Light from No Light

As we all know, very few people take fewer pictures of note than me (which made me winning the college's international photo contest last year more than a bit inexplicable, beyond the fact that I've traveled an ungodly amount and thus, through sheer dumb luck I would take a good shot - or, my own personal theory, that the award was based on pity).  However, it was really difficult to be in Iceland in early January and not take some great pictures, which I'm way behind on posting.  I think the reason why I took so many good pictures on the trip was simply because there was so little light; it was perpetually in that half-twilight world where you can't take a bad picture.  Nothing can be washed out, and everything was bathed in a tender soft light.

This was around 11:00 a.m., when the sun was finally thinking about rallying for the day, before giving up an exhaustion a couple hours later.   This was the beginning of an absolutely amazing day, which I'll have a lot more to say about later.

My Years With Proust - Day 394

   But a day or two later, I received proof of this young woman's tendencies, and also of the probability of her having known Albertine in the past.  Often, in the hall of the Casino, when two girls were smitten with mutual desire, a sort of luminous phenomenon occurred, as it were a phosphorescent trail flashing from one to the other.  It may be noted, incidentally, that it is by the aid of such materialisations, impalpable though they be, by these astral signs that set a whole section of the atmosphere ablaze, that dispersed Gomorrah strives, in every town in every village, to reunite its separated members, to reconstruct the biblical city while everything the same efforts are being made, be it in view of but a momentary reconstruction, by the nostalgic, the hypocritical, sometimes the courageous exiles of Sodom.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 880-881

Proust writes of that in the case of "mutual desire, a sort of luminous phenomenon occurred, as it were a phosphorescent trail flashing from one to the other."  In this case he is speaking of two women, but it seems to be the case with every couple who are at the peak of love/lust, at least if you're doing it right.  A couple different times in my life I can remember being involved with a woman wherein we were trying to keep on the down low and were quite certain that no one knew anything, except that everyone knew exactly what was going on, because we were emitting that "phosphorescent trail flashing from one to the other."  There probably is some sort of evolutionary logic to it, as it, allegedly, scares off lurking predators.

My Years With Proust - Day 393

   This assignation, in that case, must be not the first, but the sequel to adventures shared in past years.  And indeed her glance did not say: "Will you?" As soon as the young woman had caught sight of Albertine, she had turned her head and beamed upon her glances charged with recollection, as though she were afraid and amazed that my beloved did not remember.  Albertine, who could see her plainly, remained phlegmatically motionless, with the result that the other, with the same sort of discretion as a man who sees his old mistress with a new lover, ceased to look at her and pain no more attention to her than if she had not existed.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 880

Marcel, in an almost Trumpian fit of paranoia, continues to construct an alternate universe (although hopefully not including a Deep State) that features Albertine's assignation with the woman of the "thoroughly depraved life."  The one potential stumbling block is that although the two women exchange glances Albertine "remained phlegmatically motionless."  However, one of the first skills that people involved in affairs - we should really have more assignations and less affairs, it speaks to a greater level of sophistication - develop is the ability to read situations, lie on demand, and prop up a poker face at the appearance of your lovers, either current or former.  Kathleen Edwards spells out the skill quite nicely in her song Summerlong, although her protagonist is trying to stop having affairs  because she's now in love (I don't know if she had considered assignations or not).

My Years With Proust - Day 392

   Another incident focused my preoccupations even more in the direction of Gomorrah.  I had noticed on the beach a handsome young woman, slender and pale, whose eyes, round their centre, scattered rays so geometrically luminous that one was reminded, on meeting her gaze, of some constellation.  I thought how much more beautiful she was than Albertine, and how much wiser it would be to give up the other.  But the face of this beautiful young woman had been scoured by the invisible plane of a thoroughly depraved life, of the constant acceptance of vulgar expedients, so much so that her eyes, though nobles than the rest of her face, could radiate nothing but appetites and desires.  On the following day, this young woman being seated a long way away from us in the Casino, I saw that she never ceased to fasten upon Albertine the alternating and revolving beam of her gaze.  It was as though she were making signals to her with a lamp.  It pained me that Albertine should see that she was being so closely observed, and I was afraid that these incessantly rekindled glances might be the agreed signal for an amorous assignation next day.  For all I knew, this assignation might not be the first.  The young woman with the flashing eyes might have come another year to Balbec.  It was perhaps because Albertine had already yielded to her desires, or to those of a friend, that this woman allowed herself to address to her those flashing signals.  If so, they were doing more than demand something for the present; they invoked a justification for it in pleasant hours in the past.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 880

Marcel grows more and more jealous, and more and more fixated on Albertine's sexuality.  Here he paints a picture of a young woman, beautiful, "much more beautiful than Albertine," but one who who possessed a face that "had been scoured by the invisible plane of a thoroughly depraved life."  He convinces himself that this woman is focused on Albertine and exchanging glances that promoted a signal, doubtless agreed upon, "for an amorous assignation next day."  That is, of course, if they haven't had already met to make love countless other times.  We've talked so often about the brain's ability, essentially uncontrollable, to create a narrative, since that part of the brain never sleeps.  What amazes me is how, at least in the waking world and especially with women with love, the narrative we weave is never a positive one.  We can't find her and immediately our constructs a sweaty assignation with someone younger, thinner and more successful than we are.  Our brains, who I think we all know our not our friends, never construct a narrative wherein our loved ones is donating at the food bank.

My Years With Proust - Day 391

No doubt they did not go so far as to repeat the public exhibition which had revolted everybody.  But gradually they returned to their old ways. And one evening as I came out of the Casino, which was half in darkness, with Albertine and Bloch whom we had met there, they came by, linked together, kissing each other incessantly, and, as they pass us, crowed and chortled and uttered indecent cries.  Bloch lowered his eyes so as to seem not to have recognised his sister, and I was tortured by the thought that this private and horrifying language was addressed perhaps to Albertine.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 879

Apparently Marcel is now seeing homosexuals everywhere.  Of course, as we all know, if you're looking for something you will inevitably find it.  Bloch's reaction is interesting, although not particularly surprising.  However, the presence of the two women together in the evening seems to contradict Marcel's earlier suggest that maybe the two women were merely trying to cause a scandal, as compared to a sincere relationship.  Of course, all of this is overshadowed by his own growing jealousy and paranoia about Albertine, even going so far as to  propose that "I was tortured by the thought that this private and horrifying language was addressed perhaps to Albertine."  More on this front tomorrow.

My Years With Proust - Day 390

   Francoise was considerably impressed when she learned that the two brothers of these humble women had married, one the niece of the Archbishop of Tours, the other a relative of the Bishop of Rodez.  To the manager, this would have conveyed nothing.  Celeste would sometimes reproach her husband with his failure to understand her, and I myself was astonished that he would put up with her.  For at certain moments, raging, furious, destroying everything, she was detestable.  It is said that the salt liquid which is our blood is only an internal survival of the primitive marine element.  Similarly, I believe that Celeste, not only in her bursts of fury, but also in her hours of depression, preserved the rhythm of her native streams.  When she was exhausted, it was after their fashion; she had literally run dry.  Nothing could then have revitalised her.  Then all of a sudden the circulation was restored in her tall, slender, magnificent body.  The water flowed in the opaline transparence of her bluish skin. She smiled in the sun and became bluer still.  At such moments she was truly celestial.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 878-879

So many characters pass in and out of Remembrance of Things Past and I've never tried to keep track of all of them, either in this blog or in my own reading of the novel.  Granted, I guess this is a balancing act that we all do when we read, but it is especially daunting with a work as monumental as Proust's.  However, sometimes I find myself noting a character who seems like a bit player, and who is probably just going to pass off stage rapidly, for no other reason than their Proustian description.  And so we have Celeste.  Her temper sounds much like mine, with the obvious difference that mine does not erupt from a "tall, slender, magnificent body."  I think we've all met people over the years who seem almost elemental, like the marine biologist who might be a mermaid in Local Hero.

Discography - Week 46

On Friday night several members of this esteemed group met at the home of the most excellent Kathy and Phillip Seiler for comradery, convivial splendor and Nepalese food.  In the midst of the chicanery there was talk about upcoming international trips and also the idea was floated about renting a house for a long weekend in New Orleans (you are all, of course, invited).  It was just another reminder of how blessed we all are to have such amazing friends. The country may be run by a lying/delusional sexual predator (who will at least thankfully be replaced/impeached soon) and a junta of alt-right racist lunatics, but we can at least rely upon each other and find pleasure in our safe little cocoon (at least until Cyndi and I are not allowed back in the country).

Gary Beatrice

Isley Brothers, Who’s That Lady?

Every once in a great while The Isley Brothers show up on the radio and when they do I stop what I am doing and tune in. They made several fantastic songs but to me Who's That Lady tops them all. Funky as hell but with a fantastic fuzzy lead guitar, the call and response vocals, catchy if meaningless lyrics. One of the great things about the sixties and seventies was that radio made no distinction between funk and rock. Sadly today radio is as segregated as we are and if there are bands like the Isley Brothers in 2017 I am very unlikely to know about them.

Dave Wallace

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles - My Girl Is Gone 

My favorite musical genre may be soul music from the 60's and 70's.  If I was presented with the "desert island" choice of only being able to listen to one kind of music, I may even pick soul music over rock, although I consider myself a "rock" guy at heart.  I've looked over my list of possible remaining songs to write about for this blog and there are several soul songs begging for inclusion, so I've decided that March is "soul" month for me.  I start with Smokey Robinson, whom I adore.  When I was younger, I went through a phase where I pretty much listened to Smokey non-stop for about a year, and I think that he's one of the greatest songwriters in the history of popular music. The number of classic songs that he wrote, for himself and for others, is unbelievable.  Of course, I previously blogged about a song (Cruisin') from his solo career.  This one is from his days leading the Miracles.  Other Miracles songs are better known (Tracks of My Tears, Shop Around, Goin' to a Go Go, Tears of a Clown), but My Girl Has Gone has always been a personal favorite.

Dave Kelley

"Every Picture Tells A Story"  Rod Stewart

After appropriately dissing Rod Stewart for his putrid cover of "Downtown Train", it is time to give the man his props.  Steve Van Zandt recently opined on Twitter that Rod Stewart has the best voice of any rock singer in history.  Other favorites come to mind, but Stewart is certainly in that conversation.

The lyrics to this classic are misogynistic in places, but the music is the key here along with the vocals.  I find the song to be propulsive and liberating which are keys to much great rock music.  The drumming is particularly amazing.  The Who were by far my favorite band for many years, and I am an absolute Keith Moon fanatic.  I think the drumming in this song is trhe best "Keith Moon like" by any drummer not named Keith Moon.  This is a song that is perfect to enjoy at top volume while driving by yourself on a pretty day.

Kathy Seiler

Clipping, Story 2 

Warning: Experimental Rap 

Phil introduced me to Clipping months ago, after he had introduced me to the earworm that is the Hamilton soundtrack. Daveed Diggs, lead rapper of Clipping, played both Lafayette and Jefferson in the original Hamilton muscial on Broadway. Daveed can rap faster than anyone I have ever heard - and both Eminem and Busta Rhymes can rap pretty damn fast.  I often listen to "gangsta rap" which can be pretty nasty and misogynistic. I don't like the misogyny but I don't take it personally either. It's art and art can be offensive, and I'm okay with that.

Clipping music is not gangsta but experimental and really interesting and weird sometimes. The song I've posted this week is literally a tragic story. It's easy to listen to and understand (not always the case with rap) and crushes your soul at the end. The video echoes the differences in cadence in the music as the story progresses. The incredibly smooth variation in rhythm that Daveed is able to accomplish is one of the things I find so compelling about many of Clipping's songs. 

Consider yourself eased into experimental rap now if you haven't been exposed before. There will be more to come.

Phillip Seiler

Neil Finn “Silent House”

This song, co-written with the Dixie Chicks who also have recorded it, is just a simple, beautiful portrait of someone taking in the pieces of a life lost not to death but to Alzheimer's. You cannot help but think they see their own possible future fate as they observe and remark on all they see. 

“I will try to connect
all the pieces you left
I will carry it on
and let you forget.”

That is a touching turn of phrase as our protagonist picks up the burden and releases  the subject. Hopefully, one day, someone will do the same for them if it is required.

Neil Finn is one of those artists I usually buy everything from: sound unheard. I am rarely disappointed. 

Must be a hell of a song to perform with your son, too.

Gary Scudder

Kathleen Edwards, Oil Man's War

There are a lot of reasons for promoting Oil Man's War this week, beyond the obvious one that I'm a huge fan. Truthfully, I don't know if Oil Man's War would make my top ten Edwards songs, but I suspect that's more a testament to the strength of her discography than a reflection on the song itself (which I think is fantastic).  It's off the album Asking For Flowers, which I sometimes unfairly overlook (mainly because I love her first two albums so much).  It seems like the perfect song for this particular moment in time, a week when Trump proposed adding another $54 billion to the bloated defense budget while cutting reduced price lunches for poor students.  And the Trump administration is, as authoritarian governments always do, conflating questioning the government with insulting the memory of dead soldiers (who are seemingly always sent to die in an oil man's war). The song in and of itself is touching and thought-provoking as it chronicles a couple fleeing to Canada to avoid getting drawn into yet another oil man's war.  Like many Edwards' songs she's able to walk the razor's edge of emotional and sexual and metaphorical worlds when she has the protagonist, while driving north, say "I won't change my mind/ so keep your hand on my thigh tonight."  I remember telling someone a couple years ago that I thought the song sounded like one that Lucinda Williams and Bruce Springsteen would have written together, but that's really unfair.  Kathleen Edwards has her own legacy; it sounds like a Kathleen Edwards song.    It also got me thinking about the song's protagonists fleeing to Canada.  One of the times I was considering moving overseas my wonderful friend Cinse said she would support whatever I did, but that I should ask myself whether I was running towards something or running away from something; and at the time I had to admit that I was running away from something, and so I decided to stay here and battle my own demons.  This, in turn, made me think of the couple from Edwards' song.  Years ago Rolling Stone, when it was a music magazine, published a great Cameron Crowe interview with Neil Young  entitled "Neil Young: The Last American Hero."  I remember thinking, at first blush, that it was odd that Crowe chose the descriptor American for a Canadian, but then realizing that 1) he was making a point about Young's place in what is often thought of as an "American" art form, 2) that Young, in his typically roguish and unpredictable fashion was often playing the quintessential "American hero" by doing what he thought was best, both for good and bad, 3) but it also made me think of why I too often only associate the term American with the US (as my Canadian friends do not tire of reminding me).  Now, is Canada perfect?  Of course not, as Edwards herself laments in her Oh Canada, but it seems to be trying to grow and improve, as compared to entrenching in anger, paranoia, racism and xenophobia.  Essentially, I think Canada has become America (which I suspect many Canadians would consider either a step down if not an actual insult).  What I mean by this is that I think Canada has become what America was, or at least what America was supposed to be, in the world's eyes.  I remember talking to a guy in Jordan one time and he pointed out that when America was truly loved overseas it was because we were considered to be the one who played fair and stood up for the little guy, both internally and externally (again, maybe always more mythology than reality, but we don't even have the mythology anymore).  We can all remember the threat that many people made to move to Canada during the election cycle in the unlikely (oh, those halcyon days) event of a Trump win.  I do think more and more Americans are going to move to Canada, but less and less because they are fleeing an oil man's war or to get away from our lunatic president, but because they are moving towards something, a country which seems to still believe in the future.

I can still remember passages from this Cameron Crowe interview almost forty years later, which is sort of amazing.  When Young abandoned Stephen Stills in the midst of a Stills-Young tour because he thought it was bullshit he left this note: "Dear Stephen, funny how some things that start spontaneously, end that way. Eat a peach. Neil"  When I almost left Champlain a couple years ago, this, with only mild modifications, was the resignation note I wrote.  Somehow I don't think they would have got the reference.  That said, I'm saving it.