“Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.”

-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Labels: passages

I wonder if it’s raining in California. I sometimes miss all the California heat. When I think back, most of what I remember is sunny and shinny. Memories full of music, coffee, sunshine, art, music, beaches, slang, bands and more bands. I can’t say that if my beau at the time wasn’t a musician that I would have been exposed to so much music, but the local scene in Sacramento was much more accessible than it is here in Montreal. Every corner turned revealed a show flyer. Every person met was either in a band, working with a band or was dating a band member. For me, the girl who grew up with a father figure who played guitar, very well, had a voice that could eclipse any other and who would bring strange and wonderful musical instruments home, it was Shangri-la. Although the town was crawling with “renowned” musicians, ignorance is bliss when it comes to meeting them, having never seen their face or looked-up their name you are just honestly open to meeting them without any expectation.


One band that completely blew me away was NED. I now know them by name and face. I discovered them when they played with the band David was in. I remember seeing them set up and wondering what kind of sound all this was going to add up to. They had so much gear that it was hard to believe they would be able to operate them all skillfully. Once they started playing, I was floored. Parts of my body would just start moving and my mouth curled up into a solid smile. They were producing this sound, this sound that you seek when you have been fed the same thing for too long, this sound was incredible. Their music was stretched across the room with wires of noise, intricate curtains of symphonies and blows of light.

I never buy band T-shirts. I refuse to wear any piece of cloth with a logo on it. But now when I wonder where NED has gone, I almost regret not buying that sweet portion of art that showcased another part of NEDs talent. But a message from Nate, who played bass (among other things) in the band, leads me to believe that I may get another chance:


“...tonight we're all meeting up for the first time since the excrement hit the fan. whatever happens some form of ned will survive. we've been coming up with new material and are itching to perform, that is what remains of ned.”


...in hopes that you will take a listen to what these guys have to offer and will discover a band that is full of promise. If you like what you hear, why not drop them a line here?

Labels: music, ned, nedquarters

There is Squirrel building a nest in the tree across my balcony.

It looks comfy.

Labels: observations

I'm glad

we live next door to eachother

to hear your voice in another

to find myself amidst the building

where there is meaning around chaos

that dreams are an open state

that the future is an empty pair of shoes

Labels: artform

from lack of

PARALLEL SYNCHRONIZED RANDOMNESS

?


Update:

Or from lack of Synchronicity

?

"There was a problem connecting to the network. Please click Exit."

I had one of the most amazing weekends. My mother and I went to visit my grandparents who live in Saint-André-Avellin. Once we were out of Vaudreuil, the drive to the little village was just what I needed. At first, I was slightly nervous by my mothers driving. Not because she drives dangerously but because she surpassed the maximum of 80km/h that I am used to handle regularly on my way to work.

The scenery was lush with native flowers, trees and shrubs which all seemed to be radiant. Of course, some areas were only for show, thin trimmings of forestry to hide the stripped land of progress. But the further we were from Montreal, the thicker the landscape became. The road to Saint-André is embellished with village spots, making the speed limit sway from 90 to 50 and back up to 90km/h again. It’s nice when you slow down and no one is there to push you into speeding by something that my take your breath away.

When we arrived at the cottage, my grandparents, my godmother, my aunt, her husband and their two children welcomed us. I was struck by my grandfathers weight loss. He wasn’t the man I remembered who used to eat a slice of pie after each meal. Yet, when I was swinging on the front porch and heard him singing from his lazy-boy I was thrown back to the times when my thoughts were not clouded by the fear of losing him and my grandmother.

At the table, while we chatted over desert, she explained to me why she was looking forward to moving to Gatineau to her new apartment. “She listens to me,” she said, bringing a tissue to her puffy left eye talking to me about her new doctor, “ she’s not always offering me some new drugs.” (Here, I skip my anger towards her mistreatment and her previous physician and hope for a more compassionate future.)

It’s difficult for me to imagine my grandparents living in an apartment building. They have always lived on great lakeshore lands. Gardens, boats, copious meals and many many relatives have always been linked to my idea of my grandparents. An idea that has now been confronted to a new outline of age, love and family.

For me, the cottage (which has changed locations three times in my lifetime) has been synonym with haven. But it’s only yesterday while I was floating under the sun that I looked back at the shore thinking that for my grandparents it may be quite the opposite or something completely different. The shed is falling apart. The picnic table is chipped and has lost all it’s color. But some tall bright colored flowers that were initially planted near the entrance have spread up and across the grounds surrounding the whole courtyard. Everything is changing.

The haven is now time spent together. Time cleaning up the shore with a little blond haired girl. Time spent sitting around the table playing poker. Sitting with my mother. Serving a meal to my grandmother, one she didn’t have to cook. Time waiting for my grandfather to come around on his lawnmower and offering to do the chore and watching him decline, smiling and proud that he can still push the pedal and turn the wheel. Time driving my mother home and singing along to her favorite songs.

Labels: folk, love