well hello blog. i suppose that's kind of like the millennium version of "dear diary." do people write in diaries anymore? i sometimes think that something is lost in translation when i write in an online journal instead of a "real" one. intimacy for one: it's so much easier to confide in the pages of a paper journal and much harder to be candid with a computer that transcribes my thoughts into a neat black and white script. neither my thoughts nor my handwriting is neat, so it feels a bit artificial at times. also, i like the sensual pleasure derived from writing in a journal--i like picking out journals with pretty patterns on them, the way that ink from a really good pen bleeds into a page, and seeing the blank pages fill up with the chaotic black scrawl of anecdotes, reminders, and thoughts about life. but in the past these journals have had a way of disappearing--one, i think, had the unfortunate fate of being left in a QFC shopping cart. so hopefully this will do as a replacement.
my birthday was a few weeks back, and it was a big one--the big two-five. so i thought that it warranted a commemorative post, and here it is. i turned twenty-five, and i still have not grown up. hopefully i never will.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
the magnetic fields
well i saw the magnetic fields on march 6th at "the town hall" in seattle. yes, this is a real place, although i had never heard of it until this magnetic fields show. the venue is basically an old converted church, and that right there is the setting for a pretty unique concert experience. the only other times i've been to a church--or a place that used to be a church, for that matter--for a show have been to see a chamber concert, piano recital, or an otherwise symphonic sound experience. so when i walked from the red velvet-draped foyer into a room covered by this vaulted ceiling peaked in stained glass, i was surprised. because the magnetic fields are a rock band, not a chamber group, and i don't expect to watch a rock show from a pew underneath stained glass.
what i didn't realize was that a magnetic fields show is really more akin to a chamber concert than a rock show. at most musical performances--jazz, hip-hop, or rock--there are unique protocols for audience (and performer) behavior. musical norms, i suppose, and at the symphony, these norms include silence--like even rustling programs are a no-no--at all times except when applauding the performers. and these applause may only come at the completion of a piece, not after only the first or second movement, or the offending audience member will receive at the least a derisive glance from a more knowledgeable neighbor and at worse a hostile hush for silence. and i'm okay with this rigid framework because it's part of the whole symphonic experience. which is an old school experience--i mean old school like 1850--and requires a little old school decorum. but when every time i took a picture at the magnetic fields concert i worried that i'd be scolded by some guy sitting behind me--or, fuck, by stephin merritt himself--i was a little annoyed. still, i wasn't about to be like the poor guy at stage left: at the end of "the nun's litany" stephin merritt jumped off the stage and beelined for this dude to tell him to turn off his camera as the flashing red light was making him "decide whether to sing another verse or have a seizure." but maybe i shouldn't complain that this misanthrope was, well, misanthropic. i mean, i'm not such a big fan of people too sometimes--like this past week when suddenly everyone in seattle forgot how to drive in the rain and it took me 20 minutes to travel 5 miles on I-5. actually, it's the simultaneous bitterness and honesty in merritt's lyrics about relationships that i love. but i want to be able to sing along to those lyrics. when merritt et al played "all my pretty words," my fav mag fields song, i wanted to sing at the top of my angsty lungs:
You are a splendid butterfly
It is your wings that make you beautiful
And I could make you fly away
But I could never make you stay
You said you were in love with me
Both of us know that that's impossible
And I could make you rue the day
But I could never make you stay
but i was instead resigned to lip sync with as much passion as i dared in the quite and still room.
so, wow, it seems like i didn't like the show at all. really that's not true, i just expected something
else. and in retrospect perhaps i shouldn't have. from one of my frequent wikipedia binges i discovered (before the concert) that stephin merritt is extremely sensitive to sound and even plugs his ears when audiences applaud (which he totally does). so it makes sense that he would choose a venue that encourages symphony-like behavior, and it explains the all-acoustic performance on a tour promoting the aptly-named latest release titled "distortion." even the mic-ing was minimal, and without any electronic muddle the band was left entirely naked. every note they sang or played on guitar, piano, or cello was on display. and every note was pure and perfect. their musicianship was really astounding: i was mesmerized the entire show (particularly by the guitarist and cellist, neither of whom said a word the entire night yet still held me rapt by some pretty crazy classical skills. also shirley sims, the female vocalist, had a voice that seemed to come straight out of a computer, in a good way. and the pianist's voice, while less mechanically flawless, was so sweet and earnest--an ironic contrast to merritt's dry, sometimes bitter lyrics. and merritt's lethargic and languishing baritone, well, it was beautiful). it really was an unforgettable experience, especially given the fucking epic set list, so why is this review mostly negative? i guess i'm better at dwelling on the negative than i am at remembering the good. which is probably why i love the magnetic fields so much.
what i didn't realize was that a magnetic fields show is really more akin to a chamber concert than a rock show. at most musical performances--jazz, hip-hop, or rock--there are unique protocols for audience (and performer) behavior. musical norms, i suppose, and at the symphony, these norms include silence--like even rustling programs are a no-no--at all times except when applauding the performers. and these applause may only come at the completion of a piece, not after only the first or second movement, or the offending audience member will receive at the least a derisive glance from a more knowledgeable neighbor and at worse a hostile hush for silence. and i'm okay with this rigid framework because it's part of the whole symphonic experience. which is an old school experience--i mean old school like 1850--and requires a little old school decorum. but when every time i took a picture at the magnetic fields concert i worried that i'd be scolded by some guy sitting behind me--or, fuck, by stephin merritt himself--i was a little annoyed. still, i wasn't about to be like the poor guy at stage left: at the end of "the nun's litany" stephin merritt jumped off the stage and beelined for this dude to tell him to turn off his camera as the flashing red light was making him "decide whether to sing another verse or have a seizure." but maybe i shouldn't complain that this misanthrope was, well, misanthropic. i mean, i'm not such a big fan of people too sometimes--like this past week when suddenly everyone in seattle forgot how to drive in the rain and it took me 20 minutes to travel 5 miles on I-5. actually, it's the simultaneous bitterness and honesty in merritt's lyrics about relationships that i love. but i want to be able to sing along to those lyrics. when merritt et al played "all my pretty words," my fav mag fields song, i wanted to sing at the top of my angsty lungs:
You are a splendid butterfly
It is your wings that make you beautiful
And I could make you fly away
But I could never make you stay
You said you were in love with me
Both of us know that that's impossible
And I could make you rue the day
But I could never make you stay
but i was instead resigned to lip sync with as much passion as i dared in the quite and still room.
so, wow, it seems like i didn't like the show at all. really that's not true, i just expected something
else. and in retrospect perhaps i shouldn't have. from one of my frequent wikipedia binges i discovered (before the concert) that stephin merritt is extremely sensitive to sound and even plugs his ears when audiences applaud (which he totally does). so it makes sense that he would choose a venue that encourages symphony-like behavior, and it explains the all-acoustic performance on a tour promoting the aptly-named latest release titled "distortion." even the mic-ing was minimal, and without any electronic muddle the band was left entirely naked. every note they sang or played on guitar, piano, or cello was on display. and every note was pure and perfect. their musicianship was really astounding: i was mesmerized the entire show (particularly by the guitarist and cellist, neither of whom said a word the entire night yet still held me rapt by some pretty crazy classical skills. also shirley sims, the female vocalist, had a voice that seemed to come straight out of a computer, in a good way. and the pianist's voice, while less mechanically flawless, was so sweet and earnest--an ironic contrast to merritt's dry, sometimes bitter lyrics. and merritt's lethargic and languishing baritone, well, it was beautiful). it really was an unforgettable experience, especially given the fucking epic set list, so why is this review mostly negative? i guess i'm better at dwelling on the negative than i am at remembering the good. which is probably why i love the magnetic fields so much.Wednesday, March 5, 2008
hello, old friend
the problem with being a completely inconsistent blogger is that i never know where to begin when i finally do come around to spitting out another post. this thing is like a friend i don't see that often: i want to stay in touch, but then after a certain passage of time even the idea of making the long-neglected phone call seems awkward because so many interesting things have happened--and okay some not so interesting ones as well--but just LIFE has happened, and it has already kind of soaked in and dissolved and i can't really remember the particulars anymore. maybe i'm kind-of like a borg, but like it's my memories that are absorbed into a collective consciousness called "shannan." or something. anyway basically i'm saying that my memory really sucks and i can't recall things unless i write them down immediately.
and a lot of interesting stuff has happened--north carolina, and surfing, and climbing water towers after a
n excess of beer and oysters, and hot hot hot impulsive boys who climb the water tower with me, and skinny dipping in the atlantic, and ed, and dolphins and plovers--and also cancer, and coming back to seattle, and living at home, and concerts concerts concerts, and more boys, and routine, and wanderlust--this has pretty much been life for the past 6 months, and let that be enough to help me remember.
right now i am listening to the new cloud cult album, which means that i am in a good place. i think that cloud cult is one of the only bands that i can listen to regardless of my mood. usually i pick music to match my mood, but cloud cult's lyrics and dramatic orchestration are just so powerful that they completely transcend my manic mood shifts. i really do feel at peace listening to cloud cult. and yes i am a dirty new age hippie. but i can feel the unity that people who seem to "get it" talk about, and i really want to "get it" myself, but "it" evades me unless i'm listening to cloud cult or maybe mozart's requiem or reading gary snyder. i think that music and literature have taken the place of my bedtime prayers.
and a lot of interesting stuff has happened--north carolina, and surfing, and climbing water towers after a
n excess of beer and oysters, and hot hot hot impulsive boys who climb the water tower with me, and skinny dipping in the atlantic, and ed, and dolphins and plovers--and also cancer, and coming back to seattle, and living at home, and concerts concerts concerts, and more boys, and routine, and wanderlust--this has pretty much been life for the past 6 months, and let that be enough to help me remember.right now i am listening to the new cloud cult album, which means that i am in a good place. i think that cloud cult is one of the only bands that i can listen to regardless of my mood. usually i pick music to match my mood, but cloud cult's lyrics and dramatic orchestration are just so powerful that they completely transcend my manic mood shifts. i really do feel at peace listening to cloud cult. and yes i am a dirty new age hippie. but i can feel the unity that people who seem to "get it" talk about, and i really want to "get it" myself, but "it" evades me unless i'm listening to cloud cult or maybe mozart's requiem or reading gary snyder. i think that music and literature have taken the place of my bedtime prayers.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
how i love you kexp
so i'm currently sitting at my desk in detroit, tying up loose ends before leaving and roadtripping it back to seattle. and while i'm archiving furnace program files (um, i like the word archiving because it sounds official but really all i'm doing is stuffing folders into a box that will soon be relegated to a scary basement) and writing up protocols for the recycling program i hear the new bloc party, the new tegan and sara, the new okkervil river, fugazi, and the blue scholars streaming on my desk computer. all within the same 45-minute period. omg kexp i love you and i want to marry you and have like ten thousand of your babies!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
space is big. really big.
hmmm, i wonder why it seemed necessary in the first post to justify writing in this thing. it’s not like was offering an apology for my faith or anything; it's just journaling, really. although, let’s be honest, the topic of faith is sure to come up sooner or later. still, this need to explain things is sometimes so bothersome. is it an innate character trait (flaw?) or, after four years of too much scientific method and literary analysis, have i finally become the ultimate empirical/analytical machine?! ahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! *ahem*
actually i recently have had a few conversations about this very thing with mathew. we were at an art gallery in milwaukee in a room with paintings that had lots of solid colors and geometric shapes—similar to those paintings of orange or blue or red-colored squares. naturally, we started philosophizing on the nature of beauty. is something beautiful if it requires an explanation? it’s difficult to understand “the wasteland” without footnotes or without being as well read and bookish as t.s. elliot himself, and i’m certainly not. so is “the wasteland” still beautiful when it requires all those footnotes and appendices? and was that giant hanging piece of felt in the room just before this one beautiful without the signage telling me that it was a quintessential example of postminimalist art? hmmm, the sign says that postminimalism is "a movement in which artists use the physical laws of nature to create art," so the giant felt cord hanging on the wall and drooping deeply in the center is beautiful because of gravity. of course! it is all so obvious, like one of those philosophy 101 syllogisms: gravity makes the felt droop and gravity is natural and nature is beautiful so therefore...this felt is beautiful! thank you, sign!
but i don't need a sign to tell me that the ocean is beautiful. duh it's the ocean. i don't have to deconstruct an ocean sunset to appreciate it. but sometimes i do anyway. right now for instance. why, shannan, is that ocean beautiful? is it because it is the most direct way we have of accessing the creator, the divine, wisdom, god? shit, the sunset isn't as pretty any more. STOPSTOPSTOP! why can’t i just be in this beauty? why is there the need to deconstruct it, or understand my place in it? it’s kind of like my whole resistance to labels in general. you stick a label on it—a person, a jar of peanut butter, or a relationship—and suddenly the thing comes with all these expectations. what is this? a jar of peanut butter? well i like to put peanut butter on bread, that's what you do with peanut butter. but maybe if i hadn't known it was peanut butter i would have done a taste test to see what it was and determined that it actually would taste good with my broccoli. which it does, in fact. omg that was ridiculous. the point is, labels=limitations and restrictions. but they’re also *sigh* necessary. they help you understand things. no labels at all give things the freedom to be...absolutely nothing. which let’s be honest feels so f-ing good sometimes, to be completely obliterated. oh sweet oblivion you feel alright. but do you bring me closer to god? sometimes.
ewe i hate that i just wrote all of this, but i feel like i wanted to remember this thought because at the time (um, that location of this labyrinthine thought process was the milwaukee art museum, remember?) i felt so at peace with where it ended up. plus "the first" blogs seem so intimidating—they needs to say something, right?—so i just keep going and going and going. and now it just seems convoluted and ick and i don't think i even really got at the original thought so…ugh.
i watched the painted veil last nite and was struck when naomi watts’ character said to her husband, “if people only spoke when they had something to say, then we would all be silent all the time.” maybe i need to apply this to life in general. if i only acted when there was a good reason for doing so, or at least a reason that i found entirely satisfactory, then i would probably never do anything at all. i'd just lie down on a coach and that would be it. or maybe i wouldn’t even lie down. i’d be like the people in the dead city on Miranda. those people just stopped everything, too apathetic even to lie down when they died. lenke, i want you to show the people of the world what it feels like to be ALIVE!
actually i recently have had a few conversations about this very thing with mathew. we were at an art gallery in milwaukee in a room with paintings that had lots of solid colors and geometric shapes—similar to those paintings of orange or blue or red-colored squares. naturally, we started philosophizing on the nature of beauty. is something beautiful if it requires an explanation? it’s difficult to understand “the wasteland” without footnotes or without being as well read and bookish as t.s. elliot himself, and i’m certainly not. so is “the wasteland” still beautiful when it requires all those footnotes and appendices? and was that giant hanging piece of felt in the room just before this one beautiful without the signage telling me that it was a quintessential example of postminimalist art? hmmm, the sign says that postminimalism is "a movement in which artists use the physical laws of nature to create art," so the giant felt cord hanging on the wall and drooping deeply in the center is beautiful because of gravity. of course! it is all so obvious, like one of those philosophy 101 syllogisms: gravity makes the felt droop and gravity is natural and nature is beautiful so therefore...this felt is beautiful! thank you, sign!
but i don't need a sign to tell me that the ocean is beautiful. duh it's the ocean. i don't have to deconstruct an ocean sunset to appreciate it. but sometimes i do anyway. right now for instance. why, shannan, is that ocean beautiful? is it because it is the most direct way we have of accessing the creator, the divine, wisdom, god? shit, the sunset isn't as pretty any more. STOPSTOPSTOP! why can’t i just be in this beauty? why is there the need to deconstruct it, or understand my place in it? it’s kind of like my whole resistance to labels in general. you stick a label on it—a person, a jar of peanut butter, or a relationship—and suddenly the thing comes with all these expectations. what is this? a jar of peanut butter? well i like to put peanut butter on bread, that's what you do with peanut butter. but maybe if i hadn't known it was peanut butter i would have done a taste test to see what it was and determined that it actually would taste good with my broccoli. which it does, in fact. omg that was ridiculous. the point is, labels=limitations and restrictions. but they’re also *sigh* necessary. they help you understand things. no labels at all give things the freedom to be...absolutely nothing. which let’s be honest feels so f-ing good sometimes, to be completely obliterated. oh sweet oblivion you feel alright. but do you bring me closer to god? sometimes.
ewe i hate that i just wrote all of this, but i feel like i wanted to remember this thought because at the time (um, that location of this labyrinthine thought process was the milwaukee art museum, remember?) i felt so at peace with where it ended up. plus "the first" blogs seem so intimidating—they needs to say something, right?—so i just keep going and going and going. and now it just seems convoluted and ick and i don't think i even really got at the original thought so…ugh.
i watched the painted veil last nite and was struck when naomi watts’ character said to her husband, “if people only spoke when they had something to say, then we would all be silent all the time.” maybe i need to apply this to life in general. if i only acted when there was a good reason for doing so, or at least a reason that i found entirely satisfactory, then i would probably never do anything at all. i'd just lie down on a coach and that would be it. or maybe i wouldn’t even lie down. i’d be like the people in the dead city on Miranda. those people just stopped everything, too apathetic even to lie down when they died. lenke, i want you to show the people of the world what it feels like to be ALIVE!
the first
i am starting a blog. the purpose of this little endeavor is to chronicle my life since i can’t seem to remember details of events that predate my breakfast. incidentally, breakfast never deviates from the same cottage cheese, small curds, with strawberry jam EVERY day, it NEVER changes, and so is absolutely not worth remembering anyway. so basically if i want to remember more than cottage cheese when i am ninety and looking back on things i had better start recording. and blogging seems like a better option than etching a memoir into my body in reverse print so that every morning when i wake up and look into the mirror i see:
shannan lenke stoll
born october 6, 1983
john g raped and murdered my wife
find him and kill him
blogging anyway seems less painful, less toxic, and less permanent than recording my life memento-style. if i don’t like a memory, then i can always erase it. click.
shannan lenke stoll
born october 6, 1983
john g raped and murdered my wife
find him and kill him
blogging anyway seems less painful, less toxic, and less permanent than recording my life memento-style. if i don’t like a memory, then i can always erase it. click.
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