The End of Freedom
Ah, Lord. Where to start, where to start. At the beginning, one would assume, but the beginning seems lost to me now, the reasons for which I started all this ordeal called my existence, as it is. So I'm left with my momentum and my accountability, and all I have to gain is my dignity. Screw that, though. I'm not above throwing down everything and apologizing for it. Now if I could only find a good reason to do so. I have no good reason to do anything, or not do anything, which explains why all I do now is what I did before. Pathetic, really, quite. Camus would not approve. Camus is dead.
Much has happened since last I wrote. So much. The Red Sapphire performed on the front steps of Gilman Hall in a WJHU-sponsored "Rocktoberfest." Played Cure for the Crime, Glaciation, Watch It Happen, The Grand Opening Tonight, culminating in my throwing my bass against the ground and bludgeoning it with a mic stand. Spectacular. Later the radio station guy who ran the show tried to erase us from history by mentioning every band except us in an interview; unfortunately, a photo of me playing bass with the caption "William Chang of Red Sapphire [etc.]" was placed right next to the article in which the interview was run, effectively nullifying the intention and creative a most baffling situation for News-Letter readers. Shows them, eh? We recorded the songs for a demo/EP last night, hopefully it will sound good.
In response, I wrote up this sort-of band manifesto the other day and put it in quotation marks so people would think I was referencing someone else: "We make music with the conscious awareness that most people will not like what we do. Our music, you can't grind to it, you can't really groove to it or party to it, you can't play it on an acoustic guitar to charm the girls. About the only thing you can do with it is lock yourself in a room and play it real loud while being angsty, which suits us fine, because that is the way music came into our own lives and made us fall in love with it." Hey, I mean, what can one do about whim anyway, except to follow it?
Other music news: I have very recently come into possession of an Ampeg SVT-810E speaker cabinet. This is a wooden refrigerator-like box 4' tall and 2'-3' thick, containing eight ten inch speakers and weighing 165 pounds, which is 55 more pounds than I weigh. It looks like somebody ran into it with a small car. Miguel and I drove up to New York City to pick it up from some guy's rehearsal space. I slept most of the way. We were in the city for only a few hours, but during those few hours I could already begin to feel it driving me insane, taunting me with could've-beens, challenging the being I have found with the being it offered. I am convinced that New York City grew from a chaotic seed, like a grotesque plant, the sort of which used to give me nightmares. I'd like to live in it someday, for a year perhaps, just to take the demon head-on, vis-a-vis, as in reality, and not in a dream.
Saw Gang of Four live at Sonar a few weeks ago. They were vivacious, albeit old, and Jon King crab-walked and rolled across the stage and beat on a microwave with a baseball bat. I don't know where they got those ideas.
Various other things have happened. Got into a two-hour long debate with Old Man Perkins about God, with him arguing the paramount importance of God in human life, and me arguing the irrelevance of God to human life. I don't know whether or not there is any irony in that setup. Then there was the debate about economics with Patrice's roommate Anna last night; she argued from the side of capitalism while I argued from the side of socialism. Unfortunately, dialogue was ineffective, as both of us were sufficiently exhausted.
I suppose I'm obligated, here, to discuss the psychological abstractions of recent days; after all, isn't that what I always do? Seriously starting to question my direction. Nothing seems to feel right; nothing I do seems to be able to draw me in, to shake me from apathy and stasis. I wonder if that's because I haven't been sleeping enough; I count it possibly, and perhaps even likely. Had more drinks in the past few weeks than I've ever really been known to have, except maybe at this point last year. Days seem marked by a clear and distinct inability to relate or be related to--I've somehow become convinced that virtually everyone needs to be defended against, every stitch of the world has a flaw, every straight answer is an unnecessary risk. I'm tired at a community of "friends" whom I'm not really even sure I can tolerate that is becoming more and more inbred and complacent every weekend. Convinced that somewhere under everything I see is something I cannot even imagine.
I've isolated myself; too long without attempting to talk to anyone, even myself, has gotten me down. I seem to have resigned myself to a total communications breakdown without having received any evidence for the fact. This is not to say I have any answers. For some reason I'm convinced that the answers I'm looking for are far more complex than the obvious. Is this regression? At the brink of the world; still wondering who's going to push me over into it, or the other direction. Do I want the world? I wonder if the two-against-the-world thing is what I really want. Anna called me "defeatist." It was probably jest, but still, it raises the question of how many people would just crumble if they were forced to see things my way. Then again, that's most likely giving me far more credit than I deserve.
Everyone's been drunk and lonely in the middle of a crowded room. Even Sterling (too many beers and anyone's tongue will slip). It's not like I'm breaking ground here. Somehow things seem more significant when they happen to you. And I still spend most of my time with the one I love the most, although I'm starting to think it's rather unfair to her, that I should go out and get drunk and call her up to chat at 2AM. Why am I doing these things? Too much anxiety, far too much. Too little sleep, too.
Nothing feels good (to inadvertently quote the title of a book I would probably dislike). I need something. I don't know what. I definitely don't know how to get it. For once I'll be honest with you all. I'm at a loss.
Much has happened since last I wrote. So much. The Red Sapphire performed on the front steps of Gilman Hall in a WJHU-sponsored "Rocktoberfest." Played Cure for the Crime, Glaciation, Watch It Happen, The Grand Opening Tonight, culminating in my throwing my bass against the ground and bludgeoning it with a mic stand. Spectacular. Later the radio station guy who ran the show tried to erase us from history by mentioning every band except us in an interview; unfortunately, a photo of me playing bass with the caption "William Chang of Red Sapphire [etc.]" was placed right next to the article in which the interview was run, effectively nullifying the intention and creative a most baffling situation for News-Letter readers. Shows them, eh? We recorded the songs for a demo/EP last night, hopefully it will sound good.
In response, I wrote up this sort-of band manifesto the other day and put it in quotation marks so people would think I was referencing someone else: "We make music with the conscious awareness that most people will not like what we do. Our music, you can't grind to it, you can't really groove to it or party to it, you can't play it on an acoustic guitar to charm the girls. About the only thing you can do with it is lock yourself in a room and play it real loud while being angsty, which suits us fine, because that is the way music came into our own lives and made us fall in love with it." Hey, I mean, what can one do about whim anyway, except to follow it?
Other music news: I have very recently come into possession of an Ampeg SVT-810E speaker cabinet. This is a wooden refrigerator-like box 4' tall and 2'-3' thick, containing eight ten inch speakers and weighing 165 pounds, which is 55 more pounds than I weigh. It looks like somebody ran into it with a small car. Miguel and I drove up to New York City to pick it up from some guy's rehearsal space. I slept most of the way. We were in the city for only a few hours, but during those few hours I could already begin to feel it driving me insane, taunting me with could've-beens, challenging the being I have found with the being it offered. I am convinced that New York City grew from a chaotic seed, like a grotesque plant, the sort of which used to give me nightmares. I'd like to live in it someday, for a year perhaps, just to take the demon head-on, vis-a-vis, as in reality, and not in a dream.
Saw Gang of Four live at Sonar a few weeks ago. They were vivacious, albeit old, and Jon King crab-walked and rolled across the stage and beat on a microwave with a baseball bat. I don't know where they got those ideas.
Various other things have happened. Got into a two-hour long debate with Old Man Perkins about God, with him arguing the paramount importance of God in human life, and me arguing the irrelevance of God to human life. I don't know whether or not there is any irony in that setup. Then there was the debate about economics with Patrice's roommate Anna last night; she argued from the side of capitalism while I argued from the side of socialism. Unfortunately, dialogue was ineffective, as both of us were sufficiently exhausted.
I suppose I'm obligated, here, to discuss the psychological abstractions of recent days; after all, isn't that what I always do? Seriously starting to question my direction. Nothing seems to feel right; nothing I do seems to be able to draw me in, to shake me from apathy and stasis. I wonder if that's because I haven't been sleeping enough; I count it possibly, and perhaps even likely. Had more drinks in the past few weeks than I've ever really been known to have, except maybe at this point last year. Days seem marked by a clear and distinct inability to relate or be related to--I've somehow become convinced that virtually everyone needs to be defended against, every stitch of the world has a flaw, every straight answer is an unnecessary risk. I'm tired at a community of "friends" whom I'm not really even sure I can tolerate that is becoming more and more inbred and complacent every weekend. Convinced that somewhere under everything I see is something I cannot even imagine.
I've isolated myself; too long without attempting to talk to anyone, even myself, has gotten me down. I seem to have resigned myself to a total communications breakdown without having received any evidence for the fact. This is not to say I have any answers. For some reason I'm convinced that the answers I'm looking for are far more complex than the obvious. Is this regression? At the brink of the world; still wondering who's going to push me over into it, or the other direction. Do I want the world? I wonder if the two-against-the-world thing is what I really want. Anna called me "defeatist." It was probably jest, but still, it raises the question of how many people would just crumble if they were forced to see things my way. Then again, that's most likely giving me far more credit than I deserve.
Everyone's been drunk and lonely in the middle of a crowded room. Even Sterling (too many beers and anyone's tongue will slip). It's not like I'm breaking ground here. Somehow things seem more significant when they happen to you. And I still spend most of my time with the one I love the most, although I'm starting to think it's rather unfair to her, that I should go out and get drunk and call her up to chat at 2AM. Why am I doing these things? Too much anxiety, far too much. Too little sleep, too.
Nothing feels good (to inadvertently quote the title of a book I would probably dislike). I need something. I don't know what. I definitely don't know how to get it. For once I'll be honest with you all. I'm at a loss.