The life of the world to come.

This blog is dead.

Once again, I have failed at keeping resolutions -- which means, obviously, that I should no longer make them. After all, don't we all know by this time in our lives that any attempt to live by such clear-cut imperatives will inevitably fail?

I chalk my silence up to better weather and more work hours. Oh, and perhaps to the reintroduction of forward momentum into my life: I'm going to graduate school. Finally. I leave for Texas in less than two months to begin an MA/PhD in English at UT-Austin. (This is probably not news to anyone who reads this, as all my family and friends have known this information for at least two months.)

And so, with all the uncertainty of the past several months trumped by the resurgence of a promising future, I hereby declare this blog deceased, if only to assuage myself with the idea of closure. This has been an unexpectedly remarkable year, with many people, moments and places I dread leaving behind. But Michigan is nowhere near the path I have chosen for myself. Not at the moment, anyway.

I'm thinking of starting an entirely different kind of blog when I get to Austin, if I have time. (Which I probably won't.) It would be musically and culturally inclined. If it comes to fruition, I will link to it. But until then, adieu.

Putting It Together

Songs for an Impending Future will continue shortly, but for now, let me direct your attention to one of the truest, most beautifully phrased descriptions of compositional process. Behold, Shearwater's Jonathan Meiburg on his band's new album, The Golden Archipelago:

"To write those songs it's important to me to think of the album as a whole, as its own world with its own rules and central images. And for those images this time I wanted to go back to those islands, back to specific people and places and events, but also feelings and impressions, like the overwhelming and thrilled confusion you feel when you arrive at a place that's unlike anything you ever imagined. When you realize that understanding what you're seeing might take years of research and backtracking. And I wanted the album to reflect that kind of confusion: a sense of entire worlds of which you only see tiny pieces. And then it's up to you to put them together."

In case you're wondering, the album itself is stunning, magnificent, gorgeous, and a host of other grandiose adjectives. It is my favorite album of the new year, and is thoroughly deserving of your attention.

Songs for an Impending Future, Volume 1

Alright, finally. After several weeks of epic post-application burnout which left me with little desire to do anything but watch copious amounts of trashy television, I have finally begun the project I mentioned in the last post. I've dubbed it "Songs for an Impending Future," mostly because the future is all I think about in this tense period of awaiting admissions decisions. That, and the fact that my inner twelve-year-old giggled inappropriately at "Seminal Songs," the too cutely alliterative title I had considered previously.

It's also only logical to relate these songs to the future, as I've realized that's why they've resonated with me so recently. Whether lyrically or musically or both, they conjure the peculiar mix of hope and trepidation felt at the outset of a major life transition. This project is my attempt to verbalize how music helps my mind process those emotions. And if it happens to alert friends and strangers to a song or an artist they find exciting, or even generates a soundtrack to their futures, then it will be all the more fulfilling.

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1. Titus Andronicus -- "Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, NJ"
- Listen here.
- Lyrics here.

On paper, this song epitomizes the bilious kiss-off, with its livid, unforgiving lyrics: "The world screams out in agony and you don't care, but should the shit hit the fan, I just pray you will not be spared." Not quite the hopeful message you'd expect from something supposedly indicative of positive change. Its swelling arrangement, however, tells a different story.

It starts off calmly, distantly. Faint, tinny guitar chords waft lazily from the speakers, requiring the listener to lean in almost conspiratorially, as if eavesdropping on a downstairs neighbor's practice session through a heating vent. Patrick Stickles coolly deadpans the incisive first verse, giving no indication of the aural onslaught to follow. But just as you begin to wonder where this strange trifle is going, Stickles' exuberant shout of "Fuck! You!" erases any uncertainty, and the band breaks into the "demonic E Street Band" splendor that has now become its trademark.

Pounding drums, blustery harmonies, and even an accordion bolster the second verse, providing fist-pumping oomph. What happens after the lyrics conclude, however, vaults the song to unforgettable status. After a brief (literally, three seconds) lull, an exultant guitar riff kicks in, followed quickly by riotously crashing cymbals and piano. Then, just when it couldn't conceivably get any better, tripleted drums and soaring trumpets elevate it to an all-out barrage of sonic euphoria. Just try to listen to this triumphant instrumental coda without grinning.

Shakespeare fans -- friends will know I discovered this band because they share their name with one of the Bard's bloodiest tragedies -- will enjoy the menacing monologue (from their namesake play, of course) at the very end of the track. Like the lyrics, it remains thematically disparate from my personal connection to the song, but the conviction with which the character Aaron speaks mirrors the fire within anyone hoping to achieve what they believe they were put on this earth to accomplish.

This is the song I will play the very moment I hit whatever highway leads to my graduate school life. These are the lyrics I'll scream until I'm hoarse, finally bidding a decisive farewell to my regressed existence and resuming my professional life. These are the rhythms I'll pound with my fists against the steering wheel. This is the year the future arrives, and this is the song that will usher it in.

Titus Andronicus is on tour this spring. If you're a fan of totally exhilerating live experiences, you'll catch them in a city near you.

Revolution by Inches

At last, the maelstrom of graduate school applications has passed, and I'm left with an uncharacteristically large chunk of spare time. Uncluttered schedules have never agreed with me, as they lure my latent laziness and depressive tendencies out of hiding. It's only been four days, and I can feel my brain cells evaporating by the minute. To combat further mental decay, I've compiled a list of post-app goals. Consider these belated new year's resolutions:

1. Refrain from throwing things at and/or punching strangers in the wake of Republican victory in Massachusetts. As a hardened pessimist, it's hard for me not to see Brown's win as the death of health care reform, but other ways to pass legislation do exist. Fuming and moping never accomplished anything. It's time to deepen my understanding of the issues and to participate in any local efforts to influence senators and representatives.

2. Actually compose an original song, and pursue it to completion rather than giving up halfway through. Andrew Bird and Owen Pallett have a monopoly on the violinist songwriter trade, and rightly so, but sometimes I forget that I can play the instrument, too. If I resurrect my practicing routine and conjure some violin licks to combine with guitar progressions, maybe something interesting will emerge. Plus, I'd love to attempt writing lyrics again, if only to cancel out the horrendous emo dreck I wrote in high school.

3. Regularly update this blog. No, seriously. I'll start the trend with what comes easiest: writing about music. Lately, I've been rediscovering certain songs on my iPod and am aching to articulate exactly why I find them so memorable. I'm not yet sure what to call this project; it'll debut once I think of an appropriate title.

4. Not have a panic attack about grad school admissions. Easier said than done.

Anyhow in a corner.

Whenever death grazes the edges of my life, I think of Auden:

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

That "human position," the cataclysmically shocking and yet utterly natural event that is the cessation of a life, renders mortality a singularly unsettling notion. The poem, "Musée des Beaux Arts," describes a painting, Breughel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," in which life in a seaside village proceeds as normal while the titular character, a mere pair of flailing legs, drowns almost unnoticed in the lower right-hand corner.

They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

Last week's devastating news threw these sentiments into sharp relief. An acquaintance returned home to find a loved one gone too soon; meanwhile, I rode my horse, unaware of the devastation unfolding a few miles away. Consumers consumed. Traffic lights changed. Cars zipped toward destinations. Some drivers may have passed the newly grieving house and questioned the presence of emergency vehicles before quickly reverting to their previous trains of thought.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

The sun set that day and rose the next, as it had to. The world continues, as it has to. Now, however, more souls mourn and rage against yet another undeserved tragedy. When we ask why, life answers by simply providing us time to attempt to heal.

Though I feel uncomfortable revealing any details, I ask that those who read this post keep the bereaved in mind. Their situation is one no family should have to endure.

Belated Thankfulness

In the wake of Teo's passing and under the smothering pressure of grad school applications, neither inspiration nor time has presented itself to a degree appropriate for creating new posts. I guess it's fitting, then, that I can't even write a Thanksgiving entry on time. But late trumps never, and late November always hands me the realization that I display too little gratefulness for a life which, despite its occasional strain and turbulence, remains essentially priveleged, fulfilling, and altogether rewarding.

And so, with that in mind, and with special attention to this (admittedly fairly difficult) year's developments, I am thankful for:

-- Reconnecting with home. When I left Providence, returning to Michigan seemed a death sentence. Now, after almost six months here, I've rediscovered the friendliness, pluck, and tenacity of Michiganders, the immense pride and affection we harbor for our dying city and the incredible hope we maintain for its resurrection, the unique slants of light and scents on the air that signify Southeast Michigan. These are the experiences that made me despair to leave five years ago, and I'm relieved to have found them again.

-- My job, and no longer feeling the pressure to justify holding such a job. Working in retail may fall outside the confines of acceptably prestigious entry-level jobs for graduates of purportedly elite colleges, but it's no cause for self-pity. I have a schedule that allows me to care for the horses in the morning and work on my applications at night and a paycheck that covers equine and personal expenses. I've met some fantastic people with some amazing stories, none of whom I would know had I not taken this job.

-- My horses, who anchor me in sanity and comfort when all else falls away and leaves a wake of bleakness and desperation. Now that Teo is gone, I am all the more thankful for the nine years I had with him; it is increasingly evident that no horse will ever match him in steadfastness and personality. And it brings me joy to think that Shwy, my first horse whom I've had for nearly 15 years, acts much younger than his 25 years and will hopefully remain with us for quite awhile yet.

-- My family. Despite our splintered state and moderately tense undercurrents, we manage to reunite each holiday for an ultimately enjoyable time. Our gatherings may resemble absurdist drama, but we somehow retain our senses of humor throughout. I owe an especially large debt of gratitude to my mother, for tirelessly supporting my education and never once questioning my choice of career, and for not turning me out on my ear, no matter how many times my holy-terror adolescence tempted her to do so.

-- My friends, both old and new. I often speak of my "friend family," and last week's trip East reaffirmed my faith in that concept. I will never, ever find another group of kindred spirits quite like my residential college compatriots, and my Providence friends will always remain my favorite artistic community. Moreover, longtime and new-found friendships here at home promise to brighten the interminable Michigan winter. I truly have no excuse for loneliness when I'm so lucky to be surrounded by so many luminous individuals.

-- Music and lyrics. Whether I'm practicing violin or guitar, belting out Mountain Goats songs on a road trip, basking in John K. Samson's lyrical genius, or absorbing the unparalleled communal experience of witnessing a favorite band or artist in concert, music occupies an appreciable portion of every day I live. It comforts sadness, focuses rage, enables memories, augments joy, and imparts wisdom. I organize my life by artists and albums: this year, I suffered through Providence's winter to Bon Iver's Blood Bank, danced through spring to Born Ruffians and Harlem Shakes, studied summer away to Sunset Rubdown's Dragonslayer, and grieved for Teo to the Mountain Goats' Life of the World to Come (particularly "Matthew 25:21," the first song ever to drive me to unfettered sobbing). As a hypersensitive, deeply emotive, vaguely neurotic individual, I am deeply grateful that music offers me such catharsis and support, and am infinitely thankful for my own ability to create it.

-- Simple pleasures. For each of the above major life elements, there exist dozens of small joys that defy classification within those parameters. I experience them frequently, yet consciously appreciate them far too little, so I list them here, now, if ever my future self should forget their soul-healing power:

long drives, strong hugs, waking without alarms, late-night conversations, pumpkin spice lattes, breathtaking sunsets, uncontrollable side-aching eye-watering laughter, autumn foliage, the smell of horse, the smell of bonfires, cranberry-walnut-goat cheese salads, truly good coffee, truly buttery croissants, Ken's fries, Rudy's frites, smiles from strangers, cuddles from my cats, trips to the driving range, red wine, college towns, excellent iPod shuffle streaks, comfortable mattresses, Altoids, my mom's cooking, Mad Men, peppermint tea, Sweet Juniper, Ontario, Canada in general, social networking and other keeping-in-touch methods, and waking every day to general good health and food and clothing and shelter.

Flights of Angels

You were a presence full of light upon this earth,
And I am a witness to your life and to its worth.

I don't know if I believe in rainbow bridges or pastures in the sky, but I believe in eternal peace for those who have felt great pain.

Galateo, the elderly horse of the previous post, lost his battle with arthritis this weekend. His hindquarters had become too stiff and weak and uncoordinated to carry his large frame. He almost fell yesterday on his way in from the paddock. He had started to suffer.

My mother called the vet, who came to our farm this afternoon and instantly agreed that it was time. He led Teo to a grassy spot next to the pine tree in front of our paddocks. The dreaded moment had still arrived too suddenly, even after months of steeling myself.

I could not watch Teo go. My mother, ever the stronger soul, watched for both of us. She said he fell gently, slowly, first to his knees and then to his side. Life left his body like a bird departing its perch. For the first time in a long time, he felt no pain.

Though I will always worry that Teo wondered where I'd gone in those last minutes, I am glad my mom insisted that my parting image of him be a better one. I spent our final day together cuddling him in his stall, stroking his face and neck, telling him how much I loved him. And even though he still showed his heart at the end, trying to escape the vet's grasp -- he never did like doctors, and he never, ever gave up -- he was already gone, in a way.

After he had passed, a strange calm washed over me, almost as if my body had released whatever pain it had absorbed from his. Even now, mere hours later, I find myself oddly peaceful and almost relieved. Perhaps it's numbness, or maybe even acceptance. I doubt I'll really know for some time.

What I do know is that whenever I think of Teo, the strong, proud, steadfast, talented, courageous competitor will always come to mind. I will remember our first competition at Indian Hills, where he swept every class we entered. I will remember my delight when he carried me to a 63.5% in my first Prix St. Georges and then earned me my USDF Silver Medal. I will remember the freestyle symposium in Raleigh, where he danced to swing music and captured the audience's and the panel's hearts. I will remember the elation of making the Region 2 NAYRC team, the long drive to Bromont, the agony and ecstasy of being held at the jog and then finally admitted -- how he willed his right hind, its arthritis then in its infancy, to reach just that extra inch farther -- and then collapsing in the arms of my teammates, who showered him with praise. I will remember our first Grand Prix and each one thereafter, and the unbelievable pride of earning our Gold Medal together. I will remember the joy he brought to my friends who rode him after I left for college. I will remember him trotting in his paddock and scratching my other horse's back over the gate. I will remember his nickers and whinnies and head-tosses and goofy looks.

Goodnight, sweet prince. You're free now, and you will always be my Bear.