mad theory monday

If, like me, you spent this weekend swimming in deliciously lovely music thanks to the JJJ Hottest100, you may be joining the nationwide head scratch on why out of 100 songs there were absolutely no female bands, and only one female guest singer (Teardrop by Massive Attack).

 

When I look over my votes, I only gave two votes to females, one being Teardrop. In theory that means I should be able to ask myself ‘why?’ and have an answer. Nope. No idea.

 

The interweb is buzzing with theories pulled from every crevice; every 2-bit blogger is tapping out a furious tirade or a shoulder-shrugging article on the subject. Some suggest it should be the focus of scientific study; others are making tag clouds out of the song list to see if they can spot a trend in the fluff.

 

Sounds like fun. Let’s go mad theory on this…

 

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Theory number 1: Girl singers just need to be pretty. Boy singers need to neither be pretty, nor able to sing.

 

Shane MacGowan, Sid Vicious, Tom Waits, Lou Reed – no pin up boys there, and singing voices that aren’t exactly soothing to listen to; Lou Reed’s apparently tone deaf, for crying out loud. Still, I could listen to these guys all day.

 

The overly pretty, ‘marketable’ girls all hang out at the commercial stations: Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, P!nk, Rhianna… If I was forced to listen to these cut-out drones for any length of time I would off myself. Most JJJ listeners have turned to JJJ for the same reason, I surmise.

 

 

Theory number 2: Boys like singing along to boy singers, and so do girls, mostly.

 

Boys can belt it out to Rage Against the Machine, The Clash, Beastie Boys, and as a girl I can say my belting-out ability is pretty good too. Have you ever seen a guy trying to sing to Bjork or Kate Bush though? Doesn’t quite work.

 

 

Theory number 3: The Hottest100 list did include females, by proxy.

 

Take the two artists who scored the most votes at four a-piece: Thom Yorke in Radiohead, and Jeff Buckley – both with voices angels would approve of. Other girly-singing bands to make the list include Bon Iver, Coldplay, Smashing Pumpkins, Gotye, The Cure and Michael Jackson.

 

There is something about the sweet tones of Thom Yorke and Jeff Buckley that just makes me jellify. It’s like they’re singing to my ovaries and all I want to do is have their babies. To extrapolate, every female must think like that, right? It’s not just me… right?

 

 

Theory number 4: We all just forgot.

 

I know I did.

 

We all just forgot the rocker chicks like Blondie, Chrissy Amphlett and Chrissie Hynde; the far-out chicks like Bjork and Sia; the alternative chicks from Portishead, Goldfrapp and Fever Ray; the chicks that got the ball rolling like Janis Joplin and Nancy Sinatra.

 

Oh well, next decade maybe.

thankful thursday

Therapy on Thursday. Time I did that silly gratitude thing. I say silly because it’s not really my style, the whole gratitude journal wankery. However, it does have its merits.

 

It’s too easy to forget what we have in this world, because we focus too much on what we haven’t. Being thankful and grateful is a way to kick ourselves in the arse; pull us out of ourselves and into the magic that is this world and this life.

 

See, with the wankery.

 

Anyhoo, I should just be permanently bent over and kicked, but it’s bad for the posture. So instead, I force myself to dub this day thankful thursday and scrape my brain for the good, leaving the bad to settle like sediment at the bottom of the murky pond of my mind.

 

I am thankful for

 

• dark chocolate
• a job that gives me enough money to buy dark chocolate
• not being allergic to dark chocolate
• tastebuds that work
• grey goose vodka
• coffee dates with the girls
• fart jokes
• being able to run around my house naked whenever I want
• curtains
• oh, and willy wagtails

Ok, so it’s a start; as most of my posts end: a work in progress.

please don’t let me be too old for doof

When my mother was my age, I was a teenager in my second year of high school. This depressing little nugget popped into my head as I pondered my possible upcoming retirement from the music festival scene.

 

I am a music festival tragic not befitting my age, and I’m saddened by the thought that soon I may have to start giving them a miss.

 

I love festival season. I love live music. I love the doof. I love the atmosphere and swimming in the auras of crazy-arsed people letting it all hang out. Summadayze, Parklife, Big Day Out, Blues & Roots… the euphoria, the vibes, the highs. I don’t want to give that up! Not yet!

 

Alas, my usually stalwart festival buddy is not very keen anymore; I think she’s growing up (even though I’ve got 7 years on her!).

 

It’s left me wondering whether I look like an old fool to all the young’uns at these things. Apparently I look young for my age, but with every year that passes, and with every new stress, trial, tribulation, setback and burnout that happens to me, the gap narrows between how young I look, and how old I actually am.

 

Sigh. My body betrays me.

 

I feel like these two factors are forcing me kicking and screaming into early retirement from the scene.

 

At my age, my mother was a fully-fledged responsible adult looking after a fully-fledged irresponsible teenager. Here I am, wondering whether I can squeeze in another year of magical festival doof without looking the fool.

 

But the lineup for the next festival off the rank, Parklife, is making me salivate! MSTRKFRT, Art Vs Science, Claude VonStroke, Bertie Blackman, Aston Shuffle, The Rapture! AAAARGH! Must! Go!

 

Maybe I’ll get over the shallowness of considering my physical appearance, and just go, and dance up a storm in the mosh-pit oblivious to everything, as I usually do at these things…

 

And how’s this for serendipity: I just turned on Spicks and Specks and they played this single line from Masters Apprentice -

 

“ooooo! Do what you wanna do, be what you wanna be, yeah!”

-- Because I Love You: Masters Apprentice

 

Okay!

 

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the philosophy of the shower

Magic happens in my shower.

 

I disrobe – a physical act of throwing off the day (or the night).

 

I get a chance to reconnect with my naked self; you know, check out what’s happening, what’s going on, everything in the right place, how the body’s holding up. Remember what the real I looks like. Remind myself that this body is my vehicle through this life. It gives me a chance to pay homage, give thanks, respect (occasionally a grimace).

 

Then the shower – rhythmical drops on my body. A steady stream of feeling.

 

I am still trying to work out why the physical sensation of water on the body actually pulls me out of my body and into my head. Instead of concentrating on the physical, I seem, without fail, to drift into magic thinking-land where my body no longer exists.

 

My mind will suddenly light up with ideas, solve over-chewed problems, invent new problems, and throw away problems that weren’t worth the mastication in the first place.

 

It’s a portal to the land of epiphanies.

 

When I’m utterly sorrowful, I can jump in the shower where the liquid heat envelops and comforts me and my tears find camouflage. It helps me work through the craziness in my head until I find a weird sense of peace, no matter what state I was in when I started.

 

I emerge with a totally different energy.

 

The shower is like my reset button; an electromagnetic make-over. No matter what has bombarded my body and my brain that day, the shower sets the counter back to zero.

 

The shower is my sanity, my muse and my guardian angels in liquid form.

 

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droplets on body, a rhythmic liquid caress: my heaven on earth

impermanence is heavy

This will probably come across wrong but lately I’ve been feeling passively suicidal.

 

I should explain what I mean, before those who know me start worrying: I don’t want to off myself – far from it, but I feel like if there was something terminally wrong with me right now, I wouldn’t fight to stay alive.

 

I’m also not looking after myself very well, probably subconsciously speeding things along. It hit me when I saw photos of myself from the weekend, and I just looked very very ill.

 

Eating hardly anything will do that to you I guess. It’s just that when I eat anything my stomach turns into a siren song of migrating whales; body says no. Anyway. Hypochondria here I come.

 

I’ve always hoped that when it comes down to the dying part I’ll be able to just sit down and meditate like a Buddhist monk, and peacefully throw away my body.

 

I have no ties to this body. I’m starting to feel like I have no ties to this life either. Too hard. Too much sorrow. Too much goes wrong.

 

In this game of snakes and ladders, I’ve had way too many snakes and I’m kind of over it. I keep rolling the dice, keep trudging up the board towards the happiness of the 100th square, but those fricking snakes always appear right when I think I’m on a run.

 

It really is self-indulgent thinking, but I can’t help it. In the scheme of things I’ve done pretty well. I’m blessed. I have money, a roof over my head, good friends; there are countless people much worse off than I.

 

Even so, I don’t see the point of struggling through pain and sorrow. Nothing in this world is real – physical or otherwise. I can’t permanently grasp on to anything. Everything is in a state of impermanence, including me, including my body.

 

There’s a terrible sadness when you realise you’re just sitting around killing time before death. It’s very hard to come out of that and into a place of inspiration, motivation, elevation.

 

And rolling the dice is becoming very tedious.

cummings is the man, kind)

You know, i was writing a perfectly nice blog but then i had a perfectly not nice thing happen to me and now I’m leaning on the vodka a little too heavily and cursing a little too heavily and heart is too heavily down, so here’s another of my favourite cummings poems that kind of fits the mood I’m in, as I didn’t post yesterday and I don’t want that to become a habit. And vodka and frangelico is the bomb people, the bomb.

 

this mind made war

being generous

this heart could dare )

unhearts can less

 

unminds must fear

because and why

what filth is here

unlives do cry

 

on him they shat

they shat encore

he laughed and spat

( this life could dare

 

freely to give

as gives a friend

not those who slave

unselves to lend

 

for hope of hope

must coo or boo

may strut or creep

ungenerous who

 

ape deftly aims

they dare not share )

such make their names

( this poet made war

 

whose naught and all

sun are and moon

come fair come foul

he goes alone

 

daring to dare

for joy of joy )

what stink is here

unpoets do cry

 

unfools unfree

undeaths who live

nor shall they be

and must they have

 

at him they fart

they fart full oft

( with mind with heart

he spat and laughed

 

with self with life

this poet arose

nor hate nor grief

can go where goes

 

this whyless soul

a loneliest road

who dares to stroll

almost this god

 

this surely dream

perhaps this ghost )

humbly and whom

for worst or best

 

( and proudly things

only which grow

and the rain’s wings

the birds of snow

 

things without name

beyond because

things over blame

things under praise

 

glad things or free

truly which live

always shall be

may never have )

 

do i salute

( by moon by sun

i deeply greet

this fool and man

 

- ee cummings

punching to pop music

This song has been bugging me ever since I first heard it:

 

 

The lyrics are seriously warped. I’m sure I’m not just imagining it.

 

For example:

 

You hit me once

I hit you back

You gave a kick

I gave a slap

You smashed a plate over my head

Then I set fire to our bed.

 

And:

 

I broke your jaw once before

I spilled our blood upon the floor

You broke my leg in return

So sit back and watch the bed burn.

 

Or the chorus,

 

A kick to the teeth is good for some

A kiss with a fist is better than none.

 

Whaaaaaat?

 

This is her take on it from her myspace blog:

 

kiss with a fist is NOT a song about domestic violence. it is about two people pushing each other to phsycological [sic] extremes because they love each other.

 

Ok, my metaphorical brain must be on hiatus, because I’m not feeling the love at all. I’m really really trying. Is the kick and the slap some sort of kinky S&M reference? Is the bed on fire meant to mean they’re having great sex? I don’t get it.

 

I’m sure there are people out there who have been either directly or indirectly exposed to domestic violence that would not be able to see the love connection in this in a blue fit.

 

Anyone who thinks a connection through physical violence is better than no connection at all is worth pitying. It’s not like it’s a rare occurrence either – there are tons of people for whom domestic violence is their way of life and they know no other. Most would have had their self esteem beaten out of them for so long that they believe their only means of connection with another human being is through receiving physical violence.

 

Are we so far removed from ourselves, and so detached, that we think there’s nothing wrong with this? Have we been so desensitised to violent acts that we no longer pause and blink?

 

I wonder how many teenagers listen to this tune and actually hear what it’s saying. What’s more worrying is how many would subconsciously absorb a ‘domestic violence is ok’ message from this (whether it’s meant to be there or not), and grow into that message.

 

Truly sad. Even sadder set to a boppy tune. This song really gets my goat – metaphorically.