Archive for the ‘Tunes’ Category

How To Raise A Human Child, As Explained By Pet Owners

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Raising a dependent is easy. Humans have been doing it for literally generations.

You may be thinking, “No, actually, it’s really hard. I shower this thing with love and affection and kisses and this goddam motherfucking piece of fucking shit just screams at me all day long.” If you are thinking this, please consider that, well, maybe it’s super easy, it’s just that you, personally, suck.

But you’re in luck!

Because we, owners of pets, are here to explain to you how to raise your brand new human child! And to start, let’s figure out that whole crying thing, shall we?

Great. The first step is to establish what type of cry your human child is emitting. There are four different kinds.

1. Food/water

All living organisms need nourishment. Honestly, if your baby is crying, it probably just needs food. How many times a day should I feed my human baby, you may be asking yourself. I, a human adult, eat about once a day, scarfing down a sandwich over the sink sometime between my full-time job, trying to keep the baby alive, arguing with my spouse about why we never have sex anymore, and exhaust-crying every couple of hours. So daily?

Wrong!

Think of cats. You know how you leave food out for them to snack on throughout the day? Your baby has a similar stomach size, and cannot hold enough nutrients inside of itself to last a full day. You want to be feeding that sucker every couple of hours. Yes, even during the night. No, it has no respect for your morning alarm.

It takes a tremendous amount of willpower and sleep deprivation to keep the helpless creature known as the human child alive.

Luckily, you do not need to feed and water your child separately, like most mammals. Just give it milk for the first couple of months, before moving on to pureed fruits and vegetables. Don’t even consider solid foods like turkey jerky until it has developed teeth.

2. Defecation

An unfortunate side effect of all the food you will be feeding your baby is that it will shit.

New mothers love to look you in the eye and claim this isn’t a big deal. “Baby doodoo is different. It doesn’t smell as much and is almost like tar. It’s kinda cute!” they will lie.

They are as full of shit as their babies.

And just like people learn to touch their dog’s fecal matter through a thin plastic bag, you need to learn to dispose of your baby’s poop.

Dogs can be trained to shit outside. Cats are drawn naturally to kitty litter. (Unless you don’t clean it enough. Then they will pee on your bed and then act like nothing has happened.) Human infants will defecate wherever and whenever they feel like it, with absolutely no regard for sanitation or how much your rug cost.

Here’s a tip: Invest in some diapers. Trust us on this one.

Once you’ve swaddled your child, the trick becomes knowing when to unwrap it, clean it off, and re-swaddle. What this means in practice is that whenever your baby is yelling at you wordlessly, you’re going to have to stick your finger in the back of its diaper, pull it open, peer in, and see if you can see any feces. And even if you can’t, you’re going to have to pat its bottom to try to feel if any urine soaked through. Assuming that’s the issue, strip off the diaper, wipe, sprinkle with baby powder, and strap a fresh diap on it. Male babies tend to urinate when that fresh cool air hits their tiny baby dicks, so make sure you’re out of the line of fire.

Here’s another tip: Wipe away from the genitals.

One last tip: You’re going to want to dispose of that dirty diaper immediately. Either buy one of those expensive smell-proof trash cans built exclusively for diaps, or, if you’re on a budget, take it outside and throw it away in your neighbor’s garbage bin.

Try to train your infant to use the bathroom as soon as possible. Bathrooms are like large, self-cleaning litter boxes. If you’re doing it right, they require very little cleaning and maintenance to keep from smelling badly. They’re pretty sweet.

3. Attention

We all need to be loved.

Dogs are the least chill about it. They’ll run up and sniff your crotch, they’ll bark until you play with them, they’ll stare and you and whimper until you scratch their ear, they’ll dryhump your leg. They don’t give a fuck.

Cats will sit on your laptop while you’re typing, say, a blog about how to raise children.

Your baby will just cry.

Sometimes you can talk your baby out of it. Try singing, or cooing in hushed tones, “Listen, love of my life, fulfillment of both my dreams and biological imperative, you mean everything to me, but if you don’t stop crying for just a brief spell I’m going wring your adorable goddam neck.” But because babies do not understand English, sometimes you have to try to use other means to show them affection.

This is why you see people bouncing babies all the time. The physical sensation of being held and then falling and then not falling distracts them from what they were crying about in the first place. The good news is that because you are so sleep deprived, the irony of the situation—using physical stimuli to distract from loneliness, which is what led to the sex that led to the baby in the first place—will be lost on you!

4. Mystery cry

If you own a cat, you’re familiar with this last batch of meows. Your cat will cock its head, look at you, and meow plaintively. It usually takes a few months to realize that this one is because there is a bug in the apartment that the cat cannot catch.

We’ll call this one unrealized ambition.

Luckily, humans develop extremely slowly. Most aren’t even capable of holding a compelling conversation until they are 25 years old. So this likely won’t be an issue until they are too old to cry in public, and therefore it’s not your damn problem.

Like, for instance, once your baby is old enough to have a baby of its own, and it has been wearing the same pair of barf-stained sweats for 3 days straight, and can’t get the damn kid to stop crying, and its boss is giving it shit about taking the full 3 months of parental leave, and it goes into the bathroom to sob daily, that’s not really your concern anymore! All you have to do, now as grandparents, is stop by once every couple of weeks, pump the infant full of sugar, and peel out giggling that comeuppance is a sumbitch, leaving your child to deal with the sobbing grandkid you’ve left behind.

With the cat, just kill the bug to solve both of your problems.

Conclusion

Okay! Now you know the four types of mammal cries. Why don’t they develop language and specify between the different concerns, you ask? Who the hell knows. That’s not really important. What is important, now that you’ve gotten your child changed and fed and asleep for a few brief hours before it wakes up and starts screaming again, is that you find whatever bed your cat has been hiding under, slide down there quickly, and go to sleep before your spouse can see where you’re hiding and tell you that it’s your turn again.

We all want the same things

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When I was 27 I wrote 31 hour-long TV episodes in 34 days over the course of the World Cup in Brazil. It was the most taxing thing I’ve ever done in my life. We scarfed shitty fried foods while standing, not tasting anything. Everyone lost a ton of weight and got their debit cards ripped off. By the time I landed back in Miami, I was a mess of tangled beard and antisocial behavior. It was all I could do to smile at another human, let alone hold a conversation.

When I woke up my first night back in the United States, I walked to the only barber I could find 0n Yelp that accepted credit cards, whacked off all my hair, and then packed and headed for the airport to attend my little brothers’ weddings.

——-

I hate the question, “What was it like growing up in Asia?” Who are you, my goddam therapist? Fuck off. That summer I very quickly learned to hate the question, “How was the World Cup? Exciting?” I had nothing left of me to give, including faking enthusiasm for family.

It was brutal. I remember watching all the tourists walk to the beach in their bikinis, while I stared at a while wall in an uncomfortable plastic chair, sweating and clanking away on my keyboard. I never finished a show with more than a few minutes to spare. We would print scripts and run through the darkening streets of Rio de Janeiro to the tiny studio we’d built along the beach, our control room underground in what used to be a public bathroom.

It’s a weird sensation to listen to waves while you’re permanently stressed out. I started smoking again.

——-

It was a weekend designed to inform me that I am old. Two of my brothers got married two days apart. The day in between was my birthday.

I exaggerate and fiddle with the truth a lot on this blog, but those are the God honest facts.

I missed my layover in Atlanta and was delayed getting in, so I wasn’t there for my brother’s bachelor party. They played capture the flag in some field and used flour in napkins tied off with rubber bands so that when they threw them, it would show up on their black clothes. There were no strippers. There was no booze.

My family is fervently evangelical.

I managed to smile through some polite conversation when they got back, and then collapsed in an overstuffed bed in a corner room upstairs in my aunt’s house in Indiana.

The next day was the wedding. I was in it for some reason, even though I don’t talk to my brothers. The vest I had to wear was blue. The pants were grey.

I don’t remember a whole lot. I remember it was in a megachurch in the middle of some corn fields in Indiana. I didn’t get service in half of the church. The bride’s older sister got real huffy at me when I made a joke about divorce. No one objected to the union, and it was made official.

I assume my brother had sex for the first time that night.

The next morning, my 28th birthday, I borrowed his car at 6am and drove around the tip of Lake Michigan. I parked on the side of the street a block away from the W in Chicago.

I met up with some friends, co-workers who were there to cover the Pitchfork festival. Arielle met me at the beach, and we walked inside and picked up Romi and Di Palma and headed over. They did some interviews while I walked around, and then Arielle and I head-bobbed solemnly to Slowdive together. Di Palma got too high and kept trying to run off and we had to stop her because we knew she’d get lost. She also bought me a Cloud Nothings poster I still have up in my apartment in LA. Kendrick Lamar headlined, and we all screamed “Bitch don’t kill my vibe” as some parents nearby covered their children’s ears.

At some fancy place for dinner—I don’t remember what kind of food—we ordered a bottle of sangria and I spilled some on my shirt. In the Uber back, we heard a song with a distinctive sax line, but none of us knew what it was. Arielle asked her Twitter followers, and one somehow identified it.

It’s still my ringtone. Years later, I bought Di Palma City to City on vinyl as a going away present when she moved from Miami to New York. We did molly on the beach, and she left it behind. So now I own two copies.

When we got back to the hotel, Romi showed us her worst interview ever on her phone. Di Palma and I smoked pot in the bathroom with the shower running. We all kept hum-singing Gerry Rafferty at each other.

I forgot it was my birthday and forgot to stress and worry, and just relaxed for the first time in probably six months.

In the morning I think I gave them a ride to the airport, and I drove back under Lake Michigan, to a small church in Niles my family had attended when I was in middle school. I changed into a suit in one of the back rooms, met the other groomsmen, and then walked into the sanctuary where my father married my other brother. (To his now-wife. My father did not get married to my brother.)

The reception was a potluck in the back yard. They gave everyone small bottles of maple syrup because she’s from Canada.

I don’t remember flying back. I just remember my apartment in Miami, how white and clean it was. I don’t think I left for a week. Eventually I got a new debit card and rebuilt my life and got to the point where I could talk about the World Cup or aging or my loneliness like a sane human being.

I haven’t been back to Chicago since. My last little brother gets married there this weekend.

Someone’s here and then they’re not

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Rawles sat on my lap when we drove him to the vet. Deaf, blind, balding, and with kidney issues, his quality of life wasn't holding up at 14. When we got there and announced ourselves for the appointment, the receptionist said, "Oh, oh. I'm so sorry. Right this way." Rawles was too scared and unsteady on his feet to stand, so I held him. He was quivering. I remembered when I was 25 and all I could think about was killing myself all day every day and Rawles would blissfully jump in my lap and snuggle and I couldn't help but smile and keep living one more day. And then another. And another. Until somehow I made it here, to 30. Theo filled out the paperwork and handed over his credit card. The vet asked if we had ever done this before. I immediately thought to a week earlier, when we had to pull the breathing tube from Theo's infant son. I remember, after he passed, Jessie was holding her boy in her lap weeping. I put my palm on his head. He was so gray. I touched Jessie's shoulder and she looked up at me. I've never seen such raw grief; I hope to never again. She looked like a mother who had to watch her son die. That look, I'll carry it with me to my grave. The vet took Rawles out of the room and gave him a sedative. She brought him back and laid him on a garishly colored blanket. He was relaxed; his tongue hung out if his mouth. I put my palm on his head and cried. Just like I had cried in the shower that morning. Just like I had cried in the shower every morning since their baby died. The vet gave Rawles a shot and then checked his heartbeat with a stethoscope and then he was gone. We sat petting him and crying. Eventually the receptionist came and picked up the body that a until few seconds ago had been Rawles and walked out the back door. He was a good boy. This is my last post on this account. Thank you for following.

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[A Crow Looked At Me.]

Ride the Rodman

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One thing I had forgotten until my recent trip to Malaysia is that the government blocks most porn sites.

Pretty much any of the big flash-based sites don’t work. It’s not like I brought backup pornograpics, but whatever, two weeks without porn is fine.

Back when I lived there for a year, it was a different matter. For a brief spell, one of those shitty ad-infested sites worked. Then the censors found it, and it didn’t. The speed of the internet made it too infuriating anyway.

So here’s what I did: I brought an external hard drive to by buddy Low’s house in the basket of my motorbike, and then created a new folder:

Zac -> Video -> Other -> YeahYeahYeah

And within that, we placed several gigs of pornography that he had painstakingly downloaded over the years on Malaysia’s shitty internet (and occasionally on Taiwan’s wonderful internet). There was a bunch of classic movies from the ’70s, all grainy and with full bush and closeups that linger way too long than is comfortable. There was a lot of hetero girl-next-door clips of very conventional sexual intercourse. There was a bunch of Japanese porn with censored genitals (and naturally some shy chicks getting plowed on public transportation, at first kind of asking not to be raped but then I guess getting into it? And the people in the background of shots at the beginning mysteriously disappear after nudity happens). And I distinctly remember there being one where a bunch of cheerleaders are stranded in a bus and decide to all fuck and they surreptitiously all finish orgasming just moments before the teacher returns from his quest for gasoline. I liked that one a lot.

But the point isn’t to make you imagine me masturbating alone in my office, the ceiling fan circling slowly. The point I wanted to make is that it’s kinda weird to plan your horniness.

Like, you’re grocery shopping, and you get some kale because you’re trying to be healthy, and you think, “Oh, I would very much like to become horny on Thursday, I better make sure to pre-download this 2 hour Cleopatra movie that’s got both old Roman orgies and also weirdly some archeologists (played by the same actors!) finding the evidence and fucking a lot as well. And maybe I’ll d/l some Sasha Grey for when I am overtaken by hormones on Friday as well!”

(That Cleopat one is a real movie Low gave me. It’s pretty good.)

I’m reminded of Rob Delaney buying plastic sheets back when he was a practicing alcoholic, because it was a given that he would blackout and piss the bed several times a week.

“After arriving in LA and securing an apartment, I had dialed 1-800-MATTRESS and ordered a queen-size bed. It was a big step – deciding to stop peeing in a futon and start peeing in a real bed – and I took it seriously. When I went to buy sheets along with a little trash can and a bathmat and such, I knew I’d also need plastic sheets for my queen-size bed. I was a big boy now and big boys pee in big beds! I walked right up to a young woman and asked her where the plastic sheets were. She told me they were in the kids’ linen section with other kids’ things.

“Uh, I’m looking for plastic sheets for a queen-size bed.”

“Oh…”

“Yep.”

“Oh, um, we don’t have those. We could order them?”

“Well, then, yeah. Order them.”

In a moment of utter sobriety, I was 100% at peace with the fact that I was a voluntary, habitual, adult bedwetter and I was comfortable discussing it frankly with a stranger.”

And now here I am, frankly discussing my perverted masturbatory habits with anonymous strangers. (Hi, Dan!)

I’ve still got the hard drive and all the porn Low gave me. Hmu if you have an hour blocked off next Wednesday afternoon to be horny alone.

[Chanel.]

You’re my favorite but we’re phasing

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I recently visited Malaysia on vacation. It was my first time back in five years. Here are some feelings that I felt:

  1. You know how you’re out at a party and you come home and take off your pants and your socks and do that old person sigh/grunt as you sit down on your favorite chair? And you know how you only realize how stressed and emotionally jittered you were by how suddenly tranquil you feel? And how you’re still half-drunk, petting your cat, feeling the smoothness of his fur, drinking a tall glass of ice water and feeling at home, your true self again? The moment I landed, it felt like that. Like I had taken my pants off at home.
  2. Malaysia has changed a lot. There are new buildings and new stores and new roads and new bridges and new museums and new malls. It was like seeing an ex who has a new haircut and new job and new lover. There’s a longing and wistfulness for what could have been. In another life, I would have stayed in Malaysia and been content and watched all those changes from the inside, instead of melancholically seeing them all at once. And then I left, leaving Malaysia to change more without me, while I change more away from it.
  3. There’s a part in those shitty spy movies, when our erstwhile hapless hero suddenly realizes he knows kung fu and how to shoot a very long gun and has been a sleeper cell all along. Like he’s watching himself fight bad guys and is just as surprised as you. If the movie is delightfully trashy enough, he may turn to the camera and give you a little look. That’s how I felt about Malay. I just opened my mouth and language I didn’t know I knew poured out of it. If you had asked me to translate a phrase into bahasa, I wouldn’t have been able to. But put me in that situation and somewhere in my lizard brain is a section that barely lights up anymore anymore, telling me what to say and how to say it.
  4. My superpower: I am capable of being unhappy anywhere. Within a handful of days at my favorite place in the universe, I got grouchy and tired of dumb touristy things. Mostly I just craved a routine and some time alone to process. The chemicals in my brain that make me sad continue to impress me with their potency. I should bottle them and sell them to people to feed to their enemies.
  5. Globalization bums me out. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a nativist. Globalization is coming, or I guess it’s already here, and we need to figure out how to mitigate its more brutal effects. But when I see soulless condos going up, blocking ocean views and trampling what used to be dope shit underneath, just so Singaporean businessmen can keep an empty weekend apartment, I’m like what’s the point. There’s an old snake temple, where vipers have lived for generations. Now it’s surrounded on multiple sides by garish buildings 30 stories high and the sounds of construction concusses down into the tiny rectangle of foliage where the snakes climb tree limbs. It’s just a bummer, man. Also, inflation really made me sad, but I think that’s just more a nostalgia thing.
  6. Physical distance from work is key to emotional distance. The farther away you go, the less you’ll care. I recommend going roughly half of the circumference of the globe. As we were flying over the Pacific, I could feel my stressors shrinking. And as we flew back, I could hear their static, like the volume knob on a radio turned up as we got closer.
  7. How do married people do it? I spent two weeks caring about another person’s desires and nearly lost my damn mind. The only thing I wanted by like day 10 was a couple hours to be alone, in quiet, without having to vote on our every damn activity.

[Migration.]

Can I dance in a pair of your shoes?

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cat on a leash

Tame Impala – Let It Happen

I’m in a loveless marriage with this girl named Wilson. On the rare days we don’t hang out, she calls me on her drive home from work, just to recount the day. She’s headstrong and pushy and passionate and makes all the decisions for both of us. I no longer have to choose what to eat after work or where to go on Saturday afternoon—a million oppressive decisions spared. It’s been soothing and comforting and safe in ways I didn’t know I wanted.

One lazy weekend morning, we were making omelettes at my place, all sunlight and white walls. I started cooking, because she was still Tindering on the couch. Eventually, she moseyed over in one of my baggy t-shirts and commenced micromanaging me. She had specifications for how to brown the meat, for how fine to dice the onions, for when to flip the eggs. I paused, spatula in hand, to turn and face her. I’ve been living away from my parents since I was 8. I’ve been making my own omelettes since age 10. I’m a competent and accomplished adult. I can fry up my own damn onions. But just when I opened my mouth to say all this, I realized: That’s the trade-off. All the tiny tedious decisions I no longer have to make, well, the same way I way I got out of them also means I don’t get to decide the shade of the outside of my omelettes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about control lately. Who we give it up to, who we exert it over, when we try to cling to it, and what all that says about us.

valle de los ingenios

Majical Cloudz – Control

Recently, I snuck into Cuba illegally with a girl I barely knew. Let’s call her Murry. She knew Spanish, so she became the de facto decision-maker simply because she had more information. She could ask people questions, learn facts, gather intel, while I stood by, smiling mutely. She was a terrible leader, never including anyone else in decisions or disseminating information. By the end, I was jumping into cabs and then asking, “Uh, where the fuck are we going?” I got grumpy and shut down, stopped talking to anybody in any language.

Then, just as I was about at my limit, we got sick. We didn’t notice a water bottle had been previously opened until too late. I spent 18 hours in a hostel bed in Trinidad, waking up only to diarrhea and shower periodically. Murry spent the night vomiting, dozing off on the floor of the bathroom. In the morning, I awoke more or less better, if slightly weakened from not eating for 24 hours. Murry slept on, so I slipped out with the driver to explore.

Our driver (it was cheaper than renting a car) was a quiet kid who didn’t speak a lick of English. I pointed at him and at me and said “solamente.” He said, “Que?” I repeated the gesture. We got in his ’52 Ford and drove.

For one glorious morning, I was in charge.

I saw two tourists, each with his right calf fully tatted up. I wondered if their friendship produced the similar tattoos or if the matching tattoos produced the friendship.

I touched the skull of a cow in the crumbling slave-owner ranch house of an old sugar plantation.

I pet a fat puppy and he waddled around after me as I wandered the plantation.

I drank guarapo, sugar cane juice.

I watched two kid goats prance around their mother and then suckle on her udders.

I went inside a discotheque carved out of a cave.

I saw the blackened, scorched top of the mountain where a brush fire had kept us out of the cave disco the night before.

I saw a woman wearing a Whatsapp tank top.

I saw a kitten on a leash secured to a cement wall.

I saw a European woman with a braid of hair down to the small of her back. I wondered how she put on the hood of her sweater. I wondered how nectar-sweet it would be to be her, with her life, and her hair braid, and her individual worries. I wondered if she wondered what it would be like to be me.

I saw two horseback cowboys, jean jackets and cowboy hats, carrying a goat carcass and waving triumphantly at their friends as they rode through town. I saw their dutiful dog trotting behind, the goat’s skull in his mouth.

I swatted a fly that kept landing on my arm in the car. I remembered an old lady I met once, deep in the the Borneo jungle. She wore only a sarong and sat calmly on the wood floor of her house as mosquitoes sucked her blood. Meanwhile, I kept frantically slapping at my skin, waving my hands in the air.

In some ways, the battles we choose not to fight are a type of control.

Bay of Pigs

Mogwai – The Lord Is Out Of Control

Later, on the way home, I saw birds flitting around inside the Havana airport terminal. I wondered if the expression “free as a bird” applies to the ones stuck in an airport.

When we landed in Cancun, the entire plane erupted in applause. The man sitting across the aisle crossed himself and kissed his fingers, glancing upwards toward the heavens that we had just descended from. I smirked at the Latinness of it all, but I also became acutely aware that, for the duration of the flight, no one in the cabin had had any control.

[Currents, Are You Alone?, Rave Tapes.]

Where’s your ‘We’dom?

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MIA - Borders

MIA – Borders

Within her musical output, Maya Arulpragasam has proven reactive to our flawed, shifting societies (“Galang”), predictive of unscrupulous politics (“The Message”), and unflinching in her storytelling reach (“Bad Girls”), while functioning as a vehicle for the most obscure of music’s narrators (“Lovealot”).

Where the academic, journalistic profferings of media agencies leaves me intellectually provoked to the point of prostration, proving an impediment (to what I’m unsure, but something), I’m privy to a private, visceral experience when listening to MIA. I’m constantly made furious.

Her music, for me, is a rejection of non-violent protest. It’s a fuck you to our own wrongdoings and our own inertia, and it’s a fuck you to music’s apolitical setting.

Only recently, Thom Yorke said, “If I was going to write a protest song about climate change in 2015, it would be shit. It’s not like one song…is going to change someone’s mind.”

Shouldn’t stirring the populous, even inciting the crowd, be the aim of the artist, though? Deemed defeat should not justify inaction. The correct response, surely, is any response.

Yet, subsequent to Europe’s most recent horrors and in response to the ongoing refugee crisis of Syria and the world’s rejection of same, MIA released “Borders”. Void of a lyric sheet the opening lines are obscure, but, “Freedom, I’dom, Me’dom / Where’s your We’dom? / This world needs a brand new Re’dom / We’dom–the key / We’dom the key’dom to life” proves an extension of her less creatively executed Twitter proclamation:

To be bland, it’s here where the MIA experience comes upon a crossroad. The listener may opt to side with the supposed feeble influence of music and its conspirators, or it may ride the brave wave. The bass is aptly murky, serving its creator as a platform for protest. Rhythmically, it’s a smoldering pace. There is a pulse, but it’s ooze-like, functioning as a transporter from one memorable refrain to the next. And when she levels her torment to our ears (“Borders: What’s up with that? Broke people: What’s up with that? Boat people: What’s up with that?”) she does so with clarity and poise. There are no particular theatrics, as if the words carry weight–and they do.

It’s an assured presentation, no more apparent than in the song’s visual partner where MIA performs, self-directed, like a still-life piece. Musically, “Borders” emanates from a world of a single inhabitant: MIA. It’s void of genre or place; its only comfort lies in it being undisputedly modern. Lyrically, it exists in the same world. Alone. MIA is a unique, single voice in a generation masturbating its self-awareness.

“Your future: What’s up with that?”

[Fly Pirates. Eye Tunez.]

This heart, this heart, this wilderness

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Bruce Springsteen – Lift Me Up

“This heart, this heart, this wilderness.”

“Lift Me Up” is one of Springsteen’s many triumphs, involving an improbably gorgeous falsetto over faint guitar and a layer of composed, swelling keyboard synthetic. His voice is haunting and almost unknowable compared to the grit and grunt of famed Springsteen deliveries. It’s a unique instrument, only ever accompanied by the track’s own instrumentation (all executed by Springsteen), never obscured. The song conveys the same sensibilities as “Streets of Philadelphia”, “Gave It a Name”, and “Sad Eyes”; slow, assured and ethereal. Most importantly, it is highly affecting. And Springsteen’s lyrics are compelling. They are curt, and without ever conveying the clarity of storytelling they settle in the bones. The lyrical nuances, the dance between the romantic and the adulterous, make for an emotionally involving, appealingly earnest narrator. I’m convinced of an air of guilt and a sorrowful tone, however; the risk-taker come undone, aiming toward an act of atonement–one unanswered. Whether it’s in the rejection of tradition (“I don’t need your answered prayers / I don’t need your sacred vow”) or the unreliable promises of tomorrow (“When the morning bright / Lifts away this night / We will find our love”), there’s an unresolved struggle between long term and short term happiness.

[Columbia Records.]

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form

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Screen Shot 2015-10-14 at 1.50.53 PM

Bob Dylan – Shelter From The Storm

The stretch of track lines from Wolli Creek all the way through to Central Station, Sydney, has sketchy cellular connectivity. If Spotify holds out, it’s a blessing. If not, aurally the landscape is largely sniffles and sighs and polite, blunted coughs. Visually business suits, freshly-ironed buttoned-down shirts, and backpacks span the carriages. The weary conductor, announcing the present and subsequent stops, crackles over the intercom. Suburb to suburb, he sounds less tired-guy-following-procedure and more like death itself.

I’m sure he’s a nice guy, the conductor. Once, of an afternoon, my friend James and I were shooting the shit at the Marlborough Hotel in Newtown, ordering lunch. Some portly, curly-haired bloke – whose name I can’t recall – was sitting with some people, practicing card tricks the table over. Catching our interest, we ate together. After the usual how-do-you-do’s, one of Curl’s friends discussed his life as a train driver. “Mostly routine,” he said, “but people jump in front of trains a lot. A fucking lot.” The media doesn’t report them all, fearing copycats I guess, and it’s common for drivers to quietly bear the horror and guilt, despite the wide range of support given to employees who experience it first-hand.

I asked him if he had ever hit anybody. He had. He was working a wet line into the city circle and this guy was standing at the platform’s edge holding an umbrella, sheltered from the rain and watching the train approach. He said it was the detail that stayed with him. The man’s expression, watching this angled form of metal and gears and weight coming towards him, as if timing when it was going to be too late to stop. The slump of his shoulders as he fell. Most of all, he recalled that this particular person didn’t let go of the umbrella. It was one of a thousand things that made it difficult to comprehend, but it seemed ridiculous and inconsequential – “Who cares about the fucking umbrella?”

But, if you’re going to kill yourself, why bring it on to the platform? Why hold on to it when you jump? What does it matter?” He said those kinds of questions ring around the inside of your skull months and months later.

To this day I can still tell you the colour of the mohair jumper she was wearing, the colour of her jeans, what shoes she had on, and what injuries she had suffered.”

Curls’ friend also told the story of a former train driver, a man who – at least back then – spent his time far from the tracks. He would wear his conductor slacks and stayed on the payroll, preparing administrative papers mostly. He didn’t know the number of deaths or any more details, but he speculated it wouldn’t have to be many. Even one was already too much.

[Seek help. Find hope. For those in Australia, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14 – for anything. Even if you just need somebody to talk to. Internationally, the IASP has a listing for crisis centres across the world. Reach out. You are not alone.]

No joke

Written by

Panda Bear – Tropic of Cancer

“It’s all in the family…When they said he’s ill / Laughed it off as if it’s no big deal.”

Tropic of Cancer‘s opening lines are a denial. They are a supine stance in the face of impending familial tragedy, but it’s a stance unshared by the singer: “What a joke to joke. No joke.” The song reaches its most revealing upon the hard K in “joke” at 1:44. It’s understated, easily missed–to be mistaken for a mistake, even–but it’s venomous and indicative of a pain still very much alive, in itself cancerous if unchecked. The moment is transient and intuitive and unnervingly beautiful, one of the most stunning vocalised moments in music. Vsevolozhsky’s sample, looped in dub fashion, is weightless and expertly stretched and decelerated to accommodate syllabic expression–a configured inducement to hear the contradiction that is Panda Bear, an enigmatic artist yet entirely confessional.

Panda Bear has expressly stated that his Panda Bear Meets the Grim Reaper LP is not about death. Instead, it is a representation of changes in identity. The beauty of music is the ability to project upon it one’s own experience and sentiments. The emotive nature of music can be molded to suit. In a sense, however, we cheat music and the artist’s intentions each time we read into music what isn’t there. Tropic of Cancer‘s beginnings are of death (life reversed), to be sure, but to reject the refrain and what follows is to reject the certainty that with death one is altered; one has evolved.

“And you can’t get back / You won’t come back / You can’t come back to it.” Can’t. Won’t. Can’t again.

Locked in the present and finitely bolted to a future, we’re mandated to carry with us an unchangeable past. This is not to call our journey ill-fated, however. If we’re fortunate to live long into the future, pain will be a staple of our sensation’s diet and death key to our experience, for what we live is a single opportunity experience. To dismiss sickness and death as an anomaly, as impairing our experience, is to shortchange our own fate–our only fate.

“Sick has to eat well, too / Got to like it all / Got to like what kills.”

[Domino.]