Black Sails in the Sunset - AFI (Album)

I'm a big AFI fan. I think I've seen them in concert now four or five times, although not within recent years. I was introduced to the band through a friend of mine before their "breakthrough" album Sing the Sorrow came out, and I remember being really happy that they made it big my senior year of high school. Their progression as a band is an interesting one; formed in '91 and releasing their first album in '95, their sound was much closer to early punk bands than to the gothic rock it would eventually become. I appreciate each of the band's albums for different reasons, but in the last year or two it's become obvious to me that I prefer one over any of the others: Black Sails in the Sunset, which debuted in '99. It is one of two "bridging" albums between their old and new style, I think that gives it a unique feeling and genuineness. Wow, is there really not a better form of "genuine" to end that sentence with? Genuinity? Whatever.

Sails is the kind of album that has hidden depth. I remember listening to it only sporadically growing up, opting instead to listen to The Art of Drowning and Sing the Sorrow. The recording quality of both albums was better than on Sails, and I could actually understand what Havok was singing. Now, however, I hear and feel an intense energy in Sails that I don't find elsewhere. It's true, at first many of the songs sound very similar to one another, and without looking up the lyrics you don't have a prayer of understanding the words, but to me there is something almost pretentiously good about Sails.

The lyrics are most powerful when in context of the songs. Here is one of the best tracks on the album, with lyrics included:

Open my eyes as I submerge and I won't deny what I've been since birth.
I'll die drowned by your standards.
Breathe in the life of the summer's death as the orange and red breathe their first breath,
So welcome as they're burning through.

We all begin to burn. Autumn's flame dances in my eyes
Set alight for all we've learned. My ashes falling.

My skin is singed but it heals my heart, and with glowing pride I'll wear my scars.
I'm honored by your hatred.
Leaves fall we arise again, and the end impending, it will begin.

So welcome as they're burning through.

We all begin to burn. Autumn's flame dances in my eyes
Set alight for all we've learned. My ashes falling.

Can you feel me? Go!
Ashes fall and I'm rising up again. Ashes fall.
Ashes fall. Ashes fall as we all arise.

  

I doubt if while they were recording the album the band knew how good it was going to be, and I have a suspicion that even if they were to try to duplicate the feeling and power of Sails now they wouldn't even get close. It's probably a good thing that they moved from this sound, and found new legs with Decemberunderground and Crash Love, because Sails does not need to be recreated. It is beautiful as it is, you just need to listen to it about a hundred times.

-MA 04.16.13

The Gift I Never Got - Draper (Prose Poem)

Okay, I'll be straight with you: I'm in a poetry class right now.  I tell you this because I don't want you to be confused if you see a few more poems on here in the future than in the past.  Of course, there's an up side to this: if I review a poem I can just post it right here and you don't have to go anywhere to get it and it doesn't cost any money.  I have no idea the right way to spell "moo-law", or I would have said that instead.  If you don't have a lot of experience with poetry, my guide on how to read it might be of some use to you.

I've read and written poetry before, but not extensively, and so when I ran across the section on "prose" poetry in my textbook it was new to me.  I've never read poetry like this, but I guess it exists because there's some right down there \/.  Prose poetry is basically poetry minus verse; there are no line breaks, it just goes to the end of the page like a regular paragraph.  "Short-short" stories and prose poetry are closely related and can overlap, so don't get hung up on thinking this is actually a short-short and not poetry; it's kind of both.

There's not too much for me to say about the following, as it is pretty self-explanatory, mostly I just want to share it.  ;)

The Gift I Never Got

It was not unusual in my house for the phone to ring once, just once, and then fade into silence.  It was not unusual for my father to suddenly announce after one of these calls that he had some errand to run.  Often it was a trip to the store, or some forgotten task at work.  It was a usual day in my house: the phone had just round once, my father had just left to go to the store, and I was eight years old.  Christmas was near and I was searching the house for presents.  Under my parent's bed is where I found it.  It was a bright red toy car with real rubber tires and plastic pipes that looked like real chrome.  I couldn't control myself and soon I was pushing it along the floor.  I could feel my heart thumping in my head and my hands were slick with perspiration.  Later that night I dreamed about the car: it would be my favorite toy.  On Christmas morning I bypassed the Stretch Armstrong doll, I totally ignored the Dr. J basketball, and went looking for the car.  It was some cruel joke.  "Where is it?" I cried.  I ran into my parent's bedroom, rifled under their bed, but it wasn't there.  My mother had followed me.  "What are you looking for?" she asked.  "The car! The car!" I screamed.  The phone rang once and I heard the door close as my father left to go to the store.  "There is no car," she said.  "Yes there is, yes there is!" I screamed back.  "It's just like when the phone rings you always say it's no one.  Well it wouldn't ring if it wasn't someone."  She didn't speak for a long while after that.  She just looked at me.  Finally she said, "Alright, we'll ask him about the car.  We'll ask him about the phone that only rings once.  We'll ask him about all those trips to the store."

                                                                                      -Vincent Draper

I know, right?  The only note I will add is that it is unwise to assume this story is autobiographical.  Lyricists and poets alike must deal with this issue, whereas novelists and screenwriters don't as much.  Remember, this is art.  It may very well be a true account, perhaps about the author's life, but it could also be pure fiction.

Okay, ttfn.

-MA 1.21.13

Siddhartha - Hesse (Short Novel)

When you read it, feel free to picture
Siddhartha as less womany.
These kinds of personal choices are
what reading is all about!

Maybe I am wrong to think that many people have had a similar experience to the one I am about to describe.  Truthfully, I am just now realizing I have not had many conversations (at least ones I can remember) with people about it; in fact, I cannot presently recall even one.  However, for whatever reason I do believe that I am not alone in this feeling.  Every now and again something will happen, be it after reading a religious text or address, after serious reflection, or after some remarkable event, and I will think, "Yes.  I have the power to become a much better person than I am right now, and I can do it very quickly.  All I need to do is give up whatever is irrelevant to my being good."  I then go on to think about how foolish I've been, how much time I've wasted.  I imagine myself volunteering with people who need it, calling family and friends who I know are lonely (or at least who I believe to be lonely).  I imagine selling my video games and other so-called "time wasters".  I think of all the wonderful things I can do with my time, money, and person, and how awesome it will feel once I've done them; I picture myself meditating for hours at a time, reaching some higher plain of thought, and I wonder why I have not done all of this sooner.  Of course, I never make the Big Change all at once like this.  I get scared.  I get tired.  Life rears its head and I deem these imaginings to be extreme or impossible.  At best, I change something minute about myself and over time hope that these changes make me a better person.

I'm not here to discuss whether or not such a change is possible for most of us, or even to discuss if this change would be positive.  What I am here to talk about is, of course, Siddhartha, Nobel prize-winner Hermann Hesse's most famous novel.  Hesse writes of an Indian Buddhist named Siddhartha (go figure), born into a religious group of Brahmin's, a people who strove to reach Nirvana and absolute personal enlightenment.  Even though Siddhartha is very young in the opening of the book, he is the most loved man in his community, seen as the most spiritual, the most enlightened.  He is the person who is not afraid to do what is described above, he is willing to give up anything and everything for true enlightenment.  Though the novel is quite short, his journey is long.  If you are like me, reading it may return you to the feeling spoken of, a desire to better yourself no matter the cost.  It is an interesting read to say the least, and you may come to find you learn more about yourself here (in terms of strengths, weakness, capability, and personal belief) than you have in a long time.  You may not agree with Siddhartha's choices or beliefs; you may be happy to find that he sometimes finds himself in contradiction with what he has said and done.  Don't we all do that as we try to grow?

It is a feel-good read and is very simply written.  It could easily be finished by most readers (even busy ones) in a number of days.  If you don't have anything else going on it might just take one.  To whet your appetite, here are a few excellent passages:

   On the way, Govinda said: "Siddhartha, you have learned more from the Samanas than I was aware.  It is difficult, very difficult to hypnotize an old Samana, [but you have done so effortlessly.]  In truth, if you had stayed there, you would have soon learned how to walk on water."
   "I have no desire to walk on water," said Siddhartha.  "Let the old Samanas satisfy themselves with such arts."

I looked it up and apparently this really is
how many ribs a person has.  Why does
it look like way too many?

*   *   *

   Siddhartha had one single goal--to become empty, to become empty of thirst, desire, dreams, pleasure and sorrow--to let the Self die.  No longer to be Self, to experience the peace of an empty heart, to experience pure thought--that was his goal.  When all the Self was conquered and dead, when all passions and desires were silent, then the last must awaken, the innermost Being that is no longer Self--the great secret!

*   *   *

   "I posses nothing," said Siddhartha, "if that is what you mean.  I am certainly without possessions, but of my own free will, so I am in no need."
   "But how will you live if you are without possessions?"
   "I have never thought about it, sir.  I have been without possessions for nearly three years and I have never thought on what I should live."
   "So you have lived on the possessions of others?"
   "Apparently."

There are others quotes that are even better, but they are near the end of the book and I wouldn't want to spoil anything for you.  Enjoy!

-MA 01.07.2013

Note:  For some reason it is so strange to me right now that "strove" is a real word.

Unaccompanied Sonata - Card (Short Story)

You may or may not have noticed I didn't have a blog post on Monday.  I am currently far from home for the holidays and have not had ready access to a computer.  I tell you this because it is the reason I am reviewing this work in particular.  I have a list--somewhere--of potential future works to be reviewed, and when I can't find it I can always peruse either of my loaded bookshelves, but here I find myself limited to what I have on hand, and this has turned out to be quite the blessing...for you!  *winky face*  I say this because I would probably never have thought to review this short story otherwise, and that would have been a shame.

First, a word about Orson Scott Card.  You are probably at least familiar with his most famous book "Ender's Game".  He has had a long and varied career as an author, writing mostly (but not exclusively) science fiction novels.  When a young reader is first introduced to Card (usually through the "Ender" series or his excellent sci-fi/religious "Homecoming" novels) he or she is typically floored.  The reader has never read anything like it, and yearns for more.  Unfortunately, not all Card novels are created equal.  He has admitted that he has, at times, written a book simply because that is his job and he needs to make money.  Now, I'm not trying to say he should not do this--obviously that is his choice--but it has produced a few hollow, disappointing novels I would never recommend to anyone ("Homebody" being the quintessential example of this).

I have long believed that his finest medium is not the one for which he is best known.  He excels in the short story.  He is a master of it.  And one in particular he refers to as, "The most powerful thing I have ever written."  If you have not read it, it's time you did.

If you read the title of this entry you know I am referring to "Unaccompanied Sonata."  This is indeed short, clocking in at twenty-three pages (if you are reading it in the small-paged paperback form), yet the story it tells is in no way small.  I have read it twice, the last time probably more than seven years ago, and yet as I was thumbing through it this morning I was shocked by how much of it I remembered.  I knew the premise, the main character's name, his nick-name later on, each important event and side-character, and the ending.  In short: I remembered everything.  This is a testament to this work, it proves that after reading it I thought through the story over and over.

Strictly speaking it is a science fiction story, but like the best sci-fi, it reads like literature, pandering to emotion and relatability rather than high-headed conceptualism.  On the first couple of pages you will learn that at a very young age our hero, Christian Haroldsen, has been tested by the government and has been found to be a musical prodigy.  He is removed from his parents, taken to an isolated house in the woods, given an instrument that can produce any sound he can think of, and allowed to make music.  This is all he does.  He is not allowed to hear any other musician's work, nor is he allowed to meet the people who listen to his music.  From there on things get interesting.  Perhaps the most impressive aspect of this work is it's tone.  It's clear that Card feels strongly about the story's moral, but the tone itself never reveals this.  Everything is told clearly, cleanly, and surgically.

By the time you finish you may find yourself sitting quietly, staring at a wall.  

-MA 12.26.2012

Note:  This story was originally published in Omni Magazine in 1979, it can now be found in a number of collections of Card's short stories; I recommend "Maps in the Mirror", as it is the most complete of these collections.