the warped music video.

So MGMT had held – in my opinion – the prize for the most trippy, insane, most out-there music videos, at least over the past few years. (And there were quite a few bands out there with strange ones…)

For example, see Time to Pretend and Kids below:

This past year, however, Mother Mother have created two vids that have come extremely close to MGMT. Seriously. Both videos are so warped that it’s a trip watching it … even if you aren’t taken over by some psychotropic substance.

a scotch in time, part one.

The sun was bright. The sun was bombastic. The sun smiled. No, it smirked. Who wouldn’t smirk in Barcelona in mid-October, smirk down at whatever lay beneath them, knowing that elsewhere held such different weather conditions? The Mediterranean coast shone beneath the palest blue imaginable, with puff balls over the water hovering like cats about to pounce at a shoelace. On Montjuïc, you could peer far into the distance in every direction depending on where you stood on the now-unmanned castle. I opted to patrol the east and the south, so I could catch the whitecaps of the sea and the concrete slabs of downtown with spires and façades of Gaudí poking up, miniscule and fake. I might as well have touched all the buildings to make sure they were real; I could have picked up the Sagrada Família and set it delicately along the shore if I so chose. Here I was, five again, the moment when I had the power to construct a city, do whatever I wanted to it, even destroy it with a Matchbox car, a dinosaur figurine, or the sweep of the hand as it toppled over the skyline like a tsunami.

As I stood and overlooked the Catalonian capital painted with the sun’s brightness, a sun that seeped into my eyes, I felt a pull in my chest. I knew the afternoon would be here way too quickly, and that it would be full of reflection, of silent remembrance. I was glad I had to squint, just in case the mind wandered too far into forbidden territory where it was not allowed to go. At least not yet.

It was edging close to 4:00pm. I knew I had to leave Montjuïc soon. There were too many tourists and wanderers around. I decided to come here today, but I forgot that a gorgeous Saturday would lure even more people to this spot, camera clickers huddled all around as I mindlessly nibbled on a bland bocadillo de jamón. I did not want to walk down and mimic the trek up the hill after the funicular ride I had had, so I headed near where the gondola lifts stopped to let in riders for the bottom.

Luckily, I managed to snag an entire car for myself and float back down to the base. The views were incredible from this vantage point; as I was suspended in midair, I caught people as ants, wandering the parks and the pathways below me. The car soared above the undergrowth and the trees that lined the less-developed hillside. The beaches reached on and on, beige boundaries between a rolled-on blue to the right with irregular edifices on the left.

And then all cars on the lift stopped. Precarious, both hands holding to either side of the car, I waited, my heart stopped in its tracks. The wind – although light – buffeted the car. What weight there was inside provided little resistance. The conductor, or whoever was controlling the lift, soon started it up again without much delay or any further problems. It still felt like hours suspended there. But I was on my merry way once again.

The alarm on my watch beeped. It was actually 4:00pm now. Right then, in Ohio, my grandfather’s funeral service had just begun. My car made a turn to the left following the cable’s progression closer to the base of the hill.

I had been living abroad for a whole year, and I was in the process of returning back to the U.S. A week before this cable car journey, my grandfather took his final breath. Awful as I felt, I did not purchase a flight back to the U.S.; I was warned multiple times to stay where I was, not to jump on the first flight from Slovakia to get back to where I might be a part in the funeral, that I see the casket lowered into the ground at the cemetery. The struggle to decide if I really should go back to the U.S. weighed on me, it weighed on me like the earth and the stones and all the eternal sediment that would forever press on my grandfather’s coffin, soon to be lowered underground and left for water, decay, and annual bouquets of flowers.

In the end, returning back for two days was not what my grandfather would have wanted me to do. I thought to myself how to commemorate his life, how to remember him from afar. First, I penned a eulogy for the service; my great uncle would read this to him, the words in place of my presence. Then, a second idea occurred on my second day in Barcelona. I bought a 2-shot bottle of Dewar’s and decided to drink in his honor the moment the funeral service began that Saturday. I thought it was a good enough sacrifice. I was never fond of scotch, and this was being taken straight-up with no water, ice, or anything to squelch the taste. I knew full well what I was getting into. It had been more than a year since I had had it last; it was going to be a rough, but necessary, task.

I drank it in two sips. The amber liquid coated my throat and my tongue as I took the first taste. I felt the buzz and could catch the whiff of smokiness one normally notices when drinking scotch. The first nip of the Dewar’s was now inside me, warming my heart, and taking the faint burn in my mouth with it. My lungs were aflame with something else as well. I suppose one word that could describe it was appreciation. I appreciated my grandfather so much just then; I appreciated him more than I thought I would.

The lake I was on was calm. The sun was gone, but there was no rain in the clouds that ambled over me. I wore a life jacket and a baseball cap. I was five. I was steering the motorboat back to the docks, inching ever closer to the docks. My grandfather was to my right, his left arm so close to the steering that I thought he’d take over the reins at the faintest whiff of danger. His moustache was black – alive and combed. He had just complimented me on my catch of perch and crappie, a “well done, sergeant!” lingering in the air.

My eyes wrapped around this moment more than a decade ago, almost two decades ago, and I took another sip of scotch. The whisky swam down my throat effortlessly. I was not being directed by my grandfather any longer on the lake. My sister and mother had been there, allowing me to bask in my moment of independence, veering left and right, a grin on my face, no idea that a Barcelona existed, no idea that I would ever even attempt to drink a scotch straight-up, no clue as to what scotch even was. So much was unknown to me.

The last of the Dewar’s was gone. I loved it. I simply loved it. The taste stayed in my mouth as the car skidded at the depot. Without a word, I left the car and made it to the Metro. I held the empty bottle in my pocket for the rest of my travels.

I almost did not want to eat dinner or brush my teeth that evening. I wanted that taste on my lips, the filmy remnants to stay coated over my gums and teeth. The bliss was indescribable. I could not think of much else except for the remaining taste of the Dewar’s as I walked down Carrer d’Aragó, full of its traffic and constant horns that went on well into the evening, past midnight. I reached my hostel and turned around the tiny, empty bottle in my hands, looking at the red lettering. Over and over I turned it around. How often would I do that gesture that night or in the future?

As the months and years plodded on, I would grow to discern much, much more about scotch: the smokier the better, the Islay varieties glorying past the others, the smoothness of Balvenie and the feeling of an ice cube in certain kinds, the clink of the glass. With each taste of a different varietal, I would pick up memories and attach them to the brand. I am not sure when I will follow perfectly in my grandfather’s footsteps and start having scotch with water. But I think this is a decent start…

366.

I am going to try that picture-a-day thing again. Here’s the link to the site: http://366intwentytwelve.wordpress.com/

This time around, I will definitely try to make it one picture per day instead of whenever I am able! Mary is gonna help out also.

book snow write.

I read 32 books this year.

This number could (and should) have been higher but I was eaten alive by graduate school this fall semester. Perhaps the upcoming year will be more productive. I’ve started 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami and No Touch Monkey! by Ayun Halliday. This should keep me occupied when I don’t wanna do thesis and capstone stuff. But let’s just remember that I do indeed have to write two major papers before I can hold that Master’s degree in my hand this May. 

Not only that – but I want more poems published, perhaps get a cool book deal (novel or travel narrative collection), and also travel some more with Mary. I also just want to write more in general, but specifically I would like my hard-cover journal to be filled to the brim so that I have to purchase a new one before the year is out. Or by the time the end of the world hits. Isn’t that some time next December?  

Also a job (or jobs) would be good. Preferably decent-paying ones in the Cleveland area. No more Toledo after this semester. Nosiree…

İstanbul #4

So here is a coy game

I open a window in the room
Because it’s stifling in November
And I cannot breathe at all
Chilled air or late autumn warmth
Whatever it is catches my flu-white face
Eases me back to the land of the living

But then she in the blonde locks
She shuts out the draft fitfully, agitatedly
And then pours scalding coffee
Down her throat with defiance
At the tea maker brewing next door

The vacant classrooms haunt me
As I walk down the hallway during lunch hour
I keep returning to the glass panes
Like blind birds
Smashing my brains and my memories

One of them opens wide
And I shiver
Like a ghost
A ghost that has found a heart

Until the storm
Slams it shut another time
The verbs splatter onto walls
And feet stomp
An earthquake
Crashing into me
Like a shotput

She warns me of certain death
If that window stays open
To her to me to one and all
Leave out the winds of Armageddon!
Those vicious drafts
Will be a pox upon our souls

So I wait until nightfall
With no immune system left to fight
Anyone or anything
With no one safe from my hacking coughs
I’m huddled in a cocoon
With a white flag
And the balcony door welcoming inside the smog and twilight

best of, 2011.

There were a lot of fun songs and albums from 2011, but here are five of my favorites with favorite songs from each (similar to what I did last year).

Alexander Ebert – “Alexander”
Favorites from album: Truth, Bad Bad Love

The Decemberists – “The King Is Dead”
Favorites from album: Down By The Water, June Hymn

Fleet Foxes – “Helplessness Blues”
Favorites from album: Battery Kinzie, Montezuma

Mother Mother “Eureka”
Favorites from album: The Stand, Original Spin

Tune-Yards – “w h o k i l l”
Favorites from album: Bizness, You Yes You

Also some honorable mentions:

Beirut “The Rip Tide”
The Black Keys “El Camino”
White Denim “D”

Have fun listening.

saving face, part two.

And failing.

Just check this out:   http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/24/world/europe/turkey-lashes-out-over-french-bill-about-genocide.html

Erdoğan likes shouting barbs at other countries a lot when they decide to bring up this topic. Plus, tons of students who friended me on Facebook have these anti-French slogans, pictures of France flags crossed out, and links to the PM’s diatribe against the French law.

Bringing up another country’s dark past doesn’t erase yours. But pride shall never be swallowed. Right now I have no idea if or when that will happen.

positive.

It’s so easy to make a list of why I’ve gotten frustrated teaching:

1. Poor management and business aims (my first job in Istanbul comes to mind)

2. Students who couldn’t give two shits about learning English (when I taught at a private high school in the ‘bul in 2009-2010)

3. A student today (who most likely will not pass) in my class arrives late, stays for 5 minutes, and then tells me in the middle of his exam that he has to go because furniture will be arriving at his apartment in 15 minutes. WHY SCHEDULE IT DURING YOUR CLASS??

4. Being under-appreciated by many bigwigs at the university, multiple politicians, and other Schmos who do not think education is vitally important.

But then people like this enter the scene:

1. A few very bright students whom I taught at English Time who I have talked to and hung out with even two years after teaching them. They tell me how they were grateful for the chance to learn a few more things under my wing, how they actually said “you were one of the best teachers I’d had”, wonder what I am doing and wish I could even tutor them still.

2. Today I hear from an instructor here at UT that the beginner ESL course I co-teach with other TAs this semester has made her husband (from Brazil) more eager to learn English, more excited about it. She came to me and thanked me personally. She had this grin on her face; I admit I smiled on the way to the elevator.

There are more instances of this. But these two things outweigh the four pitfalls I’d come across and wrote about in this entry. Despite being underappreciated, despite having to instruct people who don’t wish to be instructed, despite incompetencies and inadequacies of management – I can still love teaching. If I can make a handful of people happy, if I can make them excited about learning, if I can see that they appreciate what I do then that is the most important thing of all. I feel validated. I feel that this is the right thing for me to be doing right now.

Schmaltzy? A little. But too bad. It’s published now!

another radiohead moment.

This song reminds me a lot about 2008. A lot. It’s also good backdrop for a gully-washer of an afternoon:

affirmation.

Two days after my Davis-Besse post, Rachel Maddow talks about the substandard maintenance of that very same nuclear plant in one of her segments. A little bit creepy since it came so very close after my own post about it.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26315908/#45250208

She mentions the Davis-Besse Plant at around 5:06.