I am tempted to talk about the cover of Rolling Stones this month, which seems to be the only thing I can discuss these days. It’s John Mayer and he’s looking quite healthy. The article, however, is something else. John Mayer on reading his article: “Just read my Rolling Stone cover article. I’m still not sure if I would want to hang out with me.”
But no, more importantly, and more meaningfully (maybe), I’m excitedly going to hear Chris Thile play on Thursday night. Mr. Thile was formerly a part of Nickel Creek. He plays the mandolin in just about the prettiest, most complicated, heart-achingly ways possible. And he’s got a sweet voice to boot. I am hopeful for a night of relief – of music and goodness and the possibility of being lifted up, up, up.
He’s playing at the Largo – which I love. And supposedly he’s not playing with his band? Maybe? It says with friends. Maybe the band is the with friends. None-the-less, his band is incredible too – The Punch Brothers. Nothing like hearing/seeing people do what they love.
Pictures by Matthew Spencer (matthewspencerphotography.com) – taken from Abigail Seymour’s blog.
And these by Autumn De Wilde …
Gosh, I love The Weepies. Wish the video was clearer.
Nights when the heat had gone out
We danced together alone
Cold turned our breath into clouds
We never said what we were dreaming of
And a new video…don’t love the video, but like the song… especially the chorus.
Inspired by the rain on my way to work, I wrote this…
(I want to be Amy Gerstler).
Rain in Pasadena
Welcome lady in yellow sweater under black umbrella.
Welcome fingerless gloves, stocking caps, wool socks, galoshes.
Welcome foggy breath on my driver’s side window.
Welcome tea sachet, big mug, long wooden stirrer.
Come wash New Year’s Day away.
The muddy mess of celebration.
Rose petals, candy wrappers, the footprints of zealous travelers now gone home to their Southern states.
Make our streets dark with your down pouring.
Dark and clean.
Bathe my sap-stained car as it sits beneath our weeping tree.
Rinse my dying roses, that ivy I can’t bring to life.
I will look after you,
When my day is done
Through the stained glass window of my reading room,
Under Sarah’s Christmas gift –
An oversized red and chocolate fleece afghan.
Welcome sound, smell, taste.
Welcome cliché – make us new!
Yes, we beg,
Make us new.
Welcome scarf tight around my skinny neck.
I don’t have much in me this eve, just a few links for you and a poem by Rilke.
This: Potraits to Fall in Love by. An Ode to Polaroids. Yes. Agreed. There’s something there. In those little boxes of aged-like colors with borders white.
and then, if you fancy, more of her photos here.
And now, Rilke. Who is among my favorites.
||Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.
She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.
Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.
It’s not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.
It’s this dress that she’ll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.
Was better than Paul McCartney deserved. I just read her blurb on Wikipedia and got, yet again, disheartened by those Beatle boys. The more I read about them, the more I like their girlfriends more than I like them. I think I’m copying her bangs. Well, I mean, I already have her bangs. I should have been born a redhead. I knew that the moment I saw Anne of Green Gables. Although Jane’s red looks a little, um, artificial, no? Maybe not.
I have been scolded for not blogging more. How nice to have one fan.
So what am I doing with my time?
I am reading (will post below). I am a devotee of the genre of Memoir. Memoir, you may know, is a subclass of autobiography. It is different than autobiography in that it is both narrative and reflection mixed together, whereas autobiography is usually just narrative – I did this, and then I did this, and then I went here. Best said here by Gore Vidal, “…a memoir is how one remembers one’s own life, while an autobiography is history, requiring research, dates, facts double-checked.” Since there is more emphasis on what one felt about what happened, rather than perhaps the details of what took place, it can be subjective because no one can remember as YOU remember, and there the fun, the COLORS, begin.
So, I’m reading Parched by Heather King. I met her this week and she is just as winsome and kind as her writing suggested. The book is about her path in and eventually out of alcohol addiction. It’s tragic and universal, as most great books are. Read, read!