While my new business venture is still in the early testing stages, basically testing to see if there's any demand/need for it, I've been spending a LOT of time at my computer and as such, have grown tired of my standard, go-to playlists. Thankfully, itunes has come through with a rare genius-generated mix that I would actually classify as "genius."
Saturday by The Rocket Summer
Bad Day by Something Corporate
Shine by The Plain White T's
She Paints Me Blue by Something Corporate
Movie Stars and Super Models by The Rocket Summer
Big Apple Heartbreak by Yellowcard
Time Stands Still by All American Rejects
What is Love? by Nevershoutnever
California by Nevershoutnever
Breakdown by The Plain White T's
Whoa by Paramore
Everywhere by Yellowcard
Can't Stand It by Nevershoutnever
Six Feet Under The Stars by All Time Low
Hurricane by Something Corporate
Cigarette by Yellowcard
Never Let This Go by Paramore
Umbrella by All Time Low
Manic Monday by Relient K
Fireworks by The Plain White T's
She's My Baby by The Rocket Summer
Mean Thoughts and Cheap Shots by The Rocket Summer
The Astronaut by Something Corporate
Time To Break Up by All Time Low
Keeper by Yellowcard
I am an admitted downloading fiend (often I'll just download songs by an artist I like without actually listening to the songs themselves), and because of that there are tons of songs in my library that I have not listened to. It's a nice surprise when they pop up in a new mix and I actually like them. The catalyst of this blog is "Saturday" by The Rocket Summer, who I first fell in love with after hearing "Brat Pack," a tune that still resonates with this third generation townie. And I'm sorry but who doesn't love a good Bangles cover?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Why Don't I Write Like I Used To?
I used to write every day, usually at great length. I have volumes of journals, diaries, dream maps, and quotebooks lining my bookshelves. I remember my roommate freshman year gave me a new notebook for Christmas that year, to continue what I was calling my "manifesto." (Thank you for that, Mel, filled it and still have it). I used to finish a journal every month. It's now September and I'm still writing in a book I've had since last December. So why don't I write like I used to?
Gearing up for the Open House we had last weekend, hoping to find a new family to take on the joy of living in the Little Blue House, I was in charge of the primary cleaning. I really don't have that much stuff, and I really only use about a quarter of the entire house, so cleaning wasn't that hard. But it did give me a chance to go through drawers and shelves and throw out all the junk. As I was dusting off my bookcase, I came across a couple journals I kept senior year of college and the few months after. Please excuse the hubris, but some of my entries were just downright beautiful. The content isn't groundbreaking, but the way I described how I felt, I'm sorry but I'm a darn good writer.
Here's one that still stays with me and the sentiment really remains the same:
July 19, 2007
12:04pm
I remember the first time I fell in love. His name was music. We loved and we loved and we loved with a love that was more than love, it was melody. It was harmony. It was beautiful words making their way through my soul, caressing me tender with each note, my eyes closed in ecstasy, my toes curling, my breath shortening, my fingers reaching, grabbing for anything to keep me stable, my mind soaring, I was in heaven. We moved together in hot rhythmic beat, my body and his melody, intertwining so beautifully we were lost in each other. He was he and I was I and we were we in a way that was more than we; it was perfect. With each note I fell further under his blissful enchantment, and with each note, the more I wanted to fall, continue falling, and to stay fallen.
12:12pm
It's one of those quiet mood days that inspires the need for buttery popcorn and Joni Mitchell humming in the background, acting as the soundtrack to your life. The kind of day that makes you appreciate the beauty of oversized armchairs and old worn-in quilts. The kind of day that whispers "hot chocolate" and acoustic guitar serenades. I love those days. You ignore the impulse to turn on the lights, and instead, light a few candles and rest in their glowing flicker of romantic solace. I've been so wrapped up in hating my job - the unproductivity, the annoying office guy, the absurd commute, the pointless and meaningless tasks that seem to clone themselves in an attempt to give the feeling of hell - that I'd forgotten what a joy it is to just sit and write and enjoy the simplicity of a rainy day. They remind me of my childhood when my mom and aunts used to take us bowling or to a movie. I used to love rainy days almost as much as sunny beach days.
I never really gave much thought to how much music affected my mood. It's always been a big part of my life, dictating the feelings I couldn't articulate myself; the soundtrack to my life made from mix tapes and radio requests, countless hours spent sitting in dark closets, laying on the floor, absorbing melodies, wrapping myself in the lyrics like a baby unknowingly reaching for their favorite blanket in the middle of the night. It's amazing the comfort a familiar song can bring. They say that smells have the greatest memory inducers, which is true. You forget what people's faces looked like, and how their voices sound, but you remember perfume, or the smell of their famous blue-ribbon top secret chocolate chip cookies. But for me, and maybe it's because I'm convinced I have no sense of smell, but for me, music holds the most keys to unlocking memories. Peter, Paul, and Mary will always make me think of my mother. Farside begs for Jarrod's face and smile. Ashlee Simpson for Sam. Blackeyed Peas for Jenn. String Cheese Incident, Sublime, Dr. Demento, and Frou Frou for Kate. Matisyahu for Aaron. Oasis for Jon. Dylan for Tom. Modest Mouse for Pat. Steve Miller Band for Dad. Izzy's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" will forever bring tears to my eyes and make me say goodbye to Minga. Bing Crosby, Cole Porter, and Louis Armstrong remind me of Popi taking Nana by the hand and dancing around the kitchen on Christmas Eve. There's a million different people to a million different songs and a million different memories.
Gearing up for the Open House we had last weekend, hoping to find a new family to take on the joy of living in the Little Blue House, I was in charge of the primary cleaning. I really don't have that much stuff, and I really only use about a quarter of the entire house, so cleaning wasn't that hard. But it did give me a chance to go through drawers and shelves and throw out all the junk. As I was dusting off my bookcase, I came across a couple journals I kept senior year of college and the few months after. Please excuse the hubris, but some of my entries were just downright beautiful. The content isn't groundbreaking, but the way I described how I felt, I'm sorry but I'm a darn good writer.
Here's one that still stays with me and the sentiment really remains the same:
July 19, 2007
12:04pm
I remember the first time I fell in love. His name was music. We loved and we loved and we loved with a love that was more than love, it was melody. It was harmony. It was beautiful words making their way through my soul, caressing me tender with each note, my eyes closed in ecstasy, my toes curling, my breath shortening, my fingers reaching, grabbing for anything to keep me stable, my mind soaring, I was in heaven. We moved together in hot rhythmic beat, my body and his melody, intertwining so beautifully we were lost in each other. He was he and I was I and we were we in a way that was more than we; it was perfect. With each note I fell further under his blissful enchantment, and with each note, the more I wanted to fall, continue falling, and to stay fallen.
12:12pm
It's one of those quiet mood days that inspires the need for buttery popcorn and Joni Mitchell humming in the background, acting as the soundtrack to your life. The kind of day that makes you appreciate the beauty of oversized armchairs and old worn-in quilts. The kind of day that whispers "hot chocolate" and acoustic guitar serenades. I love those days. You ignore the impulse to turn on the lights, and instead, light a few candles and rest in their glowing flicker of romantic solace. I've been so wrapped up in hating my job - the unproductivity, the annoying office guy, the absurd commute, the pointless and meaningless tasks that seem to clone themselves in an attempt to give the feeling of hell - that I'd forgotten what a joy it is to just sit and write and enjoy the simplicity of a rainy day. They remind me of my childhood when my mom and aunts used to take us bowling or to a movie. I used to love rainy days almost as much as sunny beach days.
I never really gave much thought to how much music affected my mood. It's always been a big part of my life, dictating the feelings I couldn't articulate myself; the soundtrack to my life made from mix tapes and radio requests, countless hours spent sitting in dark closets, laying on the floor, absorbing melodies, wrapping myself in the lyrics like a baby unknowingly reaching for their favorite blanket in the middle of the night. It's amazing the comfort a familiar song can bring. They say that smells have the greatest memory inducers, which is true. You forget what people's faces looked like, and how their voices sound, but you remember perfume, or the smell of their famous blue-ribbon top secret chocolate chip cookies. But for me, and maybe it's because I'm convinced I have no sense of smell, but for me, music holds the most keys to unlocking memories. Peter, Paul, and Mary will always make me think of my mother. Farside begs for Jarrod's face and smile. Ashlee Simpson for Sam. Blackeyed Peas for Jenn. String Cheese Incident, Sublime, Dr. Demento, and Frou Frou for Kate. Matisyahu for Aaron. Oasis for Jon. Dylan for Tom. Modest Mouse for Pat. Steve Miller Band for Dad. Izzy's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" will forever bring tears to my eyes and make me say goodbye to Minga. Bing Crosby, Cole Porter, and Louis Armstrong remind me of Popi taking Nana by the hand and dancing around the kitchen on Christmas Eve. There's a million different people to a million different songs and a million different memories.
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