. I can’t help myself. <br />
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<b>8. Volcano Choir “Byegone” </b><br />
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Dammit, Justin Vernon. I don’t even know what it means when you say, "Tossin' off your compliments, wow/Sexing all your Parliaments" — and I don’t care. This song explodes right from the start, and I’m not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that at certain times, I’ve listened to it and felt like my heart might burst. <br />
<br />
“Set sail! Set sail! Set sail!”: <br />
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<b>7. AlunaGeorge — “Your Drums, Your Love”</b> <br />
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Because: “I’ve been treading water for your love / whether I sink or swim, it’s you I’m thinking of.” That’s all. <br />
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<b>6. Eleanor Friedberger — “Stare at the Sun”</b><br />
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“If that was goodbye, then I must be high” — YES! Yes, exactly! Good god, how I’ve been loving Eleanor Friedberger this year. I got to see her perform at Empty Bottle in June, and it was magic. (I saw her again more recently, opening for Colin Meloy, and that was NOT magic, but I’m pretending that didn’t happen.) This song makes everything okay! Everything!<br />
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<b>5. James Blake — “Retrograde” </b><br />
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"So show me why you're strong / ignore everybody else / we're alone nowwww"<br />
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Well fuuuck, James, I wish we were. My god, I feel so much. <br />
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<b>4. The National — “Demons” </b><br />
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Any year that The National releases an album is bound to be a great one for me. Any year that The National releases a new album and I get to see them play live is an even greater one. And that I did, in the boiling heat at Lolla this year, as I beamed into the sun while Matt Berninger and crew rocked my face off like always. <br />
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It’s pretty tricky for me to pick a favorite when it comes to these guys — I mean, “Graceless”! “Hard to Find”! “Pink Rabbits”! — but there was just something about this one I just can't get over. “When I walk into a room / I do not light it up / Fuck” gets me every.fucking.time. <br />
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<b>3. HAIM — “Falling”</b><br />
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HAIM! I first felt the butterflies of a crush last year, when HAIM squeezed their way into <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/12/end-of-year-mix-tapes-special-edition.html">my top 25 of 2012 </a>with “Don’t Save Me,” but this year marks a full-blown, head-first love affair. This song starts off their terrific, terrific album and sets the mood just right.<br />
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<b>2. Local Natives — “Colombia” </b><br />
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Back in March, I shared maybe one too many feelings in <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/03/every-night-i-ask-myself.html" target="_blank">a post about Local Natives</a>, but I don’t regret it. I don’t have the space here to fully explain what this song means to me. This song obviously has nothing to do with me, but it has everything to do with me. Somehow, someway, I hope my mom can hear it. <br />
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<b>1. Janelle Monae featuring Erykah Badu — “Q.U.E.E.N” </b><br />
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Finally, my number one, my Q.U.E.E.N. Oh my fucking<i> GAWD, </i>I love this song so, so much. It's six minutes of electric-lady badassery. Or, <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/05/monday-mix-tapes-you-gotta-testify.html" target="_blank">as I wrote before,</a> "Where does one even BEGIN with this song and video? The lyrics are gold. The beats are gold. The outfits! The dancing! BADOULA OBLONGATA!"<br />
<br />
So, going into the new year, I think we should all remember two things. One: "Even if it makes others uncomfortable / I will love who I am"; and two:<br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/50f4c798dcdbd8d21db5cbec7f6f8aea/tumblr_mm5ebufpRt1qfw4cio2_500.gif" target="_blank">The booty don't lie. </a></b><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/tEddixS-UoU" width="560"></iframe>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-47399943083194115442013-12-11T12:12:00.000-06:002013-12-11T12:12:53.574-06:00Tis the Season <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am really getting in the Christmas spirit this year. Maybe it’s my new Christmas tree. Maybe it’s because <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2009/12/have-you-met-crumpet-elf-recommended.html">my annual reading</a> of <i>Holidays on Ice</i> had me laughing my ass off on the train to myself even more than usual. Maybe it’s my <a href="http://spoti.fi/1aVrB7u" target="_blank">“Let It Snow” Spotify playlist</a>. Maybe it’s from watching <i>Christmas Vacation</i> on a twice-weekly basis and texting quotes to my cousins nonstop.<br />
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Whatever it is, I’m going with it.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I read <a href="http://thedissolve.com/features/exposition/311-the-sentimental-cynical-undying-charm-of-a-christm/">this article</a>, “The sentimental, cynical, undying charm of <i>A Christmas Story,</i>” in which the writer makes a lot of wonderful points, not just about that movie, but about the holidays in general. She writes:<br />
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<blockquote>
"But what happens after that perfect Christmas, when you get the ultimate shiny, exciting thing you asked for, then realize it can’t get better than this? <i>A Christmas Story</i> doesn’t say, but we adults know what happens: The wanting of mere things starts to lose its glittery seasonal appeal. The magic of childhood yuletide fades, and eventually morphs into something else.<br />
<br />
There’s a moment in the season-two Christmas episode of <i>The Wonder Years</i>—a TV series that does a much more sentimental version of the narrated-flashback trick from <i>A Christmas Story</i>—when narrator Kevin Arnold describes that transformation as one where the holiday stops “being about tinsel and wrapping paper” and starts “being about memory.” If you believe that’s what happens to Christmas when we grow up, then it makes total sense that narrator Ralphie looks back on the Christmas Story December with such wry wistfulness. It’s because very soon after, possibly the following year, Christmas turned into a time for him to look back, instead of looking forward.<br />
<br />
The warm, achingly bright glow of nostalgia is what makes Christmas such an emotional holiday, and it’s also what draws some people to <i>A Christmas Story.</i>"</blockquote>
<br />
First off, anyone who references <i>The Wonder Years</i> in an article about anything knows exactly what she’s talking about, in my humble opinion. But it’s the part about “the warm, achingly bright glow of nostalgia” that I think is so on point.<br />
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My childhood was packed with special Christmas memories. Going to my grandparent’s house on Christmas Eve, with our “Christmas Classics” or “A Very Special Christmas” tapes blaring in the station wagon (later, the Taurus). My brother and I would sing along to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FByv1ZKLOf8">Jim Nabors’ “Go Tell It On the Mountain”</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8kT7BDH4uc">Run DMC’s “Christmas Is,”</a> laughing hysterically to ourselves. While at my grandparent’s, we’d all help decorate their tree, one with those absurdly enormous multicolor bulbs and silver tinsel that got everywhere. My grandma would always let me set up the nativity scene on the windowsill, something that filled my child heart with joy and pride. On the way home, we’d usually give my great-grandma, Nannie, a ride home, and Mom would sit in the backseat next to me, a blanket over us as I rested my head on her shoulder and we looked out the car window in awe at all the Christmas lights on the houses. <br />
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On Christmas morning, my brother would run to my room to wake me up at an ungodly early hour, where we’d immediately run to the living room and squeal over our newly-filled stockings and presents under the tree. Then we’d run to our parent’s room, where we’d immediately get shot down about them getting up at 5 a.m. to open presents.<br />
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So we’d put on the shortest Christmas movie imaginable—typically, <i>How The Grinch Stole Christmas</i> (what is that, like 35 minutes long?)—and then run back again to wake them up. By this point, they’d usually cave, and as they made their coffee, we’d start passing out the presents. Stockings came first, followed by the presents. I always got to start the rotation of unwrapping, because I was the youngest. <br />
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Usually after all the presents were unwrapped, you’d find me in the recliner, already reading one of my new books while surrounded by wrapping paper. Next would be a Christmas breakfast, also marking the moment when Dad would inevitably try to play his <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTC0JVBYG0s">Three Tenors</a> Christmas album or Mom would try for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD2ox8PkfG8">Gloria Estefan</a>. Afterward, we’d spend the day with my dad’s side of the family, which included two of my favorite Christmas memories with my Grandma Hamm—the year she gave me sugar cookie dough as a gift, and then the infamous year when she gave my younger cousin Claire peanut butter, which Claire promptly started eating with her fingers in the middle of the room, much to the aggravation of my Aunt Linda and the delight of me.<br />
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The point is: I was one lucky kid. I don’t have any sad or bad memories of the holidays, just ones like these. The last year my mother was alive, I was 17, a senior in high school. She almost died of a blood infection just a week before Christmas, but by Christmas Day, she was back home, feeling better—or at least putting on a hell of a show for all of us. I actually got sick that year, coming down with a fever on Christmas Eve, and I unwrapped those final presents with my mom in the room with a cold washcloth on my forehead, burning up with fever. But it didn’t matter: she was there. We were all together. It was a gift.<br />
<br />
<br />
The holidays were the hardest after she was gone. They’re still hard. But we’ve had a lot of time for new traditions, and new family members to celebrate with, like my dad’s girlfriend, Debbie, who insisted I needed a Christmas tree for my apartment and knew just how much I would love to have some of my mom’s old ornaments. We have my one-year-old niece Polly, who could make even the coldest Grinch smile when she winks one of her gorgeous brown eyes, one of her new tricks. (I can only assume she'll be reading Dickens by her 3rd Christmas.)<br />
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So yes, I get a <i>little</i> emotional at the holidays, like when I burst into tears when I found the snowman ornament, the last ornament I ever picked out with my mom. I miss her terribly at this time of year. But I also know that I will always have those memories with family, and more to create with family and friends. Nothing can take away the memory of leaning my head on my mother’s shoulder, and staring at the holiday lights with delight.<br />
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Happy holidays to you all, and I hope, if there’s anyone special you’re missing this season, you have great memories to cherish, knowing that no matter how much time passes, those will always remain. <br />
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Now let’s drink some eggnog and make merry! It's getting too real around here.<br />
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And don’t forget: <br />
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“And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse!”Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-67824787512683715332013-11-25T20:57:00.001-06:002013-11-25T20:57:34.030-06:00Monday Mix Tapes: You Wear Smug So Very Well My brother sent me <a href="http://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2013/11/andrew-bird-i-want-to-see-pulaski-at-night.html">“Logan’s Loop” by Andrew Bird </a>this past weekend. And as I sat in my Logan Square apartment listening, having only moments before, actually driven around the circle in Logan Square, I was so utterly delighted I clapped my hands with joy. And then listened to it five more times. <br />
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It’s his song, “Pulaski at Night,” though, that I want to share here. As with “Logan’s Loop”—and most Andrew Bird songs—again, the word that comes to me as I listen is <b>delight.</b><br />
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“Greetings from Chicago / City of / City of love”: <br />
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Spotify really is a wonderful thing. Along with the delights from Andrew Bird that my brother shared, today, my friend Brad sent me this song by Poliça. His message with it was “All the feelings.” <br />
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As usual, Bradley, you are correct. I actually didn’t really pay any attention to <a href="http://thisispolica.com/smug.php">the lyrics</a> on my first five listens or so (because yes, I’ve listened to this at least 10 times today). But I’m paying attention now, and damn:<br />
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<blockquote><i>You’re pushing me away and then you’re pulling<br />
You wear smug so very well<br />
If you were in love with me I could never tell<br />
<br />
It’s time for you to go<br />
But I’ve glued my feet to your floor<br />
It’s time for you to leave<br />
But I’ve wrapped my hand around your leash<br />
It’s really quite confusing</i></blockquote><br />
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Speaking of all the feelings, <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/11/25/showbiz/movies/hunger-games-catching-fire-box-office-ew/">like most of America</a>, I saw "The Hunger Games: Catching Fire" this weekend. So let’s listen to a song from the soundtrack! Here’s Sia being fucking rad like always, with a little help from The Weeknd and Diplo. <br />
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Happy almost-Thanksgiving!Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-69050004326146344712013-11-04T22:12:00.000-06:002013-11-04T22:12:14.387-06:00Like Fire Balloons in the Sky: The Inspiration, The Courage, to Share<blockquote>
"I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done. I knew there would never be another night like this. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
No one said anything. We all just looked up at the sky and we breathed out and in and we all thought the same things, but nobody said. Someone finally had to say, though, didn't they? And that one is me."<br />
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— Ray Bradbury, <i>Zen in the Art of Writing</i></blockquote>
<br />
<a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-true-test-is-in-doing.html">My fixation with <i>Zen in the Art of Writing</i></a> has probably spiraled out of control, into a strange place. (Not probably, clearly: after all, inspired by said book, I’m writing things like <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-lamp.html">THE LAMP</a> and <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-mouse.html">THE MOUSE</a>.)<br />
<br />
But lately, I keep opening the book, in a desperate search for some inspiration, and keep feeling drawn back to the passage above. Out of context, it can mean anything and nothing. To give you the actual context, though: he's describing a final memory with his grandfather, lighting a fire balloon and releasing it into the sky on the Fourth of July in 1925. It's incredibly beautiful. It even inspired him to write a story called "The Fire Balloons," many years later. Bradbury also wrote about that night, and about his inspiration for the story, <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/06/04/120604fa_fact_bradbury" target="_blank">for </a><i><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/06/04/120604fa_fact_bradbury" target="_blank">The New Yorker</a>:</i><br />
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<blockquote>
<i>But I could not let it go. It was so beautiful, with the light and shadows dancing inside. Only when Grandpa gave me a look, and a gentle nod of his head, did I at last let the balloon drift free, up past the porch, illuminating the faces of my family. It floated up above the apple trees, over the beginning-to-sleep town, and across the night among the stars.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We stood watching it for at least ten minutes, until we could no longer see it. By then, tears were streaming down my face, and Grandpa, not looking at me, would at last clear his throat and shuffle his feet. The relatives would begin to go into the house or around the lawn to their houses, leaving me to brush the tears away with fingers sulfured by the firecrackers. Late that night, I dreamed the fire balloon came back and drifted by my window.</i></blockquote>
Fire balloons or no fire balloons, I'm still drawn to this idea from the passage in <i>Zen,</i> of sitting quietly, looking up at the sky and relishing the moment. Not sure when, if at all, to say something.<br />
<br />
It's like how I feel about writing; how I feel, specifically, about this blog. As I've strayed from posting on this blog—even neglecting my beloved Monday Mix Tapes for months, gasp!—I found myself losing inspiration in general. After only publishing a post here and there every couple of months, it's easier to think, maybe this blog has almost run its course. I don't know. But the more you wonder when is the right moment to say something (to write, rather), the more you continue to merely sit quietly. (In my case, this means getting an idea, thinking about it, and watching Frasier instead of writing, and sharing it.) <br />
<br />
Maybe, like many things, this blog, and what I get out of it, is just not quite what it was before. And that’s okay. Maybe it’ll just be exactly what it is. Whatever that may be. Ultimately, though, I hope to never lose the inspiration to write, and to share, however that happens. And wherever it goes on the Internet, or even if it just stays in my journal.<br />
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Would releasing a fire balloon into the night with his grandfather have remained such a poignant memory for Bradbury, had he never written about it? Probably. But luckily he shared it, so we could see, if only for a moment, the way he saw it, looking up in the Illinois sky in 1925. <br />
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I’m certainly no Ray Bradbury, but I like the idea of saying something. There may never be another night like this, after all. <br />
<br />
Like he wrote: <br />
<br />
“And, after all, isn’t that what life is all about, the ability to go around back and come up inside other people’s heads to look out at the damned fool miracle and say: oh, so that’s how you see it!? Well, now, I must remember that.”Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-49139897337563747492013-11-04T21:17:00.002-06:002013-11-04T22:25:32.666-06:00Monday Mix Tapes: You Never Could Have Been a Good LoverI'm pretty sure I was in love with this new Blood Orange by 15 seconds in. And while Dev Hynes could pretty much be singing about anything, and I'd still think he sounded great, these lyrics in particular fuel my obsession. They're hilarious and awful and true. <i>("You never could have been a good lover/ Watch what you say/ Could never mean a word and still hurt you")</i><br />
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Oh, Dev Hynes, you're good enough for me (but my standards were low anyway): <br />
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<br />
Then, fitting with my love of all things <i>Alice in Wonderland,</i> I stumbled across this weird, beautiful little gem (<a href="http://disconaivete.com/post/65358314342">via disco naivete</a>). Looking forward to hearing more from Mononoke after hearing this:<br />
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I'm a little late to the game with the <a href="http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/18386-arctic-monkeys-am/">latest Arctic Monkeys album</a> (it came out in September, so in Internet time, I'm YEARS behind). But damn if I'm not listening to the whole thing, and this song in particular, "Do I Wanna Know?" on repeat. <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2013/07/weekend-mix-tapes-edition-tossin-off.html">My bf Sam Smith</a> also <a href="https://soundcloud.com/samsmithworld/do-i-wanna-know-live-at-maida">does an incredible cover of this</a>, making me suddenly start to think being in limbo with someone must be the most wonderful, sexy thing in the world.<br />
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<i>"(Didn't we both know) That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day" </i><br />
<br />
Do I wanna know? Ooof. I'm not sure if I do. The whole damn album is packed with questions. But I love it:<br />
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<i>Happy Monday! (Did you miss me? Do I wanna know?) </i>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-1434659300680356832013-09-11T21:21:00.000-05:002013-09-11T23:10:53.712-05:00THE LAMPThe lamp next to my bed is broken on the top, and tilts slightly to the side. A crack runs across the top, past the jagged edges from where the glass had shattered.<br>
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I love it. I cannot bear the thought of ever having a different one. (I used to have two. But the other one, that matched it, broke as well, years ago. Back when the breaking of such a lamp was just an annoyance rather than a complete devastation.)<br>
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I still remember how I felt after my then-boyfriend knocked the lamp off the nightstand, as I kneeled on the carpet in my bare feet, picking up shards of glass. I don’t remember why it got knocked over, though. Was it a careless gesture during a fight? Was it from a drunken stumbling? I can’t remember. I just remember how I felt, picking up the shards. Knowing it was never going to be perfect again. <br>
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It’s dangerous to leave it, he said. The edges of the glass are sharp.<br>
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I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!<br>
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I hated him for breaking the lamp. I hated me for caring so much about a stupid lamp. <br>
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But:<br>
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It was <i>my</i> lamp. My mother had bought the two lamps for me, to match my new, big bedroom after my parents expanded our house. I had been so special, with my new, huge room. To get to my new room, you had to walk through a hallway—and to the left, right before my new room, was my bathroom. My own bathroom, with my own shower. <br>
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I was special, then. I was a child. <br>
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The matching lamps—one for the nightstand, one for the dresser—reminded me of the ones that had been in my grandma’s bedroom. Antique (looking, at least), with two globes, one big, one small. If you twisted the knob in the middle once (one click to the right), the bottom, small globe would glow. One more click, and the top would, too. Another click: both, glowing. The lamps were flowered, much "girlier" than most things I liked. But I loved the clicking: one, two, three. <br>
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I’d put my book down next to the lamp when it was time to go to sleep. One last click, and then darkness.<br>
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The lamp is broken on the top now, and tilts to the side. A crack runs across the top, past the jagged edges from where the glass had shattered. <br>
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But I still love the clicking: one, two, three. I still put my book down next to it when it is time to go to sleep. With one last click, darkness.<br>
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It reminds me that at one time, I had a mother who bought me two matching lamps, to match my new, big bedroom. <br>
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And that is something. That is special, still.<br>
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<i>This post is part of a little writing experiment inspired by Ray Bradbury, to "conjure the nouns"—read more details <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-true-test-is-in-doing.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Former entry: <a href="http://alisoncomposes.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-mouse.html" target="_blank">The Mouse</a>. </i>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-18071160880007459712013-07-31T21:05:00.002-05:002013-07-31T21:05:50.976-05:00Mix Tapes: An Actual Mix Tape! Whaaaat? That's right. An actual mixtape! (Well, sorta. A playlist. Whatever.)<br />
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Perfect for a Wednesday night when it starts storming/pouring five minutes after you've ordered takeout. At least, that's what just happened in my life. Dammit. <br />
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Thanks, Spotify:<br />
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:user:alisonhamm:playlist:3H9oFje5nfSHUAJqEZmLYz" width="500"></iframe>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-78047085545761777682013-07-27T13:16:00.000-05:002013-11-04T22:36:06.157-06:00Weekend Mix Tapes Edition: Tossin' Off Your Compliments, Wow<a href="http://pitchfork.com/artists/31101-sam-smith/" target="_blank">Sam Smith</a> has the kind of voice that wraps around you like a blanket, comforting you with its beauty and raw emotion. <i>(Or is that just me?)</i> I first heard this with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AVJcLcuQdOw">"Lay Me Down," with his acoustic version</a> that's so impeccable and intense it'll make your heart break. Then there was his acoustic take on Disclosure's "Latch"—<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93ASUImTedo">which was already great</a>—and holy shit:<br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F91993953" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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This week, he's done it again with "Safe with Me," but this time with some production from Two Inch Punch that takes things to a slightly different place. Get ready to believe in love:<br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F102436178" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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Then there was this terrific, minimalistic video—lights in tree branches, that's it—to match perfectly with <a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/51206-listen-justin-vernon-of-bon-ivers-band-volcano-choir-share-new-single-byegone/">Volcano Choir's song, "Byegone"</a> (Volcano Choir = Justin Vernon of Bon Iver with band Collections of Colonies of Bees).<br />
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I don't know what I love more: when Vernon starts declaring, "Set sail! Set sail! Set sail!" or at the end when he sings, "Tossin' off your compliments, wow/Sexing all your Parliaments" — what does that even MEAN? Oh, just listen:<br />
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Finally, in other music news that left me absolutely delighted this week, AlunaGeorge's debut LP, <i>Body Music,</i> is <a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/51657-stream-alunageorges-debut-lp-body-music-in-full/">now available to stream</a>. It's perfection. Standout tracks: <b>ALL OF THEM.</b> But here are a couple of my favorites.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F100148094" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F102452289" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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One week till Lollapalooza madness! Happy listening. Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-82135920972193540022013-07-27T12:26:00.000-05:002013-07-27T12:26:10.005-05:00Tearjerker Alert: Danny & Annie<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>TRIGGER WARNING: The following video depicts a story of true love, voiced by the actual couple and displayed in heartwarming cartoon medium (think: UP). If you have a beating heart, this will likely make you feel a little blubbery. And if it doesn't, get out of here: you have no soul.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Earlier this week, my friend Beth sent me this video during the work day. "Maybe save that for later," she warned, "#tears" — so like the smart young lady I am, I waited until I was out of my open layout office space and alone in my apartment to watch it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank God I did, considering I not only got teary-eyed, I actually got so choked up I made one of those weird, hiccup-y cry noises that made my cat Layla look at me suspiciously. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Without further ado, the story of Danny and Annie (presented by <a href="http://storycorps.org/">StoryCorps</a>). This is the kind of stuff to melt cynics' hearts everywhere. Enjoy.</span></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="325" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WNfvuJr9164" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<i>"You walk in with me, you walk out with me." </i><br />
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-4693972829967384892013-07-24T22:31:00.001-05:002013-07-24T22:31:23.882-05:00Let the Breeze In<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/206697f5c927ef948e0d2a366c54b1c7/tumblr_mgux6wcfUm1rc5c3po1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/206697f5c927ef948e0d2a366c54b1c7/tumblr_mgux6wcfUm1rc5c3po1_500.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image via <a href="http://herpaperweight.tumblr.com/post/54427810469" target="_blank">herpaperweight</a>]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After last week's Chicago heatwave—and spending much of that directly in the sun while attending all three days of Pitchfork—today's almost-cool breeziness has been so refreshing. And that's not to say that I've been wandering around, enjoying the weather all day. I actually spent my day waiting on a technician from AT&T to show up (who finally arrived 40 minutes past my 4-hour service window)—and then waiting another three and a half hours for him to fix the lines that would give me my Internet back. <div>
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But my windows are all open, and from the second floor of my apartment, the breeze has been blowing in since I woke up this morning. While I waited for my Internet to return, I read <i>Vogue</i> and <i>Vanity Fair.</i> I painted my toenails. I folded my laundry and poured extra cream in my coffee. I tried a new circuit workout. I wrote a letter to my grandmother. Life without the Interwebs wasn't so bad after all, I figured. Aside from the increasing anxiety that I was never going to get work done for the day. </div>
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Once the lights on my modem finally flashed from red to green, I started frantically catching up on work for the day. But then I decided to calm down. I'd get it done. I poured myself a glass of wine and listened to Camera Obscura and Daft Punk while I wrote. </div>
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I got it done. </div>
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And I feel just like this picture. </div>
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Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1726890220221731284.post-47416584116299185732013-07-16T22:59:00.000-05:002013-07-16T22:59:47.640-05:00In Other "News," Turns Out Women Like Getting Laid, Too <blockquote>"It is by now pretty well understood that traditional dating in college has mostly gone the way of the landline, replaced by “hooking up” — an ambiguous term that can signify anything from making out to oral sex to intercourse — without the emotional entanglement of a relationship.<br />
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Until recently, those who studied the rise of hookup culture had generally assumed that it was driven by men, and that women were reluctant participants, more interested in romance than in casual sexual encounters. But there is an increasing realization that young women are propelling it, too." <i>—"Sex on Campus: She Can Play that Game, Too," by Kate Taylor</i></blockquote><br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/14/fashion/sex-on-campus-she-can-play-that-game-too.html" target="_blank">“Sex on Campus: She Can Play that Game, Too,”</a> an article published in <i>The New York Times</i> on July 12, begins with a description of a young woman called A. When “A.” finishes her night’s worth of studying, she texts “her regular hookup, the guy she is sleeping with but not dating.” As the article goes on to describe: “He texted back: Come over. So she did. They watched a little TV, had sex and went to sleep.”<br />
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Apparently, it’s noteworthy that college women are more interested in pursuing their degrees, partying with their friends, and getting laid than falling in love and being in a relationship. <b>While I see the good intentions behind articles</b> such as this—women are driven; women want to have sex; women like to work hard and then party hard—ultimately this article, like many others on this topic, leaves me only rolling my eyes and feeling angry. <br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Why am I rolling my eyes? </b></span>I’m rolling my eyes because in 2013 it’s only “an increasing realization” that women are propelling casual sexual encounters. I’m rolling my eyes because of women like Susan Patton, “the Princeton alumna and mother who in March wrote a letter to The Daily Princetonian urging female undergraduates not to squander the chance to hunt for a husband on campus,” who said: <br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">“I thought, ‘My gosh, what have we come to that these brilliant young women are afraid to say that marriage and children are significant parts of what they view as their lifelong happiness?’ ” Ms. Patton said.<br />
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“They have gotten such strong, vitriolic messages from the extreme feminists saying, ‘Go it alone — you don’t need a man,’ ” she added.</blockquote><br />
First off: Plenty of brilliant young women truly don’t view marriage and children as significant factors to their lifelong happiness. It's not that they're afraid to say it. They actually aren’t interested. Shocking! Second: LESBIANS. They exist. Fucking acknowledge that. Not every woman is straight. (Maybe the group she talked to were all straight women interested in marriage and children, but that is simply not representative of every woman.)<br />
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But then we get to the “strong, vitriolic messages from the extreme feminists” and I just have to laugh. As this article points out: “But, in fact, many of the Penn women said that warnings not to become overly involved in a relationship came not from feminists, but from their parents, who urged them to be independent.” <br />
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<i>(So none of these parents are feminists? Sounds to me like parents who urge their daughters to be independent and driven are exactly that.)</i><br />
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<b>Now, why am I angry?</b> I’m not angry because of this article. <b>I’m angry because this article has to exist in the first place. </b>I’m angry that the first young woman interviewed for this story was only comfortable being addressed as A., which is not even the initial of her first name! The need for anonymity was so important that she was only comfortable using her middle initial. <br />
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And why? <br />
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“Because they believed that talking publicly about sex could come back to haunt them — by damaging their reputations at Penn, their families’ opinions of them or their professional future — the women spoke on the condition that their full names would not be revealed. Most are identified by their first or middle names or by a middle initial.”</blockquote><br />
<b>Reputations. Family opinions. Professional futures. </b>These are the things at stake if women dare to not only be free with their sexuality, but are free to speak about it openly. And even with the anonymity, A. was still not comfortable revealing how many sexual partners she has had! <br />
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Perhaps articles like this are a step in the right direction for women, and our right to be sexual beings, just as men. <b>But I long for the day where these articles aren’t necessary.</b><br />
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Where women who say they “hook up” rather than pursue relationships because they’re focused foremost on their studies aren’t, in turn, scared that this choice would jeopardize those future opportunities, should their identities be revealed.<br />
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I’d like to read an article about women hooking up that doesn’t include the inevitable rape plotline, with the underlying message that women must be wary about getting too drunk, because then what might have been a casual hookup could turn into a casual rape.<br />
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I’d like to read about results of a sociologist’s study that doesn’t result in saying that men aren’t focused on pleasing women in hookups because of the sexual double standard, “which sometimes causes men to disrespect women precisely for hooking up with them.” And that women aren’t judging other women for their sexual experiences and reputations! <br />
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Enough already! <br />
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Now let’s listen to En Vogue!<br />
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FREE YOUR MIND.<br />
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Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16645351997416833008noreply@blogger.com0