Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wildflower Park Open Mic: Take II
Rain or Shine: Wildflower Park Open Mic Lights up the Night
Storm clouds came out in force for the second open mic at Wildflower Park--but the music just couldn't be stopped! Another wonderful night of music hosted by Anita and her family.
It took a bit on maneuvering to keep my camera safe in the inclement weather...if I missed getting a shot of you in this set--I will get you at the next one on October 6th!
Anita: the fearless leader...explaining something EXCITING!
It took a bit on maneuvering to keep my camera safe in the inclement weather...if I missed getting a shot of you in this set--I will get you at the next one on October 6th!
Anita: the fearless leader...explaining something EXCITING!
Adjusting the Technicals...
Jessey Winkler
Tim: Percussion Man
Tim: Percussion Man
Phaedra and Rob
Deb Schoop (Hi mom!)
Rob Flax
Deb Schoop (Hi mom!)
Rob FlaxThe Hello Ladies
Hello Ladies VIP Fan Section
Hello Ladies VIP Fan Section
Kristen
The Bakersette Boys
Lew Sleeman
The third and FINAL WILDFLOWER OPEN MIC of the year will be: October 6th starting at 6pm @ 5639 Loudon Street Road, Johnstown Ohio.
See you there!
[musicians featured: help yourself to images for
your myspace/website, etc. PLEASE no editing.
Interested in prints? Contact me: ohnabero@gmail.com]
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
this tree looks familiar...
...i've stepped into this trap before.Marie Digby "Girlfriend"
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
are you the favorite person of anybody?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
fresh start
i'm half unpacked, sitting on the couch watching clerks cartoons. so far this feels like what i've been needing.i need coffee filters.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
omnipotent friendship
"My friends are always there for me." Cliche? yes. True? oh yes.Sometimes life is exhausting. Even on a break from life [read: no job, no apartment, no classes], somehow life finds its way back into my path in the form of a collective mountain of my past in the basement. Oh yes, the seemingly never-ending mass that I have accumulated in my 21 years as a card-carrying packrat. Yeah, okay, I hear you: "Okay Natalie, you don't throw anything away...get on with this so I can eat my hot pocket!"
So, I was sorting through plastic tub #1 of 6...in that particular corner...calculating the sentimental value of an 11 year old House of Blues shirt. I'm keeping my composure in considering just tossing out my 9th grade science folder without going through it page by page--I'm even dealing with the scattered kitty litter digging into the soles of my feet (thanks jake). Despite being in a chilly basement deciding the fate of all my er...worldly(?) possessions, everything is pretty okay. I get to an envelope addressed to my freshman dorm from my mom--probably from the first letter she sent me--obviously I must have some attachment to the envelope itself because it doesn't even house it's original contents. I open it up, of course: A snapshot of me unpacking in my dorm, a note from my dad (and cheri, sadie, nikki, cerea, haley, nemo, speedy, chip & baby. oh, and snoopy and tails), some sketches I did of tattoo ideas, an IMAX ticket stub, a paper football, and two yellowed pieces of cardstock.
"Thank you for being here to help celebrate this special day"
May 13, 1945
May 13, 1945
The two pieces of cardstock were copies of my grandparent's wedding original announcement given out at their 60th wedding anniversary. I read through the details of my grandma's wedding gown...
"The bride was in a gown fashioned with a white satin bodice with a marquisette lace-trimmed yoke and long sleeves and a marquisette skirt. Her finger-tip veil was arranged with a halo and she carried white carnations with an orchid center"
The find made me smile, seeing my grandparents so young, gazing away from the camera, my grandma with one arm around his shoulder, the other barely touching his other hand, it's a special thing to see. Not only is it sweet, but it also supports my notion that saving things can be worthwhile. Seeing my grandpa smiling in his US Navy get-up...choked me up. Time in life is precious and can't be held on to...no matter how many plastic tubs and cardboard boxes that you line the walls with--you can't go back.
So there I am, sniffling in the chilly basement, my feed stinging from cat litter shrapnel, wishing I was anywhere but there. Wishing I was spending time in the present rather than standing in the musky boxes of my past, feeling a tad pathetic. One of those moments that for no good reason, everything just feels like it's coming unglued--no matter how irrational it is--it just seems like you're caving in on yourself. I stuff the papers back into the envelope, still crying and feeling scummy when I look at the paper football. It's addressed simply and sappily
So there I am, sniffling in the chilly basement, my feed stinging from cat litter shrapnel, wishing I was anywhere but there. Wishing I was spending time in the present rather than standing in the musky boxes of my past, feeling a tad pathetic. One of those moments that for no good reason, everything just feels like it's coming unglued--no matter how irrational it is--it just seems like you're caving in on yourself. I stuff the papers back into the envelope, still crying and feeling scummy when I look at the paper football. It's addressed simply and sappily
"My Love"
Who ever sent me paper football-notes? I unfold it assuming it's . Laughing through my tears. What I said about omnipotent friends? Thank you JJ.
No matter where I am, no matter what's going on...findings like this remind me that no matter how much cat litter is digging into my feet, no matter how dislocated I feel from my life's plan...
...my friend's are everywhere
...everything's gonna be alright.
Eric Prydz- Call on Me
Go hug someone.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
i can do the robocop
rilo kiley "the frug"
Friday, September 7, 2007
letters to life
I want to talk to write a letter. I want to write a letter to whoever makes the rules about life. I want to ask him/her/them/it (I want to write to whoever is in charge of the English language too...and make them make a singular, gender neutral pronoun that doesn't impede the flow of speech with ////hash// marks) if they realize how inconvenient it is to not know when your life is going to change. Would it be too much to ask to get a telegram from LIFE INC. in the morning, giving you a few hours warning before something happens, so you can get yourself together and not make things worse? You never get to wake up in the morning to a text from LIFE saying "achtung: stay away from people today. get a hotel room, go sleep in the woods otherwise today you will cause trouble and will get tossed out of the apartment."....something along those lines.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
need a little time
Rustling up some nostalgia.
Oasis-Morning Glory
Still reading Break, Blow, Burn...and of course clicking around online doing some research about Camille Paglia. Found an interview with her that both daunts and excites me about the world of poetry. Who cares about poetry? Exactly her point...
An Excerpt:
"City Paper: In Break, Blow, Burn, you condemn poetry removed from popular diction. How removed is the poetry clique from popular culture?
Paglia: Today the poetry world is very small because poetry doesn't sell. What you get is the poets feel very embattled; they've drawn into their inner world. And certain poets get honors — you have critics that, no matter what a poet puts out, it's praised as this incredible masterpiece. So you have Seamus Haney, who is at Harvard; he won the Nobel Prize for his poetry. Well, I couldn't find a single poem by him that I could put in this book. … It's all derivative. It's all fifth-rate Yeats. So I'm saying that the poets are themselves to blame for withdrawing into this world. It's very clubby. They give awards to each other. They have these grants committees from the foundations, and they're all scratching each other's backs. I'm asking poets to think again about what they're doing. And saying, "You better start addressing the public again and stop addressing each other."
#40 from Paglia's compilation (newly settled in my favorite poems of all time)
My Makeup
on my cheeks I wear
the flush of two beers
on my eyes I use
the dark circles of sleepless nights
to great advantage
for lipstick
I wear my lips
-Rochelle Kraut-
Another Exceprt from the interview in which she addresses "My Makeup"
"City Paper: How will feminists and female humanities professors find your selection?
Paglia: I looked everywhere for what I thought was a strong feminist poem that truly expressed my era. Some defiant voice that was denouncing male oppression and tyranny … actually the strongest I found was Sylvia Plath's "Daddy," even though she's pre-feminist. The only [relatively contemporary] one I found [is] the one by Rochelle Kraut. I found it in an anthology from the '80s. She is not someone who's written a lot of poetry. But boy, I think that is a feminist poem. It's called "My Makeup." It doesn't even pretend to be a feminist poem. But it is. "
This makes me want to be a poet. Maybe irresponsibility and
sharp, irrational actions are the only way I can get
myself moving?
sharp, irrational actions are the only way I can get
myself moving?
Saturday, September 1, 2007
n-n-n-nothing but burgundy
I finally made my way back to the library to settle my fines (apparently my arm and leg are worth $27). In celebration of being out of "the red" with the Cbus Met Lib system I took out Beckett's Waiting for Godot ( somehow I've never read this and have been thinking about since my trip to Trinity College in Dublin last summer), and Camille Paglia's Break Blow Burn. Paglia's analysis of "fourty-three of the world's best poems" reminds me of why I want to continue my education in English.Pulling every word apart, figuring out why the writer included a symbol/color/character (consciously or otherwise)...it's like doing a puzzle backwards. Someone gives you a Monet, Gauguin , a Pollock and your task is to take an exacto knife to it. You must extract each waterlily and understand it's placement, it's color, purpose, possible historical reference, symbolism...and so on and so on.
Most interesting to me however, was Pagila's choice to include a Joni Mitchell song among Shakespeare, Yeats, Donne...even making comparisons to Dickinson and Plath. What Pagila does in including verse from popular culture into a collection of what she (as a professor and scholar) considers to be "fourty-three of the world's best poems" capsulizes my motivation for continuing in English. Pagila chose to analyze Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock". I have a history with the lyrics itself; my mom sings it fairly regularly (though we didn't know it was a Joni Mitchell, only known it to be Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young), so I was excited to see what she had to say about it. Her discussion made great points and has left me pondering and debating with my mom.
Working on a project like the book Pagila has written itself would be a dream job for me, but being able to include contemporary, popular literature and song into a real, nitty-gritty literary discussion is exciting to me. I don't see any reason why there should be more study on Puccini than the Ramones (aside from relative age), or why Dickinson is classic and someone like Addonizio isn't taught in school? Shouldn't a work of art that reaches and identifies the masses be as important, if not moreso, than high art?
Woodstock-Joni Mitchell
(line and stanza breaks as dictated by Camille Paglia)
I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going
And he told me
I'm going on Down to Yasgur's farm
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to camp out on the land
And try and get my soul free
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog
In something turning
Well, maybe it's the time of year
Or maybe it;s the time of man
I don't know who I am
But life is for learning
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere was a song
And celebration
And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation
We are stardust
million-year-old carbon
We are golden
caught in the devil's bargin
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
Well, if you're still reading now...you get a prize! A cartoon-y prize!
Cheers m'dears