Favorites 11.24.14

Waterfalls: Hiking to them, specifically. In the rain, specifically. I don't even wear a rain jacket—just get my clothes wet all the time. It's senseless. Except, it's not. Because you become one with the water at some point. Lightening flashes. Thunder booms. The dogs' ears go back. And then around a corner, there it is: magnificent whitewater pounding forth and turning the dark pool pale green.

Macadamia nuts: The most extravagant of all the nuts. Say you're eating them for their selenium and essential fatty acids. Ignore how much they cost.

The Moth, in person: Sitting in a bar listening to people tell 6-minute true stories in front of a microphone. Laughing if they're funny. Misting up if they're sad. Allowing the entire evening to shame your own fear of public speaking.

Begin Again: I did not hate this rom-com with Kiera Knightly and Mark Ruffalo. And Catherine Keener. And Mos Def. And Ceelo. And guitar music. And a non-typical Hollywood ending. Plus, my old pal Josh Zickert randomly riding a BMX bike past the camera. Hi, Josh!

Cold Crusade

For a mind clogged with the debris of life, a few clear, cold days are all you could hope for. On dog walks, for instance, the wind rakes everything away, mentally speaking. The sky is either azure or, if it's past 5 p.m., especially starry. "Every walk is a sort of crusade," says Thoreau. And it's true.

Also, the Christmas cactus is blooming. Just when one needs it. When one might go out and buy oneself flowers. Thanks, plant. Sorry I never watered you.

Cold Wind

A poem, today. For you—and for me.

Cold Wind, by Jim Harrison 

"I like those old movies where tires and wheels run backwards on
horse-drawn carriages pursued by indians, or Model As driven by
thugs leaning out windows with tommy guns ablaze. Of late I feel a
cold blue wind through my life and need to go backwards myself to
the outback I once knew so well where there were too many mosqui-
toes, blackflies, curious bears, flowering berry trees of sugar plum
and chokeberry, and where sodden and hot with salty sweat I'd slide
into a cold river and drift along until I floated against a warm sandbar,
thinking of driving again the gravel backroads of America at
thirty-five miles per hour in order to see the ditches and gulleys, the
birds in the fields, the mountains and rivers, the skies that hold our
10,000 generations of mothers in the clouds waiting for us to fall
back into their arms again."

The Weekend Report

Attended: Birthday party at the Bracewell residence. A fire pit crackled. Rock bands played. Then everyone hung out in the kitchen.

Saw: Boyhood, by Richard Linklater (the guy behind the great Dazed And Confused). A meandering assemblage of moments in the life of a family—all strung together in a way that's just very, very REAL.

Drank: Americanos with honey—a more delicious, more manageable, more healthful cocaine of sorts.

Read: This sentence by Heidi Swanson: "There's a lot to be said about doing the work you want to be doing. And chipping away at it, regularly, as a practice, has the potential to help show you the way." Thank god for work. Sometimes. You know?

4 Records I Bought This Week

I closed my eyes, blinked, and suddenly I'd gone a whole year without once procuring new music. No, not once had I gotten all jazzed on a new band—not once had a new song hooked like jumper cables to my soul.

Instead, I'd let my iPod piddle out the same jams over and over—and if we're being honest, I'd skipped through half. Cuz they were just tired. Mostly, I'd let Pandora play whatever it wanted. Too lazy—let the algorithm decide. Digest it all as background music. No excitement. So sad.

What got me thinking on this was a book I've been reading. It's called Waging Heavy Peace. Neil Young—of Buffalo Springfield fame; of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young fame; of plain-old Neil Young fame—wrote it. And he talks a lot about this matter.

"It's like a cool pastime or a toy, not like a message to the soul," sez Neil about how people consume music today.

His take? MP3 quality sucks—you may as well be listening to music under water. There's no fucking magic! Now, I'm not sure if shit-quality is what spawned my own auditory stagnation—but Neil, baby, I want that magic back!

These new-to-me records, maybe they'll get me there ...

-Angel Olsen, Burn Your Fire For No Witness

-Bob Dylan and The Band, The Basement Tapes Complete, Bootleg Series Vol. 11

-Bob Mould, Beauty & Ruin

-Rodriguez, Searching For Sugar Man