Trite Clout

As of March 20, these are my top 10 favorite records of 2011.

1. PJ Harvey ~ Let England Shake (As engaging as it is disorienting)

2. Peaking Lights ~ 936 (Heartfelt; subtle)

3. Sean McCann ~ The Capital (Sublime; challenging)

4. Demdike Stare ~ Tryptych (Brooding; haunting)

5. Destroyer ~ Kaputt (Grandiose without being theatrical)

6. Mind Spiders ~ Mind Spiders (Wholly enjoyable; competent)

7. Radiohead ~ The King of Limbs (Pretty; seamless)

8. White Fence ~ …Is Growing Faith (Catchy; affecting)

9. Braids ~ Native Speaker (Replete with ecstatic highs)

10. La Sera ~ La Sera (More appealing than anything Vivian Girls has put out)

Take care, readers.

The Conclusion

I no longer love Her.

I’m kidding . . . I never did. Remember that second emboldened statement made in Part One? It holds true: I’m loveless (and so is She).

My Extinguished Flame is still lovely – and (for that matter) beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, etc. She’s still somehow eloquent and awkward, emotionless and soulful. She’s a competent writer and a de facto fashionista. She will be successful in virtually all her future endeavors. If I were to make a YouTube video called “A Summary of Her”, I would tag it with words like success and competence. Words like normal, teenager and girl. What successfully normal, competent teenage girl.

I’m listening to All Songs Considered right now. Great show. There’s something about it which is intrinsically unarguable. Like Her.

The episode — a sleepy recap of acclaimed 90s music — is over. Like Her.

I move on to Kawabata Makoto’s Hosanna Mantra, a wildly enjoyable psych-drone record by the Acid Mothers Temple founder.

Crap. This album is almost over. And I just added Contra to my library. Contra is an alright album, and I won’t have anyone tell me otherwise. Contra is on in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

Oh, forget it! While I don’t love Her — and probably never will — competence often eclipses ramshackle experimentation and ties to hyper-anything. It’s not even that Contra is wonderfully safe (although it kind of is) — it’s that it’s terribly warm. It comforts me. Her existence does just that. She’s weak, but her aspirations are admiral. According to the almighty Alice Cooper, Vampire Weekend aren’t the toughest rockers out there. So what? They are nice, level-headed, agreeable men. While I don’t love all their songs, VW seem like they’re relentlessly trying to make good music. Are they shooting for the moon? I have no clue! They certainly don’t land there, nor amongst the stars. They do land in the sky, though — perhaps on a cloud. And I’m grateful for that: the cloud upon which the quartet and Her sit. They rarely look up, often look down, but usually stay focused on their immediate surroundings.

What else to say?

I could talk about Her beauty in more specific terms, shower Her with mostly-sincere compliments, analyze — and perhaps ridicule — Her quirky gestures, and squat about my perceived relationship with Her.

But I’d like to forget Her. Thus, the end of my now-calculated, undercooked 4-post extravaganza. If anything truly exists between us — even if it’s wholly fantastical — She will appear in my writing in a more natural context. Hosanna Mantra certainly didn’t force itself into this post. It glided in, at least partly beyond my control. She, an inconceivably-beautiful human being, is invited to do the same.

But for now — and perhaps forever — I put Her to rest.

She Only

Cares for Finnegans Wake in a historical sense.

Will care.

If and when She learns about the opus, I mean.

Joyce is lost on Her.

Digressions lead to confessions.

I love Her.

She, my friends, is very internal — but photographically external. I sort of see Her thought process as a straight line which often rises and drops . . . but never falls victim to erraticism. She is normal.

And not in a comparative way. Contrasted with Her peers, She is most certainly different. Alert but eternally subdued — Somebody whose eyes are never half-closed, but seem like they should be.

It’s the Voice, of course. I wonder how it would sound on a podcast. A unisex beam of boring enthusiasm. NPR might like it. Terry Gross, though, is kind of lame.

Conversely, My Withering Flower is fully lame. Practical, nerdish, unemotional and disconnected. Thoughts on 2011 in media, Madam?

Hey, diary. Almost 2 months of 2011 media. Some stuff I liked:

- Julianna Barwick – The Magic Place | Really terrific album. Her voice is so beautiful!

- Of Gods And Men [photograph of Her with a few friends at a screening of the film]

- Bright Eyes – The People’s Key | What is this, and why is it so . . . engaging?

- O: A Presidential Novel | A fascinating look into the upcoming 2012 presidential election.

- [print-out of Panda Bear's Tomboy cover art] When the heck is this thing coming out?

Thoughts on romance, Madam?

Part 3 — the true finale — due in a few weeks.

Stay tuned, lovers.

Too Bad

It’s about 11 PM, and I have a bunch of things to do — but I want to finish my piece on Her (the most beautiful girl ever, etc).

I can’t remember a time where there wasn’t some girl giving meaning to my life.

I try to cast myself as this hyper-independent, thought-obsessed person. Probably 3 years ago I said something to the effect of thoughts being the only meaningful entities.

But that’s stupid. And so is my new crush (the crushing, I mean).

It’s 2 AM now. Fuck.

I just want to publish this thing as an interlude — a bridge between Part 1 and 2 on Her.

Okay?

Sorry!

Take care, all.

Vampires Weakened

She was beautiful in a general way, but that was beside the point. The matter at hand was the terrible media She consumed: the sort of quasi-adult contemporary indie garble coughed up by recent Columbia grads. Her top 5 favorite Vampire Weekend songs, in order of most irritating to least [irritating]:

1. who_gives_a_fuck_about_an_oxford_comma.mp3

2. holiday_(honda_civic_version).mp4

3. boston_ladies_of_cambridge.FLAC

4. koenig_moaning.bittorrent

5. think_ur_a_ contra_bro.mp3.5

Her hair was a sort of golden brown; it wasn’t really “golden” but its crispness makes the adjective somewhat effective. You’d have to see Her — and Her brown hair, which was stitched to Her head — to truly get a grasp of Her top 5 favorite MP3s of 2010 (copied directly from Her notebook):

These are my top five favorite songs released in 2010. I will list the artist first, then the title. I will place the song titles in quotation marks because that’s the way it shall be done in my notebook.

1. Vampire Weekend – “Holiday”

2. MGMT – “Flash Delirium”

3. Vampire Weekend – “White Sky”

4. Arcade Fire – “Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)”

5. Vampire Weekend – “Cousins”

I love Her in a very general way, but that’s beside the point. The matter at hand is the terrible piece of shit albums She doesn’t finish listening to:

Dear Diary, these are the albums released in 2010 that I think are good albums:

1. Vampire Weekend – Contra

2. MGMT – Congratulations

3. Arcade Fire – The Suburbs

Her friend — polished and gorgeously social, but in a very uneven way — views Contra as easily the best piece of media ever crafted, if not the greatest entity ever [to exist]. Names changed, this is how our initial VW conversation went down:

John Smith: Sup.

Pocahontas: Nothing much, just listening to Contra.

John Smith: The new album by Vampire Weekend.

Pocahontas: Yes, Contra is the new –

John Smith: Oft-lamented, lukewarmly-received album by Columbia undergrads Vampy Weekend.

Pocahontas: I think it’s the best album ever released ever, and possibly the best entity, like, ever.

John Smith: Cool story, but then again, despite being entertaining, after two albums it’s clear that Vampire Weekend doesn’t have much to say (Kot 2).

Pocahontas: While aesthetically Californian, Contra is so short that one would say it’s over in a New York Minute (Sakellaris 1).

John Smith: I think ur a savage.

Tis time to try to type a treatise on a girl so beautiful She shall be deified and defied, and definitely deferred from a definitive analysis because — banalities aside — She’s too beautiful for words. But I love words way more than Her. I kind of love Her kind of like She kind of loves college and the new Vampire Weekend album (Contra, AKA Her AOTY). Do you really love Neutral Milk Hotel, reader? Do you love them in a specific, tear-inducing, story-fueled way? Or perhaps in a very, very general way — sort of like She loves college and Her friends. In essence, She loves freedom, so She loves college; She loves friendship, so She loves her friends. It was tirelessly annoying watching Her associate with anyone. Her self-absorption was natural, while Her associative content felt forced. I didn’t want Her because of this. In fact, I just wanted Her to be alone. As soon as someone starts associating with people, he becomes a product. Not in Her case. She was, at the present moment, very much Her own. I didn’t want Her to lose this. I’d die if She did.

Her hair wasn’t stitched — it was perfectly loose. It dangled, unmoving, as She walked academically into every situation. Her eyes were eyes. Her smile, according to Smile Expert ☺, was the greatest expression in human history. Fairly unspecific, it was a beam of overriding positivism. Why be sad? Why be specific? Why be personal? It said, “Holy fuck, we’re alive!” The ever-inviting grin reminded me of a quotation from The Moviegoer. Midway through the novel, Kate Cutrer says: ”I had discovered that a person does not have to be this or be that or be anything, not even oneself. One is free.” Looking at Her face when She smiled — and even when She didn’t; in fact, even when (if?) She was fuming — was coming to terms with the glorious choice we make: whether or not we will be happy.

Her Top 5 Features:

(1) Her voice.

(2) Her gestures.

(3) Her music taste.

(4) Her hair.

(5) Her aura.

(1) is a nervous, rushed little thing. The noise — dark, brooding, and somewhat confident — is a futile, yet melodic, exercise. It doesn’t command — it invites. Phrases and exclamations become infinitely more casual through the medium. Say She said your name: rather than fall apart, you’d just take another sip of your bitter fucking coffee. (2) is way too difficult to describe. I’ll make an attempt, though.

Her reaction to this poster, which She found inside Her friend’s locker, would be something like a contained explosion of the body. Everything would extend in excitement, but would also be conscious of its appropriateness. Fuck (3-5) — for now, at least.

There was no love within, between, or among us. Emotions disguising themselves as love were prevalent in our smiles, tears, passions, and casualties. Our commas and calculated social interactions destroy these outbursts, though. One day She might profess to love the new VW album Contra; another, She might cry after seeing Black Swan.

Anyway, I’m not in the mood to continue this piece of shit blog post. Part 2 will be released after I drink some Passion Juice.

Fair Game

I’m walking through the most competitive high school in the country; it’s both 1993 and 2020.

The first year is important because it’s when Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville was released; the latter because the technology will have increased so I can listen to “Divorce Song” more subtly while I control my surroundings.

Maybe I’m not crying, maybe I’m not speeding — but both those elements have to be part of this scene.

That’s about it.

Is this a dream? No, it’s just a loose fusion of many fantasies I’ve had of late. To be in an educational environment; to feel like I’m part of something greater than it truly is; to feel like I can take — physically, emotionally, socially — down both apathetic fucktards and hyper-intelligent, overachieving dullards; to feel like I’m rebelling while doing something everybody else does (but since my soundtrack is “meaningful”, I’m better); to be in a specific American situation, in a specific American time (granted, this would work better if I was a female). I’ve realized lately that without the deliberate and emotionally-intricate manipulation of people, life seems meaningless. It’s not enough to learn, because I can always do that at my local library. It’s not enough to perform better academically, because good test grades (and even respect) are disposable. It’s necessary, in these fantasies, to outperform people and tell them that I did so. See, I’d be able to acknowledge their brilliance — even verbally — but I would play the system, spread terrible gossip, and basically tarnish the other folks so they felt wholly unimportant.

But if they bothered to retaliate (even indirectly) against my undefined pursuit to make myself feel above everyone else, I would love them.

At one point in my life, I loathed competition. It was right after I read The Fountainhead, when my self-absorption reached its peak and I thought that slowly and surely — in that distinctive “chill” way — I would become myself through my words. This is around when my life fell apart, but also when I decided I wanted to be a writer.

If someone asked me about “the system” then, I would’ve said something like, “I’ll be part of it, as long as it won’t prevent me from doing exactly what I want.” Now, though, achieving myself — or reaching my loosely-realized end goal — would leave me alone and socially bankrupted. (It would’ve before, of course, but I was so within myself I either didn’t know this or knew but didn’t care.)

The point? I’ve never loved and hated people so much; thus, I’ll be voluntarily associating myself with my fellow competitors more than ever before.

Also: this graphic will relate to my next post (I think).

One Second

As I type this my Mac says it is 6:58 PM. Also, because I’m aware of things, I know it is November 28, 2010. New segment: Night Ramblings. I woke up scarcely more than six hours ago. Lot of homework and personal stuff to do. Planning my seventh all-nighter of the school year. So for the next 12 hours, when I feel like saying shit, I will. First blog post in several fucking months. Over four, actually.

7:11 ◊ Listening to a 20-song YouTube playlist and thinking about the fact that I surrendered my life to the Internet way too long ago. 7th grade — played some online games; watched some funny clips. 9th grade — on a defunct music discussion forum every night; no interest in much else (besides my Internet findings, I mean). 11th grade — start my first blog in October; start my first tumblelog in December; no longer is the Internet a tool: it’s a lifestyle. 12th — I mean, the other day I literally posted a Facebook picture of a girl I like on a very sketchy site (asking them to admire her, although anticipating they wouldn’t). The line between my Internet excursions and my “real life” is blurring, and this is terrible for multiple reasons. Break!

7:24 ◊ Well, before I get started on my homework, I’d like to tell you why I’m doing this on WordPress. It’s simple, really — Tumblr is a social experience (it looks and feels like one, no matter how you use it) and my Blogger site is both fictional and dead. WordPress looks nice and I have no plans on eliminating The Compiler from my life. Alas, with this inaugural senior year post, I plan on giving it more prominence than perhaps Fictional Account and Didactic Fizzle ever did. And as my favorite Wilco song begins playing in the background, I’m going to begin my Oceanography “homework”.

8:17 ◊ This is fun. Only eleven more hours of this. Bathymetry and continental margins, rises, slopes and shelves. Feel like starting some epic media project. Feel like creating or analyzing media. Feel like an all-nighter is necessary largely because of the disillusionment felt in school while suffering from it. It’s simply easier to talk to people — teachers, specifically — when I haven’t slept (probably because the conversations themselves seem dreamy). Feel like walking through the rest of 12th grade listening to 94 Diskont (a seminal glitch album by Oval). Why? I love dreamy music but hate dreams. In fact, I’d say that particular album is one of the tightest, most controlled displays of dreamlike chaos. Markus Popp, or the genius behind Oval, smashed music. He wrecked CDs — scratched them, stuck glue to them, etc. When I originally read about the making of 94 Diskont I pictured myself listening to hard, dark, abrasive shit. But what I got was an effectively “chilling”, repetitive piece of electronic mastery that is bordering on catchy at times. Break!

8:49 ◊ Talking to my friend about PBR and the future of American breweries. Kidding about that last part. But truthfully, come 9 o’clock I should really continue with my homework. Granted, my proposed all-nighter should more or less eliminate any need to rush. It’s not certain, though. For the record, five of my six successful all-nighters involved the writing of due or overdue papers. The sixth, and most recent, occurred three-four weeks ago and featured the finishing of a Spanish project, an application to a Pennsylvania school, and an incoming — e.g. be-there-at-7:25-AM — music test. Because I woke up at 1 today I don’t feel my wish, my hyper-revelatory (in my mind) night is an impossibility. Regardless, it’s 9 and I should continue oceanographing.

9:25 ◊ Didn’t get much done, predictably. Here are some things I would like to talk about: academia, college, this girl I like/love/admire/hate, and how my opinion of sleep has changed since February of this year (when I basically, in an English paper on Arcade Fire’s “Rebellion”, condemned “giving up” and retiring to one’s bed). You see, I haven’t been writing that much, but come January I swear I will be writing upwards of 3000 words every day — for school, some blog, my future novel, etc. You just wait! I’m eating ice cream right now. I’m so confident in my ability to stay awake that I’m eating ice cream at 9:30. Alright, I’ll admit it: I’m psyched. Psyched about writing and writing — about entering this creative writing contest, about writing this poem for Lit, about typing my analyses of songs and events, of girls and the American education system (ha). Break! Withhold that! An Oval song is coming on, and unless I write my way into American infamy, I shall officially be “tired”. Why do folks loathe repetitive music? I can’t get enough of Oval and his propensity for loops. “Do While” is 24 minutes long, barely changes, and is by far the most serene piece of music I’ve ever heard. Eh, it’s getting a bit late. “Textuell” is halfway complete; I’ll be back in an hour.

12:30 ◊ That was a bit more than an hour. So, c. 45 minutes ago I finished my last cup of coffee for the night. What did I get done since that last block of text? Not much, homework-wise. Started my Spanish project and did a bit more Oceanography stuff. Both aren’t difficult assignments; they’re simply time-consuming, and I can’t technically be finished until tomorrow (as one’s in preparation for a quiz, and the other for a presentation). So, how awake am I? Perfectly so. Not jittery, not even terribly distracted by the Internet’s sea of procrastinatory fascinations in front of me. Huh? So, since I last left you I abandoned my YouTube playlist in favor of both the Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day soundtrack and Subheim’s beautiful Approach. Not sure what to play next, as the latter just ended its first run. Something instrumental, of course. But what? With that, I’ll leave for some time. Lot to do, and I may have to “get up” early to see my guidance counselor; I’d like to be done doing schoolwork by 5 so I could spend some time relaying and expositing some thoughts about what I’d previously mentioned. Bye, for now.

6:19 ◊ Greetings and goodbye. I lost my Internet connection shortly after I wrote my last bit, and ended up penning some thoughts about “the girl of my dreams” in my Oceanography notebook. Classy, eh?