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Somwhere in a small living room

Thursday, August 24, 2006

What is Matthew Good up to?

I’m going to do a completely unplugged acoustic show – no amplification whatsoever - in my now empty living room for 20 lucky people.

posted by Primessa Espiritu
5:09 pm



Sunday, August 20, 2006

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?

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
8:34 pm


Tree house

Saturday, August 19, 2006

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

It looks comfy.

posted by Primessa Espiritu
3:18 pm


All Audiences

Friday, August 18, 2006

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


posted by Primessa Espiritu
11:39 pm

Are you suffering

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

from lack of




Or from lack of Synchronicity


posted by Primessa Espiritu
4:03 pm



Wednesday, August 09, 2006

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

posted by Primessa Espiritu
11:48 am


We all look to the sun

Monday, August 07, 2006

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.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
2:27 pm



Tuesday, August 01, 2006

When I was younger I was a Girl Guide. As described on their website, Girl Guides of Canada “provides opportunities for fun, friendship and adventures.” The movement creates activities in which “girls are encouraged to reach their potential, be independent, confident and caring.” I can say that most of my time spent with the different groups was fun. Mixed together were dramas, musicals, plays and adventure, some even deadly. I want to talk about this moment in time where I was at camp with my company.

We were located in this beautiful part of a forest, on a small island. We made our own firepits in the earth, cooked our food, washed our dishes singing traditional songs, etc. One day, appeared in a wire cage, two (maybe more, the details are blurry) chickens. The monitors informed us that these birds would be on our table that evening. The challenge would be to catch, kill, pluck and cook the chicken. Stop and read that again and visualize yourself doing all actions listed. Are you asking yourself “How?” I remember the girls playing “catch a chicken with a bag” as they ran around giggling. I can’t really explain how the killing part was done since I and a few other girls, who represented about one fifth of the company, chose to refuse the challenge. It is ambiguous whether we failed or triumphed that day. The chickens were killed; we heard they ran about with their heads cut off until they died, then they were cleaned. I remember being a few meters away from the slaughter point, my head lowered as I kicked some dirt around, listening to the chase and then the butchery, combined with comments made by the girls standing around me, disagreeing with what was going on, asking each other “How can they do it?” But that’s all we did. We hid away under a shielding tree, safe from any upsetting view, believing we were helpless...

Why didn’t I challenge all the other girls by asking them not to kill the chickens? Why didn’t I just speak and voice my opinions? I thought that there were no other options. Before hearing one guide say that she did not want to kill a chicken, I thought that there was no other choice but to slaughter those birds. In my mind, the monitors were some kind of authority that could not be confronted. Maybe somewhere along the way, I was trained to trust that adults knew better than the younger crowd.

It’s only years later that I discovered the existence of a group of people who were vegetarians. A few years later I stumbled upon veganism which opened the door to a world of alternative channels that were not so new. That is around the same time that my interest in reading boomed and since then I’ve been digging into all things concealed. I’m often overwhelmed by the information I find and either feel like I’m drowning or propelled no matter if it’s political, environmental or social. It seems like every day is another chicken challenge day…

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
1:52 pm


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