in the waiting room there was a copy of "Real Simple" which, as i understand it, is a magazine about living more simply.
the tagline of the magazine:
Real Simple: Life Made Easier.
what would have henry david said about this one?
but that is not the funny part of the story,
the funny part of the story was the fact that when i opened up the magazine randomly to see what was in there, i opened to an advertisement for something or other. i think it was actually a ad for another magazine, which also makes me laugh in retrospect.
anyway
the advertisement was a modern black-and-white affair with text and a photograph of a very weird-blender-looking-high-tech-device-with-a-handle
the text said:
"I don't know what it is, but I want it."
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being not in the habit of writing music anymore and anyway being disgusted with myself at the thought of using my own personal not-even-very-large heartbreak to write lyrics, i went to the local hipster bar instead.
i drank two oatmeal stouts and talked to a girl named rachel who has worked with the blind who approached me because she recognized me.
we talked about the coasts.
then i wrote in my journal and then i got sick of that and bummed a cigarette off a bike courier and drew a picture of myself feeling sorry for myself. i'm still 16. i can't handle the fact that my romantic self is dying, that i'm getting old, that doing the unexpected is too much of a bother.
that i know too well how things will go - because i do know, because i have the experience - and so i let go, i don't do.
i don't want to let go.
i want to torture myself, i want to feel hurt, i want to feel my own heart breaking, i want to remember what it's like to fall in love. it's been too many years, i've loved nothing but my self and my own creations and the scenery that goes along with it. fuck that.
meanwhile, my balanced self nods wisely saying: this is the pain that you have to experience to grow up. finding balance means feeling the pain of not doing certain things.
but i WANT to drive to other people's driveways at three in the morning and declare my love. i want to make things happen. irrational things.
exactly, my self says....but you don't.
but i don't WANT to be rational. i don't WANT to be responsible. that means i am OLD, and DEAD.
i realistically have nothing to lose.
why can't i be like i used to?
i want to be stupid.
run out naked into traffic and all that.
exactly.
.................................................................................................................
i just got an email from michael franti. we have the same management company - madison house (great bunch of people and dogs there).
we met a while ago in australia and went to each others shows. our music couldn't be more different but MAN the guys got soul. he is very very very tall and rarely wears shoes and writes overtly political reggae-rock-inspired songs about peace/politics/fucked-up-ness. he's a marley/mellow clash. i had no idea he was actually famous until i got home from that trip and they were playing his CD in my yoga studio, and everybody knew it. it's nice when you meet famous people and you don't know it. he's recording a new record in LA and doing yoga in the parking lot. he sounds like my long lost brother, except i'm not black. ok.
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from comments:
"Sorry about your cat. I always looked at temporal bodies as slingshots being pushed to their breaking point, and when we die the trigger is released. I'd like to think your cat is getting the ride of it's life right now."
thank you for all your Cat Still Exists confirmations.
i had a dream last night and Govinda was in it.
here it was:
i was in my old house, the house in lexington that i grew up in. almost all my dreams take place there. my best friend, who's a shrink (go figure) says that the old house represents my Self. it's stable, never-left, never-changing, a good repository for whatever images my poor and over-worked little brain-imagination can stuff inside it. (i also have very frequently recurring dreams in which all my possessions, and my self, get immersed in some body of water but we'll leave that to another blog SHALL WE).
i was running around, distracted and breakneck speed, wearing sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt, as i usually did back then. i kept feeling something trapped in the cuff off my pants, something like a little furry animal still alive, and i kept thinking i would tend to it, but i kept forgetting. finally, after too many bouts of running around and doing, i remembered to reach my hand up through my pants to see what the object was.
it was a tiny yellow chick, just barely hatched and hours old, beaten and bruised from all of my hustling about. i felt a guilt so heavy i couldn't bear it: if only i had paid attention sooner. i even knew, i felt it moving; yet i did nothing.
it's eyes fluttered open but couldnt stay open. it was barely moving, barely breathing. i thought to myself that maybe i should kill it and put it out of its misery.
i did do that once.
i was at some friend's house and all alone because they hadn't arrived. and there on the ground by the side of the house was a dying bird, a chickadee, a little one. it was obvious the end was near, it was barely moving, heaving little bird breaths.
my heart was breaking and before i could think about it twice i lifted my right black mary-jane (i remember not wearing my boots, because the sole of the show was paper-thin) and stepped on that bird as hard as i could. and then again. and again. it was harder than i thought. which reminds me of how easy it is to be killed but how hard it is to kill yourself.
anyway, my right foot reverberated for a long time. even now, under my right arch i can feel that little warm body and the bones crackling, not giving as easily as i thought they would, defying death.
this bird in the dream was like that bird. i put the bird down on the floor of my old bedroom, which was emptied of all the original furniture though the walls were still covered in mess-collage.
under the window on the wooden floor where my futon used to be.
i was grief-stricken, guilt-ridden, panicked and convinced i was working against time to save this little life, if that was even possible, which i doubted.
i ran down to the kitchen. there was my mother. i started rustling through drawers and cabinets:
"i need something, quick. a bird upstairs is dying. something warm. some safe place to put it."
she didn't seem phased and she suggested that i use some of the leftover warm tea-bags that were being used in the dish she was making.
"no! those won't work....i need something NOW something and quickly."
and i grabbed a dishcloth and a big bowl and ran back up to my room. in the place where the bird had been was little kitten. not a newborn kitten but a grown-enough one. fully functional.
my logical mind ignored itself and i thought:
how amazing
the chick has evolved into a kitten, and lived.
and then i thought to myself: that's completely stupid.
chickens don't turn into cats.
but i was under some sort of fantasy-dream power so i let that one go.
the kitten hopped up onto the top of my old bedroom closet, where govinda was lying on her side, white belly bared, being her very happy and alive and very soft-and-furry self.
the kitten cuddled up against her and they seemed to get along famously. i felt a surge.
i jumped down from the closet ledge and saw a large plastic cat-carrier sort of structure on the bare wooden floor. an incubator. it was emanating warmth and peeking in it, i saw a large pink blanket folded and in the corner, the newly-hatched yellow chick sleeping soundly. my mother had put it there.
when i told this dream to my friend, i burst into tears telling that last part.
i am broken-hearted and feeling old and losing my sense of freedom and self. my step-sister gave birth two days ago. i'm an aunt.
i know what most of it means.
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from comments:
"
Well you know what they say. If you've gone over the cliff, as we all do once we struggle out of the womb, you can do one of two things:
1. Enjoy the view
2. Scream the whole way down
"
exactly.
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i saw st. vincent play in boston at the middle east.
i think she's the most incredible thing i've seen/heard in a long time & i highly recommmend checking her shit out
regina+pj+joanjett+doris day
http://www.myspace.com/stvincent
go see her live if the tracks don't do it for you.
tell her hi.
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the other day, while driving back from the hospital and being faced with several faces of death, i was reminded of a poetic theme of my life: massachusetts avenue. i grew up off this street, many of my major epic break-ups and hook-ups and massive other goings-on have taken place on this street. i started composing a song in my head. i forced myself, when i got home, to finish the song.
it was not terrible, but it was Terrible. upon completing 47% of the song, it dawned on me that it was a complete, shameless rip-off of the jeep song, truce, ampersand and one other song which i forget now. that;s how bad it was.
i tried to finish it but instead lost myself back into the harsh reality that song-writing (any art, pretty much) is a craft that must be practiced, not mustered
(fuck, i really wanted to be artistic and lazy)
..................................
you can run into my arms
it's okay don't be alarmed (?)
come into me (delay: come into me)
there's no distance in between our love
ok stop right there.
there's no distance in between our love.
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN????
it makes no sense.
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two years ago i joked that i would only ever endorse one product if i had the choice: Dr. Bronner's Magic Castile Soap.
we wrote them some fan mail and they responded by sending an entire box of soap. i was thrilled. i gave the soap away.
i wish i could give this soap to everyone.
now they have made a movie about Dr. Bronner's life and family and soap (Dr. Bronner's Magic Soapbox) and brian and i went to see it the other night at the coolidge.
it is an incredible film: the moral ABC, heartbreak, family, mental instability, human connection, the holocaust and it's long-reaching aftershocks. all there.
go see it if it's at an arthouse near you:
the site for the film:
http://www.magicsoapbox.com
A human being works hard to teach love to his enemy, to help unite all mankind free, or that being is not yet Human; so, go the second mile, hold the other cheek brave, not meek! For we're All-One or none! All-One! Exceptions eternally none! ABSOLUTE NONE!
ALL-ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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from comments:
"I'll fess up: I kinda dig on that "Umbrella" song. Deep down, I'm just a dirty pop whore. I can't help myself. Don't get me started on "Fergalicious," and if you aren't familiar with that song, stay with that. It's the purest form of audio crack. Hear it just once and you're hooked."
audio crack is a very good way of putting it, but is it necessarily - de facto - bad for you?
i have been re-reading books that i've always meant to get back to. i have been trying to do more of that lately.idiotic
i have found that re-reading certain books from my teenage past that i found amazing then are even more amazing now, profoundly.
so i am going back Again and again.
in the past week i've been reading "the unbearable lightness of being" by milan kundera. i remember being stricken by it at 18, so stricken that i continued on as a fan and read 4 or 5 more of his books (immortality i also remember being striking, i'm going to re-read that in edinburgh).
let's talk about rihanna's "umbrella" in the context of kundera.
here are excerpts from the past few passages that i just happened to read on the plane (sabina = czech at-this=point-currently emigré painter):
Sabina's inner revolt against Communism was aesthetic rather than ethical in manner. What repelled her was not nearly so much the ugliness of the Communist world (ruined castles transformed into cow sheds) as the mask of beauty it tried to wear - in other words, Communist kitsch [for you Regina Spektor fans out there: Soviet Kitsch]. The model of Communist kitsch is the ceremony called May Day.
She had seen May Day parades during the time when people were still enthusiastic or still did their best to feign enthusiasm. The women all wore red, white and blue blouses, and the public, looking on from balconies and windows, could make out various five-pointed stars, hearts and letters when the marchers went into formation. Small brass bands accompanied the individual groups, keeping everyone in step. As a group approached the reviewing stand, even the most blasé faces wold beam with dazzling smiles, as if trying to prove they were properly joyful or, to be more precise, in proper agreement. Nor were they merely expressing political agreement with Communism; no, theirs was an agreement with being as such. The May Day ceremony drew it's inspiration from the deep well of the categorical agreement with being. The unwritten, unsung motto of the parade was not "Long live Communism!" but "Long live life!" The Power and cunning of Communist politics lay in the fact that it appropriated this slogan. For it was this idiotic tautology ("Long live life!") which attracted people indifferent to the theses of Communism to the Communist parade.
-
long live the punk cabaret!
-
you can stand under under under my umbrella.
-
i just listened to it again.
it's the synthesizers.
it is aimed to hit all the brainwashed children of today
PLUS everyone who loved Disintegration.
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And in fact, Soviet films, which flooded of all Soviet countries in that cruelest of times [post WWII], were saturated with incredible innocence and chastity. The greatest conflict that could occur between two Russian was a lovers' misunderstanding: he thought she no longer loved him she thought he no longer loved her. But in the final scene they would fall into each other's arms, tears of happiness trickling down their cheeks.
The current conventional interpretation of these films is this: they showed the Communist ideal, whereas Communist reality was worse.
Sabina always rebelled against this interpretation. Whenever she imagined the world of Soviet kitsch becoming a reality, she felt a shiver run down her back. She would unhesitatingly prefer life in a real Communist regime with all its persecution and meat queues. Life in the real Communist world was still livable. In the world of the Communist ideal made real, in that world of grinning idiots, she would have nothing to say, she would die of horror within a week.
-
when the sun shines
we'll shine together:
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???
does it mean that ONLY when the sun shines, we'll shine together?
meaning that when it rains we will NOT shine together, meaning that now that it's raining more than ever, you CAN'T stand under my umber-ella
ella ella e eh eh eh?
eh eh?
eh?
-
i played with a full band, Aberdeen City, this weekend. the four days that i spent before the run of shows were sublime. i went to their boiling hot allston rehearsal space and we worked non-stop for hours on end to arrange the songs. we ended up playing: five of mine ("don't take the flowers" - a new one, "night reconnaissance", "you owe me a coke' - which i have to re-title but actually i kind of like it, "awful detail", "the mouse and the model") and two tasteful covers ("together" by avril lavigne and "take ecstasy with me" by the magnetic fields). the peak experience came on rehearsal night three when we went for a beer run and i felt something akin to losing my band virginity. none of them knew it.
miller time in summertime. is happiness simple? answer = sometimes yes.
the shows got better and better each night and though i got the distinct feeling that the hardcore fans didnt want to hear guitars mixed in with my piano playing, i didn't care. i was having too good a time. aberdeen city gave me a blue mandolin and a chord book as a going-away present. i want to drink the champagne of beers forever. I want to get back to writing songs, eh eh eh.
as for aberdeen, go see the band in their own glory:
i highly recommend the songs "god is going to get sick of me" and "pretty pet":
http://www.myspace.com/aberdeencity
i usually describe them as mid-latter-day radiohead, but they would probably hate that.
i think what i love best is that i don't know what they are. they are an excellent band full of excellent, that's all.
also highly recommended live.
-
the germans have an expression for when you can't get a song out of your head: they say that you have an "ear worm".
-
She stood in front of her easel with a half-finished canvas on it, the old man in the armchair behind her observing every stroke of her brush.
"It's time we went home," he said at last with a glance to his watch.
She laid down her palette and went into the bathroom to wash. The old man raised himself out of his armchair and reached for his cane, which was leaning against a table. The door of the studio led directly out to the lawn. It was growing dark. Fifty feet away was a white clapboard house. The ground-floor windows were lit. Sabina was moved by the two windows shining out into the day.
All her life she had proclaimed kitsch her enemy. But hadn't she in fact been carrying it with her? Her kitsch was her image of home, all peace, quiet, and harmony, and ruled by a loving mother and wise father. It was an image that took shape within her after the death of her parents. The less her life resembled that sweetest of dreams, the more sensitive she was to its magic, and more than once she shed tears when the ungrateful daughter in a sentimental film embraced the neglected father as the windows of the happy family's house shone out into the dying day.
She had met the old man in New York. He was rich and liked paintings. He lived alone with his wife, also aging, in a house in the country. Facing the house, but still on his land, stood an old stable. He had had it remodeled into a studio for Sabina and would follow the movements of her brush for days on end.
Now all three of them were having supper together. The old woman called Sabina "my daughter", but all indications would lead one to believe the opposite, namely, that Sabina was the mother and that her two children doted on her, worshipped her, would do anything she asked.
Had she then, herself on the threshold of old age, found the parents who had been snatched from her as a girl? Had she at last found the children she had never had herself?
She was well aware it was an illusion. Her days with the aging couple were merely a brief interval. the old man was seriously ill, and when his wife was left on her own, she would go and live with their son in Canada. Sabina's path of betrayals would then continue elsewhere, and from the depths of her being, a silly mawkish song about two shining windows and the happy family living behind them would occasionally make its way into the unbearable lightness of being.
Though touched by the song, Sabina did not take her feeling seriously. She knew only too well that the song was a beautiful lie. As soon as kitsch is recognized for the lie it is, it moves into the context of non-kitsch, thus losing its authoritarian power and becoming as touching as any other human weakness. For none among us is superman enough to escape kitsch completely.
No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition.
take that rihanna
love
a
self-portrait in london, august 3 2007.
Posts
72 comments:
I see you as very broken, sometimes, and that means nothing to you (SHOULD mean nothing), because you don't know me, you don't know what my context for brokenness is.
It's cracks and fractures and pain, and shattered glass that is also flesh, that feels itself in its edges. Your heart is broken, because your heart can no longer break?
You are the symphony of your own destruction, playing the notes that break you in melancholy nostalgia, and you may think I'm just waxing poetic, trying to build pretty phrases to impress you, and maybe I am, but maybe I'm not.
Maybe it's only you.
That is hard for me. Whenever I felt disencouraged the last months, I listened to The Dresden Dolls and it instantly cheered me up. Now it kinda puzzles me to see you, havin the need of someone to cheer you up. But I'm no musician nor artist. So there aren't myspace-links I can give you and I won't show up a theatre near you.
All I can give is the one sentence, I summon in my head, when even the Dolls can't give me the strength I need.
"Be water, my friend."
In full length:
"Don't get set into one form, adapt it and build your own, and let it grow, be like water. Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless — like water. Now you put water in a cup, it becomes the cup; You put water into a bottle it becomes the bottle; You put it into a teapot it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend."
aberdeen's guitars and your keyboard were beautiful together, and with your voice added to the mix - sublime
any hc fans who didn't hear this need to re-educate their ears
Malte, that compliment was not for you.
Fuck umbrellas. We'll dance in the rain.
I used to love "Umbrella". Now that you've shown how senseless it is, it's kind of lost its touch.
Lovely self portrait, by the way. :)
I passed "unbearable lightness..." to someone a few years ago and they passed on your dolls self titled cd to me. kundera made more sense after listening to it. our fuckedupness tends to rear it's head no matter how we feel so we have something to write about later. we are designed to evolve after all. ain't that a bitch of a rub sometimes?
You break my big, gay heart.
I was wondering if you saw the movie "Once", and if you liked it.
Me, I loved it.
Love can be so fucking painful sometimes, since it knows only of its own possibilities, and not those of the lives which it engulfs and devours. But it is love, and no one can resist it. It's not rational or responsible, it's like nuclear fire.
Rationality and responsibility are not oldness and deadness. They are dimensions of wisdom that your "balanced self" can use from time to time. But not always. Remember the wavelike nature of those feelings, and you may become more able to watch the ebb and flow rather than be washed away.
Thanks for the recommendations- st. vincent rocks- cool blog too. And the first 5 pages of Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close have sucked me right in.
Nice dream recollection! WOW.
"the other day, while driving back from the hospital and being faced with several faces of death"
Excuse me. What!? Are you ill?
I think you're allowed to reference your songs within your songs. The muse doesn't always bite down hard enough, eh? When I'm riding my bike, lyrics come to me, but they're always fragments, never complete songs. I'm not a musician, but a music lover. I'm not an actor, but I play one in real life ...
[political protest lyric]
it's all fuckin country tunes
fuckin hot air balloons
blind, deaf and dumb parade
crucifixional crusade
hope that it's ending soon
...and shit like that.
Lately I'm haunted by "Me & The Minibar". Love the way that song starts out with dialog but ends in nauseous solitude. Vomit and run.
Thanks for a great post Amanda.
I had an awesome dresden dolls moment this week. The security alarm woke me up and was ringing for a couple of hours; we'd broken it somehow. The alarm was directly above the shower, and freakishly loud. The rest of my family were hating it, but I just stood in the shower singing the only song I could remember all the words to, dirty business. And that kept me relatively sane.
Your blog's always an interesting read Amanda.
Hi there. I'm completely new to the Dresden Dolls, I found and fell in love with your music and found this blog as an almost-fluke and ended up reading the whole thing, start-to-finish. First time I get to post on something fresh, since I have something to say.
First of all, on feeling the balance between the rational "I should be adult about this (this being life and whatnot)" and the "I really wish I could be spontaneous and wild and stupid about this" it's really a matter of choice.
Sure, part of it is maturity, but maturity is a personal thing, something we develop and cultivate. It's a way of dealing with the world that isn't self-destructive and reckless like our youth, but instead gives us the ability to weigh our actions beforehand in order to choose the right decisions.
That you feel this part of you saying "I should be adult" is because you cultivated a part of you to react to situations in an adult, responsible manner. It's the extension of your efforts. Not something to be frustrated by, but an accomplishment to be proud of. Not everyone ever gets this part of them to grow properly.
Though, finding the balancing act is tough. You have to be that responsible, mature person, but you have to know that you are who you are, and sometimes you have to be able to put it away and do something you know is stupid because it's YOU. Damn the consequences, love with your heart, be the living embodiment of whatever it is your feeling. You know, that sort of thing. Foolish, but to live properly is to exist in a state of perpetual foolishness. Denying that is denying self.
The trick is to learn what to indulge on. Pick your battles, and balance the wildness and the maturity.
Also ... a small comment on lazy art. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? I always look at people who create massive amounts of art effortlessly and go "what are they doing that I'm not?" It seems like there are people who can live and breathe art, while I struggle to bring forth ANYTHING, much less something worthwhile to be labelled 'ART'.
I've just come to the conclusion that some artists are gifted and natural, and some bring about creation through nothing more than a lot of dumb luck and pure force of will. You can try all you want, but it'll never be easy. It'll never be effortless. It's just a lot of damn hard work. Not worse or anything, though you might envy the hell out of those 'effortless artists'. But who knows? Maybe there's something to be gained by moving mountains to make things work? Maybe it bleeds through?
I dunno. Don't have all the answers. Just thought I'd share. This was long. Sorry about that.
Saw you last night at the Bush Hall gig. I'm still buzzing from it...you are real! how amazing is that? (though i guess fairly obvious from your point of view)
Music has always been such a private thing for me, but since discovering youtube I knew I had to see you live, and there you were, human and real. in all your massive singing glory, then all your real life, tiny and beautiful glory.
I had many things I wanted to ask or say, for instance- Do you know 'the handsome family'? a husband and wife band who are lyrically wonderous ("sometimes I flap my arms like a hummingbird just to remind myself I'll never fly, and sometimes i burn my arms with cigarettes just to pretend i wont scream when i die...")
but all i asked you was "where are the toilets?" (coz I'm that cool)
so now i shall say (coz the internet is fucking great that way isn't it?) that i love your music more than i've loved any other music. (blake says and astronaut are new faves) when i listen to it i like myself a little better, i'm not sure how you've done it but i can never thank you enough for that.
and as for the blog, it makes me like people a little better. coz in all your star-like glory you have just as many fears and insecurities. it makes me feel so happy that everyone is as fucked as eachother, coz none of us are really alone, however different we may seem. we're all beautifully miserable!
i just hope that when you're not beautifully miserable you feel even half as happy as you make your fans feel coz you deserve to dance and sing and leap for joy every day of your beautiful life.
thankyou.
(oh yeah, and after reading your last blog i dreamt about my dead cat too. i woke up crying...but cat still exists.)
xxx
I just logged on to tell you how much I felt for you feeling old, not writing songs, seeming miserable all together. I wanted to say something to cheer you up. I was so happy to read how well you've been feeling lately. I dreamt of you two night ago. I was at a show. it was great, you were great (even though brian was noth there :-( *sigh*) all my friends were there. To love: you can be a responsible grown up person and still do stupid things when being in love... or heartbroken. (i do)
As for writing: I suffered from massive writers block for six years now (but I know why) and I know that you won't. Why don't you want to "rip of" your own songs? we love them! I mean we all have different "most loved" songs, but you have very dedicated fans, that really love the music. (I take everything I can get into my greedy fingers and have never been disapointed). You helped me through a time when I was cmopletely speechless, all I could do was cry with your words (that I only partly understand)
wow that was long. sorry.
I live with your music every day.
I hope you'll get better soon.
J
"but i don't WANT to be rational. i don't WANT to be responsible. that means i am OLD, and DEAD.
i realistically have nothing to lose.
why can't i be like i used to?
i want to be stupid.
run out naked into traffic and all that."
I am eleven years your junior and all summer I have been feeling the EXACT same way. With one slight difference.
I never used to run naked into traffic or do crazy things. I was a Good Kid growing up and always did as my parents instructed. I got good grades and excelled at extra curriculars and never did anything spontaneous or out of the ordinary.
And then I moved out of my parents house and discovered that I had never actually felt anything at all.
In the past couple years, I've loosened up a bit. I've actually managed to remove about 3/4 of the stick from my ass and, despite the screaming protests of my "rational" mind, I have yet to harm myself with this lifestyle. And I'm a hell of a lot happier.
I guess my point (I swear to god I've got one in here somewhere) is that this "rational Vs. spontaneous" thing has nothing to do with age or maturity. I think the concept of maturity is quite flawed in our society.
Breaking up with someone via text-message is immature.
Running naked into traffic is just not normal.
and who ever said normal was such a good thing anyway?
love.
Isn't peppermint castile soap the best? It reminds me of my aunt's cabin which had ducks on the hand towels and blue gingham curtains in the kitchen. I ate sugar-free lollipops there but got to ride the horses. The ALL IN ONE!!! message used to baffle me then in later years I ignored it as christian propaganda as only a rebellious catholic school girl would. Now I can appreciate the real message of unity and peace it really displays. I will definitely check out the movie! OK!
*hug*
so i was thinking about your writing and i've been reading this book called "writers on writing" (i suppose that should be underlined but whatev) and it think it might be worth a read. it is a collection of essays from the new york times. kent haruf wrote an exceptionally interesting essay about his and other author's writing routines. he writes his first drafts with his glasses off, in a dark room, with a stocking over his head so that he cannot see his mistakes. you write your first drafts on your arms. nabokov wrote standing up. craig clevenger puts foil over his windows and turns off his cell phone and when he finishes each page, he hangs it up on photo wire like recently developed pictures.
"Still, I have to say, writing is all messier and more a matter of dead ends and fits and starts than a recitation like this one makes it out to be. And perhaps because writing fiction--this weird practice of telling artful lies, this peculiar habit of inventing imaginary people who talk and move and sleep and dream and wake up and kick and kiss one another--is so bizarre in itself is the reason why writers have to find bizarre ways to make it possible even to consider doing it.
So of course they have to write in their underwear and face the backs of dressers. Of course they have to pull stocking caps down over their faces. Otherwise they might as well do something practical and ordinary, become doctors and lawyers and ditch diggers like everyone else."
I know it doesn't necessarily fit with your situation but i thought of it anyway. keep on keepin' on.
Wait a minute, wait a minute!! Girlfriend, are you in love or not? If you are then you should have no problem shouting it to the person you lovr! Right??? All they can do is say "ehhh that's great" or "Hey wow I love you to!" I think you ARE in love with a man who lives very far away and you miss him terribly but you're afraid to tell him that! Am I right? NA NA NA NA NA!!! ( I know you understand what "NA NA NA NA NA" means! GO FOR HIM WOMAN!!!!!!He's hot!
"I don't know what it is, but I want it."
'i want to remember what it's like to fall in love. it's been too many years, i've loved nothing but my self and my own creations and the scenery that goes along with it. fuck that.'
Motherfucking exactly.
I ended up downloading "Umbrella" (I almost spelled it how she pronounces it) after reading the last entry. It's the beat. It's so fresh. I keep getting sidetracked by the lyrics a bit now, though. I start to analyze.
Are you admitting to certain "Fergalicious" tendencies, per chance? Because there's nothing wrong with that, if that's the case. When I say that song's like audio crack, I mean that. I'm freaking addicted. It's not even that popular anymore, and I still bust out whenever I hear it. Like, lyrics. And dancing.
Right. I need to move on from that.
My friend has dreams involving being submerged in different yarn and strings, or it just coming out of her. It's been a recurring thing all her life, I guess. She went through a phase a few months ago where it was the only thing she'd incorporate into her paintings. She mainly keeps those to herself, though.
I've had to make some shit decisions in my day, and I've felt a good amount of heartache, but reading your dream and the actual account of taking the chick out of its misery was pretty hard. I don't think I'd have it in me to do it. Your dream, however, touched me greatly. A lot of this entry seemed to touch me.
...
Have you ever used Dr. Bronner's as a body wash in the shower? It makes you tingly and smell pepperminty fresh.
I've never felt an urge to run naked through the streets, though. Different strokes, I suppose
I think probably all the stuff they ever tell you about settling down emotionally and growing up and whatever is just shit. You change, but you don't magically metamorphose into a new, sedentary, settled and figured-out person.
That would suck anyway.
Speaking of deconstruction, have you read the incredible amazing fascinating absorbing mindfuck that is Mark Z Danielewski's House of Leaves? I read it a year ago and it captivated me completely. I'm still finding new things in it.
I also recommend Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The only book I've ever read I would seriously describe as epic.
(I frequently lurk on blogs on message boards and in real life because it seems like no matter what I try to put into people they don't notice. Oh well. So this is my first comment.)
hmmm... 'coz we share this strange attraction to avril's second album [why the fuck?!] i can hmmm... recommend?
well there is that band called Flyleaf. they're not really good but... fuck me if the singer isn't like avril. and as a whole they're better then avril.
that's it.
also.
damn. since i've started listening to your music and reading your blog, i've got this amazing feeling that your my long lost sister.
i honestly hope that we will meet someday and have a small chat, so you've could destroy this bizzare dream or make it truth.
and.
i know that it's prolly horrible to say that, but i like to read when you struggle with... everything.
like i've said, in my head your my big sister whom shows me, that i'm not alone with my own struggle. that there are other people who feel the same, and that we long for each other.
well.
i hate to write such cheesy crap, but im anonymous in the internets, so i don't need to worry about the other people judgments. ha!
and on creating...
i love it. i will spend my life doing it, but it friggin' hurts, when stuff just don't work out. i hate it. i want to kill myself when it happens, because my life looses it's meaning. i want to write just the best stories every evening. i want to make movies that will change humanity. i want to feel that i'm making something good. i'm a creativity junkie. i'm a dead zombie when i don't create or experience art.
so... i think i understand you. and that makes me want to hug you and say that "everything is gonna be alright", then give you some tea "just stay calm, do some yoga, listen to music. just be patient."
and then we would ride on a unicorn with jesus.
or something like that.
damnit. now i feel like i wrote this comment to myself, not to you.
eh. fuck it.
and on being a pop-whore. at least i don't like nelly's furtado loose.
but still... damn you pop music!
k.
also, thanks for showing here the aberdeen city and estradsphere [i love sgm!].
amazing bands.
I love reading you blog.
And it's quite amazing that you just like the same saction of Milan Kunderas' "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"... Perhaps you just felt the same while reading this book as i do. It hurts. It make you laugh. There's a kind of pain in the stomach after reading it. But ut somehow feels good.
Like reading you blog. Like life.
Dani
www.danignom.twoday.net
Reading the comments on your blog is like meeting people and barely touching but still having a connection. I hope the beautiful intensity of some of the other posts here helps you through your rough times (with the exception of the bizarre postfight between damien and malte). Also, the deconstruction of umbrella was exactly what I needed to get my head around that song.
I feel like a lot of our society has become jaded. Damn the new millennium!
...no, just kidding. I love it here. But I wouldn't mind living in the 60's, either.
We should do away with meds. From now on, if you have ADD, have some tic-tacs. Headache? Here. Reese's Pieces.
Don't censor yourself.
Have you heard of "Free Hugs?"
Hey, there are many more colors in the world than black or white. You (I mean YOU Amanda) know it instinctively - life is a rainbow, and depending where you stand it can be just about any color at all.
You have a more special experience to share than Andy Warhol screen prints of Marilyn; and a more difficult art to practice (and muster).
Paint us all of your colors, not just blue. But blue is okay. Picasso got out of it. New Orleans is still in it.
Cat dreams of us too sometimes, wakes up and purrs. So should you.
So. Life is like art is like life. It exists only at the intersection of the foreground and the background. Where is your foreground? Your background?
Music without silence between the notes is just sound; joy without pain is just noise. A rainbow that's all one color is not a rainbow - (and because I can't be serious for longer than 10 seconds: "when a man is sitting, he is not standing")
You are the most wonderful neurotic crazy beautiful person! Run with it. We got your back girl.
NOTHING is over sweetie, in art, in human experience, not as long as your heart is still beating. Do you think the caterpillar (grin) becomes a butterfly without some regret and pain? It's all good - run with it.
Laugh, love, live! Be yourself, be good -
M
ah...
when the sun shines
we'll shine together
on bright days
you grew sun blind
(i was listening to "winter kills" when i read this and that just popped into my head and somehow it just seemed to fit. i've always imagined you covering that song by the way)
audio crack is a very good way of putting it, but is it necessarily - de facto - bad for you?
No, I don't think it is. I enjoy a good seemingly meaningless song and now and then i can find something special in its lack of meaning. or maybe it does have meaning, it just needs the right audience. There is an exception however. I mean some songs that are audio crack, like that damn "this is why i'm hot" song, has got to be bad for everyone. i hate that song, and i rarely hate songs, i like to give them all a fair chance. but i hear it and i can't imagine the writer putting those words on paper and actually thinking it's good.
does your romantic self have to be dying? death is so...permanent. is doing the unexpected something you have to plan? shouldn't the experience of such things make them easier? and in a way you are doing the unexpected because it's unexpected of you to do the expected. i think it will all come full circle and you will find your own balance. this is your own "eat, pray, love" journey. you've done italy, now you're in india, and next is indonesia where it will all come together.
Dr. Bronner's Magic Castile Soap.
Yes.
I use it every time I shower.
Almond is my favorite.
And the one in the blue bottle, the minty one, makes my whole body feel like my mouth after i've brushed my teeth. tingly.
i just watched a movie recently. conversations with other women. i enjoyed it. i wish i could remember the last line of the movie. it would be very fitting for this entry. now that i don't remember it i feel like i've teased you. but if you ever see it remember the last line.
having fun at the finge? ya, how could you not? i hope to be there next year, and i hope you're there as well.
i finally heard "guitar hero" via youtube which is probably a no no but eh ella ella eh eh. it's great by the way, spine chilling and all that good stuff. seriously, you got it right on that song.
all my love,
andrea
My best friend (who I have the pleasure of living with the majority of this summer) is pissed at me (get this: because she thought I was pissed at her, when I was actually just pissed because I tripped and twisted my ankle while we were walking, but I didn't specifically say I wasn't pissed at her--) and is now insisting on going to bed angry. SO, I thought I could either put my head through a wall (always a viable option) or read your blog and try to calm down. The latter seems to working thus far.
I know what you mean about all the crazy "in love" things a person does. Although, in my case, I've done all the ridiculous crazy things you see in movies bunches... aaand it never works out. And I keep trying to remind myself that pain is good, that it reminds me that I'm alive. And while I generally agree with that sentiment, a person can only strike out so many times before they get thrown off the team.
It's frustrating. But I keep trying-- I believe because I would simply stop breathing if I didn't.
What I need are some gills.
Dreams are best interpreted by the dreamer, but much of that seems straight forward to me.
I love that the chick evolved into a cat, almost as much as I love dream logic.
Last night I had lots of little dreams, and my mind would actually wake me up to conclude a dream, and then I'd fall right back asleep.
Ignoring the one were gang-violence erupted and EVERYONE got shot, I think the most interesting dream was while I was waiting for a train.
A stewardess of sorts came around as was giving people hot tea. I have purchased a ceramic souvenir cup (looked like a very tall shot glass, actually), so she filled that up for me instead of the complimentary cups. Except, when she went to hand it back to me, the woman sitting across from me took it instead.
A few moments later she commented on how her cup was different from everyone else's and I told her that was because it was mine. It went right over her head. But then the cup suddenly transmutated into a triangular, glossy cover book and was getting passed around from person to person.
When I finally got the book back, I knew there was some sort of secret pass code that would turn it back into a cup... but I couldn't remember it! After I'd woken up, I realized this happens a lot in my dreams. That objects transmutate into other object which then require some sort of passcode from me to restore them. I've yet to remember what one is-- as far as I can recall.
At some point, I'll have to look into what this all means.
Also, there's a line at the end of my favorite series (Revolutionary Girl Utena-- when I can afford it I'll buy you the DVDs and send them to you; most amazing show in existence, in my opinion) where one of the main characters says to the other:
"Someday, Shine with Me."
Out of context, I don't think I can explain it, but in context... it's perfect.
Alright. I officially fail at being able to put everything I need to say into one handy-dandy-fit-in-your-pocket-on-the-go-convenient comment. My apologies. This'll be it for the evening, at least.
Because I'm reading backwards: My cat just died too. He was 18, and we'd had him for 17 years. When I got come from college in early June I took him to the vet and she did not give him a good outlook... yet, after that, he perked up! Acted like an old man, but like he owned the place. That's how we was. Weeks pasted and I flew out to Arizona. Another week or two passed... and my mother calls me.
I'm waiting for a bus with my friend Sarah, out in the Arizona heat, and my mom calls. As she's talking, the bus pulls up. I take out my bus pass, get on while still on the cell phone, proceed to be one of those annoying people who talk on their phone while on the bus, swipe my card and go sit down. My card doesn't take, but I don't notice because I'm on the phone listening to my mother tell me about how my cat just died. The bus driver gives me a dirty look and starts yelling at me.
The next day, my mother attempted to send my pictures-- of my dead cat, after he was dead. She said she thought he looked peaceful. Fortunately, the pictures didn't go through and when she offered to send them a second time, I asked her not to.
Muffin (I know, but it fit-- I can't explain) was the longest relationship I've had. 17 years! Who else is going to love me for 17 years? In another week I get to fly home to him, buried in the back yard. I'm less than thrilled, to say the least.
And apparently my other cat has a tumor on her chin and needs surgery to have it removed. FAN-TASTIC.
I just... by itself, maybe it's not so bad. But this is all icing. Or, to quote Scrubs, "Well isn't that just the cherry on the giant crap sundae that is my day?"
And here's a picture I took, while not exactly sober:
http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b187/Rampala14/DSCF1594.jpg
That's Sarah on the right in her cavalier hat. I realized I could make neat shaped with the lights in the distance if I wiggled the camera while I took the picture. How profound of me.
Also: Don't know why I've recently become addicted to commenting on your blog (but there is something appealing about one-way conversations, no? and the idea that who knows who will read this far but still, it's out there). Anyway, about the songwriting -- I've been writing a lot, in my blog and elsewhere, fueled by Dresden Dolls, and even though we don't know each other, we've been intimate (on my end) because you've inspired me, which is the most intimate thing someone can do, I think. So even if you are having writer's block, be wondrous of this fact -- you are still creating through us, the people who write, who make music, who make art and are inspired by you. And find what inspires you in the same way.
natalie rose- thanks for your cat memories. We had the best cat ever, named Snoopy, for about fifteen years. He let our kid drag him all over the place and only scratched him once. Snoopy was a great cat.
Can't see your photos on the link you provided ... private album. Help?
hey. i got hung up on the part where you were in the bar and feeling 16... it's so weird to be getting older, huh? today someone at work told me that i had the energy of a little girl and for a minute i was thrilled and then i remembered "oh fuck, i'm 29 and about to be a bona fide teacher!". so where do you make that line in the sand, is there a line in the sand? maybe we're re-defining grown up. i just think about maude from "harold and maude". i want to be that kind of grown up.
Ah yes, to be young and naked again! But alas, the things we want to be are not necessarily the things we are.
Hm, written down this doesn't look half as wise and yodaesque as it did when it shot through my mind five minutes ago but then I had to go and answer the phone in between (mum...)and maybe something very very deeply meaningful got lost then and there, but probably not
ps: House of leaves! if that's the book I think it is then it must be truly overwhelming, somebody once tried to explain it to me and spilled his drink in the process and then mine and then his new one, and the mine and if they hadn't thrown us out he would still be in there spilling drinks over House of leaves (I dont know if spilled drinks actually qualify as good-book indicators, in my world they somehow do)
Funny. I was going to mention Real Simple the first time I was ever going to post a comment on your blog, but my wife told me it was lame for a guy to mention it on strange, popular woman's blog. Well, I think there some good stuff in that magazine, but I also think she was right.
Thank you for sharing, your dream especially. I love that you had a cat named Govinda; my parents would never have allowed it.
Amanda, I hope your balanced and irrational selves can agree to disagree enough so that you can enjoy doing some of the things you want to (in addition to all of that other responsible crap.) Having grown older with you, I would also add:
You don't have to be "like you used to" to do the things you want to do now.
Yours,
Atul
It is very likely that it is the book you are thinking of, Sebastian. I've only ever spilled one drink while trying to explain it, but by then the person whom I was attempting to explain it to was intrigued enough to go buy it, so we didn't get kicked out of anywhere.
It is really, really difficult to explain. I usually say something along the lines of, "It's a book about a guy named Johnny Truant who finds a book by a guy named Zampano about a movie by a guy named Will Navidson, who finds that his house is bigger on the inside than the outside. Oh, and Johnny's mom." and then fill that in a bit. Generally I make a muddle of the whole thing, but oh well. It's the kind of book that you can literally get lost in. Like Borges: "The book and the labyrinth were one and the same."
Ms. Palmer,
I dig your music, and I dig your mind. Find quotable gems on your blog all the time. But JEEZ-US the format is making me BLIND! Ach!
Anyhoo, sorry the inevitable lull of old fartitude has got you down. You're a ways off yet, so don't worry for the moment. Me, been there, done that, got the thick cotton XL T-shirt to hide my fat hairy gut. Wish I had something more witty to say, but I'm feeling senile and cranky and just can't be arsed. I need a nap.
Suzanne, I've been reading a lot of Borges, lately, and I'm pretty sure that Danielewski's father was a very big Borges fan.
The most abstracted level of the book (and POE's album Haunted, which is its soundtrack) is about the death of their father. The link, between the two is so clear that, like Borges, again,
"In a riddle whose answer is 'chess' what is the only forbidden word?"
That is to say, recommendation Thirded, or Fourthed. Yeah, it's fourthed.
THE CONCEPT OF THIS
Dear Amanda,
This is my third letter. I am just quietly reminding you who I am and that I am still persisting. I don’t know what this is becoming, but as I keep reading your blog I always find something to write to you about. Something to comment on and sympathise with. I think deep down I had hoped that by now I would be vaguely recognisable, but the hope of “letters” per se is long lost, but you can blog, and I can blog in response.
The whole concept bugs me, I guess I would have thought that I would be better at it by now. Every time I pollute your overstuffed inbox I have to fight something- Is it? Is it really just two people talking? If I were you I would want this, but does it really work? When you met Edward Ka-Spel, was it most important that he was everything to you or that you wanted to mean something to him?
And then, if you spent too much time debating the point, the idea… soon enough you find enough holes to make it not worth attempting at all.
Is it possible to become experienced and knowledgeable and not bitter and cynical as well?
As I may have regretfully admitted in the past, I am 16. Yet somehow… we are at the same point. My romantic self is dying, my risk-taking, house-trashing, love-declaring, traffic-streaking- self.
I am continually being told that my whole life is in front of me by these “adults” more embittered than me, who’s faces fall seconds after they say it because they conclude that we are in the same position and there is hope for me and not them. But is it not a greater tragedy that I have that opportunity and just can’t bring myself to use it? They tell me that I am so lucky, so advanced and gifted, that I am going through this shit that most people go through at 30. That it will stand me in good stead for the rest of my life.
But it won’t. There’s a reason that you only get bitter at a later age, because it is assumed that you have lived, or that you do not want to continue living at the same rate you are.
And, is fighting it truly unjustified? Is the reality that we have to concede that this is growing up? We have to hand over all control to out “balanced” selves? That part of us that has always viewed itself as better than the whole, and looks upon us with disdain? The part the fuels the Christian Guilt?
No. No! Please don’t let it be true. Things don’t have to get so desperate that the only way to retaliate is to torture ourselves.
Balance is balance. That of the wise and irrational selves in agreement.
But love? The greatest subject of war between them?
Love?
It erases all the progress that one thinks they have made with age, reality, maturity…
It is the very blood of the romantic self.
What inspires people to be idiots quite like love? The promise of love to someone who has been deprived of it?
Like forums and dating sites and blogs. Like this…
Anika.
A guy who finds a book that is about a guy who makes a movie about a guy whose...house...is...?
I'm lost...
Which means that is the book!
I've read next to nada by Borges though, but on labyrinths I can recommend 'the minotaur takes a cigarette break' by stephen sherrill, which actually isn't about labyrinths at all but about the minotaur working somewhere as a cook, very dry, sad and beautiful.
Yesterday I fell asleep in the tube and dreamed that I was walking upside down under water. When I woke I did not know the place and had drooled on my chin. The labyrinth is everywhere I guess...
I'm so glad you have a blog, it has been great reading since I had surgery on Friday.
Sometimes we lose ourselves for a while, but I think we usually find ourselves after fumbling around for a while.
I wanted to write something profound but I think the Vicodin hid what I was thinking, so I'll just finally confess that you are the only girl I've ever wanted to make out with. And there it is.
I'm so glad you have a blog, it has been great reading since I had surgery on Friday.
Sometimes we lose ourselves for a while, but I think we usually find ourselves after fumbling around for a while.
I wanted to write something profound but I think the Vicodin hid what I was thinking, so I'll just finally confess that you are the only girl I've ever wanted to make out with. And there it is.
You took that picture on my birtday! I'd like to think you put on that dress for me, as you were about 300 miles away from me (I live in the south of Holland). Anyway youre blog is shitlong, so I will read it again to make some better comment. I'm mostly lazy and scroll to the end.
I confess I haven't read all of these comments - so this refers to nothing up above and does only have a fleeting connection with your blog.
I wanted to say thanks for the recommendation to read Immortality. I had read the Unbearable Lightness of Being when I was about 19 and enjoyed it; but nowhere near as much as I enjoyed or appreciated Immortality: I read some great books sat in the heat of Andalucia - but this was the one that affected me most profoundly.
If you are considering re-reading it, I wouldn't give it a second thought - I wanted to as soon as I stopped - he has an incredible lightness of touch as an author, yet the book encompasses everything - the whole world in small encounters; but also... strangely not...
[aye, that didn't make much sense]
So...heartbreak and creativity? - I am lazy, I am an artist - sadly the two do not go together well and I don't have an answer for that. But I did used to think that I needed to suffer to be an artist. And in many ways, mostly in the past, I have suffered - but I thought I had to be suffering WHILST I was painting; ravaged by recent heartbreak and propped up on red wine and stimulants. For me, anyway, this is not the case.
You may say you haven't suffered heartbreak that you consider major - but I don't see how you can draw an equivalent between two people's suffering - my worst may pale next to someone else's - but it's always going to be my worst.
It's naturalto question the products of your creativity; I feel if we didn't any old rubbish would out...
[I'm going to stop this, as it probably quite, quite unhelpful...and hopefully everyone has stopped reading]
I wonder if this comment will get posted - unlike my myspace one about the new Gunther Grass autobiography - which maybe, they thought I was trying to advertise [I wasn't - not officially] - maybe objected to the semi naked women in my profile picture [I din't really think about this as it is one of my drawings] - maybe they thought I was an idiot [probably quite correctly] - anyway it's a very pretty book - that I haven't read yet.
I 'm amazed
just saw u last night in edinbra
one of the best performance i've seen
luv your blog
it might be amazing feeling to express yourself in so many ways and do it perfectly in all ways
while reading i caught myself in between lines
was an interesting self-journey4me
luv ya 4 your sincerity and openness
p.s. & your umbrella at spiegeltent was amazin
i hated it before
now i'm just hooked
listenin to it and seeing u and those amazin guys dancing besides u
10x for the show !
xxx
Amanda, I just wanted to let you know, that you are a beautiful writer. You are not only an artist with music, but you are an artist of words to. I love how open you are. Its refreshing to see someone who knows themselves so well. Or, at least better than most. I don't think anyone ever fully knows themselves, do they? Anyway. I've seen you everytime you've come to Salt Lake. I have your's and Brians autographs on numerous artifacts. You should know, your music means a lot to me. You are amazing the way you are, I hope the light in you never gets ruined, but, gets brighter with more knowledge. *hugs*
I've never seen you. I don't think I will see you for a long time. A long, long time. I live in Shithole, Maine, and it's been awhile since I have been anywhere else. That's really not the point. I really wanted to say something highly inspirational, but I've never been one with the artsy fartsy gene, so I'll just say this: I would kill to meet you, and I will someday.
Recently, I visited my local Hot Topic for the one Dresden Dolls teeshirt they have in stock and the only size they had left was a youth large. I am nowhere near a youth large, so I bought one from your website instead and said, "To hell with Hot Topic!" but that's not true. I am a fan of that store.
The reason I fell in love with you is that I knew a boy I was infatuated with liked you, so I listened to your music. I haven't stopped since. I just cycle through it. It's like an addiction, but there aren't any bad consequences to this addiction.
I also want you to know: if you're reading this, you're a better person than I. I am the 52nd comment, and if I were you, I don't think I would read all of these comments, especially one written at one in the morning by some crazy, sixteen-year-old fan who is rambling on about a whole lot of nothing. I just really want to let you know that you changed my life. I mean, realistically, I would have been fine had I not come across your music. Even so, I'm so glad I did.
Thank you so much for being you, and if you're reading this, I'm sorry I'm an idiot. Most sincerely,
Angela
P.S. To the girl who said she'd make out with you, she's not alone. ;)
I've had many long, drawn out, and heated debates about "Umbrella", and I was happy to see how you felt about it.
to angela,
i am the 55th comment and i hope that you, like i have, come back to this page to see if someone has commented on your comment or if (freaking amazingly) Amanda has taken note of it.
she would be proud that we are posting a comment on a comment on a comment and starting a conversation, eh?
but i would like to say that i am somewhat of the same denomination as you. i am 16 as my letter to Manda explains (do read it if you like) and i am of course a DD fan. i have sacrifced a great portion of my life to reading and writing things pertaining to Amamda. the above comment of mine is my third letter and third failed attempt at contacting her.
IS THERE SEROIUSLY ANYONE HERE WHO HAS MANAGED TO CONTACT HER?
it is a hopeless yet impossible to let go of dream.
with reference to the what katiebee said about Amanda being the only girl she would make out with, all i have to say is- anytime i find myself thinking about Amanda romantically i am reminded of "On Not Taking Home A Stranger" how she describes the fan and their imagined relationship. you could never mean as much to her as she does to you. it's the fan-rockstar dynamic, and it would break your heart everytime you looked at her and rememembered who she was and what happened up until this point...
Your music....lyrics...style. everyfuckingthing....has changed my entire life. In a very good (amazing) way. I am 39. And an extreme music junkie. But..every single facet, is what I've needed and waited for my entire life. SO fucking what if that makes me strange(r). I love it. :) THANX!
I checked out the St.Vincent MySpace page and I liked it, but, I was surprised that you didn't include Kate Bush and/or Jane Siberry in your "regina+pj+..." comment. In particular the "Now Now" song - it could have been a Kate Bush homage.
To Angela and mainly Anika,
I write this to show that someone noticed you, because I remember what it meant to be sixteen and unnoticed, how frustrating it is.
You two write beautifully. Maybe Amanda will respond, maybe she will not. Remember she is human, and we make her myth through our love for her, but strip that away -- and there she is, another woman living her life with maybe a bazillion things to do and only one mind to do it with.
Do what I do with my favorite artists -- let them speak through the music, take what I can, and go along for the ride of their creativity.
Someday, I hope for you what I found -- sometimes, just sometimes, the reality of life is better than the myths that we create for ourselves. And those moments are what makes life living.
here is a band you should check out:
http://www.myspace.com/mookband
they are called mook and they are from nyc and they're cool. my mother now confuses them with the dresden dolls. i can't exactly see how she does...or i suppose a sliver of myself can.
i just read all of the other posts and before i actually got an account here, i was going to just post a comment to the myspace. but lo and behold, i didn't.
p.s. i went to waterfire in providence last night and took pictures with the statues and thought of the picture of you from the 2002 waterfire (on the myspace). it was like "zing! connection!"
hope you're well.
-corey
To use a lyric from a song that I love- Henry David would "vomit and run" after only 5 minutes of looking at Real Simple, which like so many things these days, is ass backward, and is anything BUT simple.
You like Interpol?
My mom told me that when I was about two, she bought me an (Extra-Small!) pink tutu, and I wore it for a week straight without taking it off, and that the only reason why I took it off was because I had a mud-fight with my sister.
I just found the afore-mentioned tutu, and your picture made me happy.
This has nothing to do with your post Amanda.
A fab pic of you at the edinburgh festival was in the scottish edition of the free paper "The Metro" on Monday. The great thing about this photo was that it was not set up. Some tourist had just saw you busking and took your photo.
I think if you contact the paper at www.metro.co.uk you can get a copy.
Take care
Laura
Have a cigarette, put on some cyndi and run around the street naked okay...rent a bouncy castle out, bite someones dick off, watch days and days of black books, the young ones, bottom with nothing to eat except fat drenched cheesy chips and toast with marmite on it (even if you dont like marmite!), pretend you are in high school again, laugh at the people who were mean to you or put you down, learn to skateboard, catch a series of buses/trains, dont look at where your going, walk around, stand still, have beer realise that you've seen it all before, but laugh at it, have another cigarette, dress like a chav for a day, pretend your a cat. think of every bad memory of your childhood get a bat or some sort of destructive instrument and batter the living day lights out of you s
Leave responsibility and whatever comes along with that, tied to the kitchen chair and suffocate it with laughing gas.
its amazing what sort of images flash into you head when you mix 'sex changes' with Pulp 'common people' with a couple cans of beer. try that too.
My neighbor got drunk and drove her car through her garage door-- for the third time-- last week.
Sometimes these weird things just happen in life that suddenly put everything back into perspective.
I just smile when I look over and see her garage door hanging there. Thinking that one good breeze and that sucker is going down.
I don't know why but it just makes my day.
TO ANIKA...
ON CONTACTING AMANDA.
IN THE HOPE THAT YOU HAVENT GIVEN UP ON A DREAM.
i happened across yuor comment in the way you do when like so many you obsessivly (for better or worse) read this blog.
havin felt like you do about "contacting amanada" and running over so much shit in my head about it just as you said ...like is it more important to you that if u do meet her you make an impression or that she makes some kind of impression on you. shoudl you jst stand like a stunned idiot and push merch at her to sign? or shud u give free reign to your thoughts and tongue and let run wild? and hope that sumwhere in all the rambling that comes out, your point gets put across, that you mean this with every integral part of you. that you love what they do and who they are and that the have made a REAL tangiable difference to your life....
and then it begins to break down because your thinking to much and you wonder could it EVER just be two people talking?...
and im not sure. all i know is that i got very very lucky and managed to cling onto one dream long enough to make it happen in one way or other.
and on meeting amanda, i dont know who made impressions of what and which but every preconcieved idea you could of had about it instantly goes out the window when your standing in front of her and you can actually look into her eyes and just think...HOW THE FUCK DO I BEGIN TO EXPLAIN MYSELF?...but the beauty is you give up on the need to. and it kind of all just melts away into a rushed hand scrawled letter you wrote months ago,a hug and some signed merch.
and you go away and you hope she knew. and you think she did....cus if not what was the point?...
but to answer your question YES THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THEIR WHO MANAGED TO "CONTACT amanda" for want of a better sentence
and YES despite the fan-rockstar dynamic you can, dare i say it...chance at feeling like she could, perhaps in better circumstances have been a friend or someone who could have ment something to you or VISA VERSA ...or or or...but thats where it breaks down again because its not worth thinking about.
the only thing you have to let go of is your own preconceptions and just realise mrs palmer is an amazingly talented lady, but a human being like the rest of us.
once you get that i think theres got to be some mutual respect from either side.
and YES!
id certainly like to thing your right thow, she would be proud that we are posting a comment on a comment on a comment and starting a conversation...
god bless the internet and long may it live.
you know where this is going....
long live the punk cabaret!
Anika,
I admit it. I'm hypocritical and the person who posted above me is a much better person than I am because while I can spout off Hallmark greeting card messages, she speaks from the heart -- and I do hope you read it, and realize that Amanda will read it and realize the wonderfulness of what you have created -- DD fans who look to help and talk to each other.
I also admit it. Shortly after posting on here, I wrote an embarrassingly revealing journal entry in which I wrote about feeling the very same things that you felt about meeting her. And then, because this is the age of the Internet, where private thoughts are not really your own but are meant to be shouted into public domains, I sent it off to the DD email.
What strikes me about DD fans though (and keeps me reading this comments board almost every other day), as opposed to, say, Justin Timberlake fans, is that many of us don't want to wet T-shirt poster version (although, that would be hot as well, don't get me wrong). We want the real person, scars, wrinkles and all, and we just want to talk (maybe before making out, but still) -- about good books, about types of tea, about making music.
And that's a testemant to Amanda Palmer doing what she does so well, which is making us feel close and loved, despite our physical/emotional/social distances.
I hope for you, along with the writer above me, Anika, that myth and reality collide, and Amanda finds you through all the hackneyed bullshit that people like me write to her, and responds.
OMG. to use the over used chat room abbreviation expression.
i really, for once, feel that i can't express how (insert suitably descriptive emotion here) i am. i have stared a conversation. a comment on a comment on a comment that has really tapped into a mutual feeling. and i guess that this is one of the reasons that i love the Dres Dolls and their community. because i feel like i belong with it.
and here i sit with veritable emotion heavy in my eyes and clouding my keyboard.
oh its silly, i know, i know.
but it does mean a lot to me.
because as i wanted to express earlier there is a lot more behind my love for the Dresden Dolls than thinking that their music is cool.
and from all that i would like to share this little gem with you because i thought it was particularly consoling:
when there is nothing else for Amanda to do, when her fantasy about the deranged fan living in her garage ala "sunset boulevard" comes true (and lets hope anything like that is years off yet!) but my email will still be sitting at the bottom of her inbox waiting to be read and thought over. and i will be much older and more noticed, (i may have even forgotten who she is) and then, then, we will talk. like normal people because it won't matter, and it shouldn't.
*big knowing smiling nod*
thank you to Musings and Timeandalittleblackcload.
She has a blog:
http://lovelettersofstvincent.blogspot.com/
my dear amanda,
you're blogs are wonderful.... i feel as if i've known you for a while. the details you give, makes it feel as if we (the readers) were there with you. its wonderful. i hope someday when we meet (i say when bc i have every intention of meeting you if i can), i hope its more than just a quick best wishes and some ink on a picture. as much as i'd love an autograph, i prefer a great conversation. honestly if i saw you walking down the road, (reguardless whether i knew you are famous or not) i'd most likely at least say hello. anywhen until then be safe, be happy, and always remember that we (me, and you and all these other people) shine together whether or not its sunny.
be well,
PJ
Rhianna should do one of those commercials like Jessica Simpson did with "These bites were made for poppin' and that's just what they'll do, one of these days these bites are gonna pop all over you." EXCEPT... Rhianna should advertise for Nutella, and be like "You should eat Nutella ella ella eh eh eh, just go eat Nutella ella ella eh eh eh..."
You know, I saw a sign at Cianti's that said "Come chill under our umbrella ella ellas." Me---> 0.0
MUSINGS AND ANIKA...
nuthign i said makes me a better person then any others...maybe some of us are just more realistic...but i think anika u put it the best urself witht he justin timberlake fans V the DD fans...(not that im dissing JT, the dude rocks!) but theres definitly alot more too it then a wet tshirt poster (but as u also point out...HOT...HAHA)
and the fact that people wud even have this conversaion on a comment on a comment on a comment on a comment...on a blog on a website on the internet to people a million miles apart...possibly... is as u said a testiment to Ms P...
and i hope somewhere that hits home, with the fans, with her with brian and any other artists that colaborate...(i cant spell ...but frankly...fuck it...)and with anyone who might just happen across this blog in years to come and gain something from it...or feel somehow better for it...
and yes...maybe when wer all old and inboxs have finally began to empty...we could all just sit down and talk and email (if age and arthritis hasnt forsaken our clickity clanking keyboarding...)
and i hope so...because i know im not going forget any of it anytime soon...
and maybe when im old and gray il still manage to find my way to blogger...and put a bolwer hat on for kicks...and hopfully this will all be here long after weve gone.
Viva the Punk cabaret!
I'm pretty sure you are my new favorite artist ever (more so?) for loving not just Unbearable Lightness but also other Kundera... have you read the Book of Laughter and Forgetting? And (strangely) my favorite, Slowness? I highly recommend them. Listening to Missed Me while reading his name in your blog nearly gave me a heart attack of joy! I know it's a bit late seeing as how this is from several months ago, but I had some catching up to do.
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