pretty words, pretty lights


Erika Moya reading her own words and kind of digging it, though i’m not so much one for poesy these days. Click the link above.

Lying in bed still, being sick and bored and wishing someone was taking care of me, as always, because what’s the point in being sick if no one’s going to try to make you feel better? Anyrate, it’s sunny out, so i may venture past my walls eventually, because it’s a travesty to be ill when the day’s so pretty.

Also digging Molly Gaundry lately and this.

And, of course, Munly and the Lupercalians.

listen, hear spring, clear the snow

Had a bit of a mental collapse a few weeks ago, but i’m coming back round to the living. Been super bad about keeping everyone up to date on my life, mostly because life is rather uneventful here, truthfully. Been finding ways to have fun which have aided in alleviating my impending  psychological rapture.

German Bar is an awesome place and, if you make it this edge of the world, Gwangju, i mean, you should check it out. Best beer in Korea without question. The owner, too, is so nice. He spent some years in Germany and learnt the trade from a German brewmeister. Too, so very friendly, always at the door, shakes your hand, smiles, gives discounts to foreigner’s gives free food. It’s a rather relaxed atmosphere, which is so very different than the other foreign places here, where it’s more mad hatter mayhem than it is get to know and grow. Speakeasy, like, for example, much more madcap party than relax and drink some good drink. It’s owned by a foreigner, Scottish or English, i never can remember, and it’s always too loud for me to discern the accent proper. Live music sometimes, though, and so it goes, dance machine: fiend.

Making more of an effort to meet people than i ever have before in my life. It’s very unusual for me to do this. In normal real world life, without any effort, a flock of humans are around and they tend to decide my life, what i do, where i do it, and who i do it with. It’s a simple life and i love it that way. Here, though, i mean, everything’s so transient, and it’s a bit like that first year of university, so everyone is my friend for a night, but i may never even see them again. Adding to that, i’ve no phone still, so i’m difficult to get a hold of, which, too, is strange, since i’ve had a phone since i was fifteen or thereabouts.

But, yes, finding ways to enjoy myself in this strange land. Many things to share, though, if you’re on my facebook, you’ve likely seen what they are, so i just changed my mind and won’t put them here.

New Radiohead: glorious! Go off to pleasure your auditorial lobe in the most magnificent of ways.

And somehow i was unaware that The Decemberists had a new album out, and so i’m listening to it now, first time. Rather countryesque, folkier than usual, truly. A bit more Neil Young, maybe, or, i don’t know. It just feels like that old school kind of country, musically. Still very much The Decemberists, which means hooks, melodies, some interesting instrumentation, and narrative driven musics.

Four short stories written this week. Currently trying to relearn how to write. I wasn’t very good at it before, but i’m finding my command of language gets better with every day. I may even start submitting stories to magazines again. Shock and awe!

Hopefully finally getting around to my next installation for ThunderDome concerning my life in Korea.

Also, weather’s improving more and more each day, which is likely aiding the metaphysical woes.

ballet, better than beer

Art can save your life. And it’s meant to.

I’ve found, in this difficult time i’ve somehow plummeted into–this phestering psychosis propagated by diurnal delusions, maliciously maniacal, avariciously afflicted–is best treated with heavy doses of ballet.

I’ve spent much of the week burrowing into filmographies and laboring through waking life, and i’ve been unable to read more than a few sentences strung together. Even of my own, i find my words quite worthless and meaningless and so i’ve stopped reading them in case i end up deleting it all, which would be rather unfortunate. To safeguard against myself, i went so far as to e-mailing my oeuvre to myself, an odd internal war i seem to be fighting with and against the person i am.

Anycase, that wasn’t the point. The point is ballet. It’s hard to say where it started or why, but maybe Stravinsky or Prokofiev or even admirable Tchaikovsky are to blame for creating such breathtaking music, for ecstatic movements and undilutable beauty. Or maybe it’s because i met this girl and the fact that she was a ballerina amused and excited me. In anycase, i’ve become quite taken with it. It’s an art of the highest order, standing firmly in its own arena and speaking in the purest of voices: the voiceless kind, the language of music and bodies. It’s a language which cannot lie, and for that, to me, it’s the most perfect and, in my own fumbled attempts at artistry, it’s what i’m always reaching for, a transcendence, a way to make words so much more than just words, but make them something true, something that matters, to move beyond these trivial signifiers that i hate and love in equal measure. But music and bodies, they’re so perfect and so, well, perfect. And when i watch ballet, i fall in love, not with a person or myself, but with existence and it moves me beyond my body and these walls and i breathe in air and know that it’s there. And it matters, to me. The poetry of bodies, singing, radiating. And the aesthetics of ballet are perfect for my mind and i only recently realised, i think, what it is that defines beauty to me. It’s an important realisation, but maybe all of you already know what you believe beauty to be. I wasn’t fortunate in that regard and fumbled through millenniums of religions, philosophies, mythologies, stories, words words words, only to find what mattered, and it’s what matters in a fundamental way and we’re born knowing it, i think. But we forget. Or i do. Maybe only i did. Lost Beauty and searched for Her everywhere but didn’t even know Her name anymore. So i called out, reached out, turned out the lights, turned them back on, and when i came home, She was there already wondering why i left in the first place. But i think i know it now. Understand it, maybe. And ballet fits well inside Her. A brilliant birth, the advent of ballet, only a few centuries old, too. The lines, the movements, the music, the faces, the arms, the legs, the ground they leave and the air they lust after. There’s so much precision and grace. That kind of grace i’ve desired for countless lives only to find it in a pure form, digestible. It was real and it was magic.

What i meant to do was just post a video but i got stuck talking, typing, rather, and my fingers can’t help themselves when they get a keyboard under them. One word multiplies and then the day’s gone by and i’ve piled fifty pages into a document that i can’t read. I haven’t been writing, though, except for the random burst of a story i wrote the other day, which, really, isn’t a story but more an exercise in grammatical labyrinths, trying to Daedalus my way through all these insipid words i heap and heap and heap until i’m drowning in  them, much like this post.

Marianela Nunez is a true talent and she’s radiant here playing Odile.

She plays it masterfully and with great intelligence, for what could be more menacing, more evil, than the smile of a beautiful woman? But, aside from the acting bit, she’s an incredible performer, and if i had been born a woman, i would dream endlessly of being a dancer. Miss Nunez, she’s taken a bit of me with her, i think, and i’ve very much a fan.

And then, because i feel like it and the Royal Ballet has many of its performances online, i’m dropping the final act of Swan Lake in here, which is brilliant, and i almost wept at the end.

Ballerinas have wondrous bodies, i think. I like my women thin, perilously thin, maybe, to my own fault, and i don’t like large breasts. They seem clunky and clumsy and i don’t know what i’d do with them. Ballerinas have great poise, and i like legs, strong but elegant. Their bodies are a unique poetry, the poetry of Tennyson, perhaps, whereas, say, the normal person’s body has the poetry of a sixteen year old drunkard bellowing into the night. The body of a dancer or anyone, really, who works in a performance type art [sports, too, i’d qualify] has to be its own piece of art. The arms of a boxer, the back of a swimmer, the legs of pitcher, all of these are, in their own perfect way, pieces of art. The most perfect kind, mind, because it goes beyond simply being a piece or an instrument or an object.

I like Anna Pavlova, too, though there are few videos of her, owing to the temporal problem of film being in its infancy during her life. She’s an interesting dancer, almost clumsy, but ecstatic in her movements, and, somehow, perfect, transcendent, like every movement contains all of her, and it’s that kind of reckless artistry that should be admired.

That last video is over 100 years old.Seems so very strange to me. That piece, The Dying Swan, was created specifically for her. Many have gone on to perform it, including Miss Nunez, but i can’t seem to find her performance online. I still know next to nothing about ballet, but it soothes me and it’s cast a rope ladder down in this hole, and maybe i can climb out soon.

A more recent performance of The Dying Swan.

That’s probably enough from me, yes?


My story My On Fire Girl came out today at Thunderdome. Click if you’re feeling sentimental, in the mood for love. I quite like it.

Been feeling terribly out of sorts and maybe melting all over the floor. Not sure why, really. Brain broke.

Lunar New Year here, but my phone appears to maybe be broken again, so i’ll be watching movies and whathaveyou. I have five days off, so hopefully i can collect myself by next week. It makes it impossible to work when i feel like this.

Maybe i’ll get some words down. I sing a lot these days. To myself. By myself. Late at night. I don’t know. I need to do something so i sing, and i write so much about songs saving lives, so maybe it makes sense to me without knowing.

Keeping myself contained within my body. Easier said than done.