6/52 - Snow on the Back Seat (21st Century Social Clusters)

They say money can't buy you happiness

Just some food on your table or a place to rest

Just some clothes for your kids or some medicine 

But money can't buy you happiness, my friend

Dear Internauts, 

How's your winter going? 

So far, I got to switch my car to the ultra-special 2 mode down there toward the bottom, whatever that means, for the first time. Oh yeah, and I left the back two windows down all night for some reason. Didn't want the inside of the car to feel left out from the snow, I guess. 

Thank you, by the by, for making last weeks post the most viewed I've had probably ever if not just in a VERY long time. Honestly, I don't have very high expectations for readership or statistics, but it is nice to know that maybe some folks other than me get something out of this little space. 

So I guess the Grammys happened tonight. I mean this is a music blog or something, but I've never been very in touch with popular music. I think I've heard most of the winning songs and artists at least a few times in stores or on the radio, but most of the music I listen to regularly is either stuff from a decade ago or from folks I've played on the bill with or that one Acoustic Africa CD my mom got me a while back. I've no idea what they're saying, but it's very upbeat and relaxing. So, congrats to the winners, but mostly here's to all the kids out there who watched it and thought that maybe someday they could be up there on that stage. I've been you, and kinda still am you as far as those dreams go. 

Generally, I think we're in an age well past the days of the Record Labels as gate-keepers. The big decline probably started even before Napster, but it has much less to do with file sharing than it does with the infinite niche cultures springing from the interconnectivity of the online age. Streaming sites allow for some personal curating of style based on similar sounds, but I believe the biggest cause for anyone listening to a particular artist or style is what it has always been—word of mouth. That word may come via text or facebook chat or reblog of a video, but when it comes to music, movies, tv shows, and games, who do we ultimately trust more than our friends? Even if those friends are only known to us by way of the similar groups we belong to online, there's a connection there which weighs heavy with reasonable authority because of our similarities. 

When I was a kid, I remember playing with a bunch of other kids who lived on the same street. Besides where we lived (and our reason for living there often having to do with where our folks worked), there was nothing immediately tying us together based on our interests. Proximity was all it took. Far as I know, none of us live within walking distance of that street now. I'll hear bits and pieces, but for the most part I've no idea where they are or what they're doing with their lives these days. School is kinda like that too, in that you're forced into a big social group with kids of like age, and somewhere in there friends form up. Or not. Like I imagine it may have been with you, there were some years I had a good friend or two and some years I really didn't. Still, in both cases of housing and education, friendships form of a kind of social necessity. You're gonna be around them anyway, so you might as well make the most of it. 

While I think there's something optimistic and wholesome to the idea that we can get along with those around us and build attachment into a source of happiness without needing the other person first to fit a checklist of basic criteria, I actually find the kind of communities formed online to be a fascinating and positive development in human society. Not only can I join in conversation, learning, sharing, and fun with a group of people with similar interests, but that group can consist of people whose lives and locations mean we never would have met otherwise. Sure, this can lead to enormous echo chambers and a massive case of confirmation bias, but it can also mean we maybe don't have to feel quite so alone.

It was either in high school or college that we had a day in which each student was given a number before lunch. Each would sit at the table of that number, with the goal being to spend at least one meal with people you may not otherwise interact. As an introvert who had enough trouble sitting near anyone during meals, the hours (or weeks) leading up to this lunch filled me with more dread than reassurance. Sure, I didn't have to pass some silent test to determine whether or not I could sit at a certain table without being told off or the rest of the table getting up to leave, but it also put a weird pressure on me to interact with people I didn't know. Granted, my college and high school both had relatively tiny student populations, so we'd at least likely recognize each other...

Maybe I should present to you the challenge of getting out there and getting to know new people. Maybe this post should be about how a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet (or a friend is just an enemy you haven't made yet). But morals and platitudes frustrate and bore me. 

Besides, we just lost power for the second time then got it back again, which reminded me to look at the time and set my alarm for tomorrow. Monday and Tuesday of this week—presuming I can get my car out of the driveway—I'll be delivering flowers for all the lovely lovebirds out there. Should be interesting. 

Latest update on the EP is that Joe Casey has finished getting the drums all shuffled around and is laying down some bass tracks before he'll send the early drafts. Being as he (and like nine other people I know) just became a parent, it may be a little while, but I really like the drummer for these songs and def think some good stuff is on its way. 

I've been trying to get out to open mics when I can. Often it's snowing because apparently that happens in New England sometimes. Or I'm just wiped of all energy because that's the way I roll lately. Still, it's important to keep trying, right? 

For my recommendations this week, I choose the film Paterson

The graphic novel Blame! by Tsutomu Nihei

and

The book Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman

To finish off, here are some sketches I've been working on of late: 

Thanks for reading,
Odist

 

 

5/52: When I Was Hungry... (or A Mediocre Super Hero Origin Story)

PRETENTIOUS.  Adj.
-attempting to impress by affecting greater importance, talent, culture, etc., than is actually possessed

Dear Internauts,

I despise blogs, articles, speeches, or conversations that start off with definitions, don't you?

It's such a giveaway that the writer is about to contradict that definition, offering something new and enlightening.

Or perhaps, sometimes—maybe more often, maybe less (how should I know, right?)—the aforementioned writer will instead use the definition as a launching point to jump into their persuasive (or not) presentation. It's like they've got one "fact" set up right for the thesis paragraph.

Open strong, right? And it's just like oh great, he must've used that New Oxford American Dictionary built into his lappy tappy computer gizmo. 

Well, you're right. I did.

Anyways...

I'm not one to throw the word fascist around—everyone knows it's a melee weapon best for close combat—but certain current events have me wondering at exactly what point I need to digitize my favorite books and maybe build a secret room in the attic.

Having spent the past weekend stocking shelves at local grocery stores for a certain snack food company—let's call them Neato-Yay—I can say with an anecdotal certainty usually reserved for panel shows that there is enough food in south eastern Massachusetts to feed exactly four gazillion people, if their diet mainly consists of bowl-shaped corn chips. I know this because just trying to keep up with Hurricane preparedness levels of consumerism has left me physically and emotionally shredded. Much of the physical shredding is due to having lost the oversized work gloves I'd bought at 7-11 the night before for a buck-fitty because they got too sweaty so I put them in my pockets but how in the world are you supposed to fit keys, phone, notebook, pen, timesheets, instructions, and gloves too big for my apparently trumpian-sized hands in freakin' khaki pants, huh? Answer that one.

I'll give it to Carlito's Way though, they sure do have seventy billion four hundred and twenty-six different sizes of the same generic, over-priced, addictive...cheesy...salty...crunchy...

Wait, where was I going with that?

So this one time, I was maybe nine or ten, right? You ever been there? Yeah? Cool.

In this particular bit of recollection, all the church people got onto this kinda fancy ferry boat sorta like the ones in The Dark Knight with the detonators and the prisoners and the not-prisoners etc...except this one had less explosive barrels on it (i assume). I guess this happened annually, but I was only seven or eight, so what do I know? The captain and his brave crew of hunky polo shirts took the boat and its occupants out on a nice little loop around the Hahbah, and there was food and drinks and dancing (except minus the drinks and dancing but plus a lot more food because well, you can figure it out...)

Afterwards, the flocking mass (or massive flock, idk) disembarked on a gangplank with real nautical-looking rope railings. I myself, being an eager-to-please young lad of maybe five or six, personally volunteered to stand on the dock, just to the side of the intersection where plank-ramp met pier-dock. There I stood, hat in hand (here meaning "holding a plastic bucket which had likely once contained popcorn or disappointing off-brand candy"). As the pooped-out parishioners were pooped off the poop deck (I know it's not the poop deck, okay? I've watched Muppet Treasure Island like 30 times a month since I was about three or four years old), I would be there to hold the makeshift coffer before them and passive-aggressively insinuate that God may have made the sea but he didn't pay for you to gorge yourself on fried chicken while riding around in a loud eyesore fueled by dead dinosaurs on it.

So while I stood there, an infant of one or maybe two years old at most, implying with a practiced smile that the family who prays together sure better pay together, I noticed the descending crowd swelling beyond what the allotted wooden plank space could comfortably contain. What a predicament, my probably fetal brain thought. What shall I do to accommodate these restless worshipers' transition from seaworthy shuttle back to good ol' terrarium firma?

Of course, in my single-celled yet somehow sentient mind, I pulled a very practiced move known well by anyone of the introvert persuasion. I got out of the way. I removed myself from the equation. I vanished into the background. Already, I'd become simply the basket, but now I would also be the opening up. Space was now available where before it had been absent. The place which had been empty of emptiness was now emptier and thus less empty of emptiness in its newfound emptiness.

And me? Well, in that next instant, this little Punnet Square learned a very important lesson. A very wet, very cold, very sudden lesson.

Strange isn't it, how we could make a buoyant, butter-battered bucket into a box for bucks but not a huge building with more rooms and far more space than most motels into somewhere safe and warm on a cold night for someone who might have nowhere else to go?

Weird.  I guess it's a good thing I live in a country that's founded upon the principles of neighborliness and welcoming in strangers and immigrants with love and generosity, building a collection of diverse and multi-layered generations of cultures and persuasions of humanity in order to form a more beautiful and more perfect union.

Oh well, where was I? Ah, yes.

Picture a child's windbreaker jacket, good for late summer/early fall in 90's New England but not so much for the frigid winds just along the coast. Imagine, if you will, the accordion-esque elastic strap at the bottom of said jacket which held the space-age membrane around the child's waist in just such a way as to pull up at the worst times, bringing with it the bottom of his shirt and surely frost bite to his pudgy little tummy. Imagine what happens when a significant patch of air surges right up under the waist band and into the jacket. Normally, this air would disperse through the neck hole, sleeve holes, or back out the way it came. In this purely hypothetical case, however, the airflow is momentarily  halted inside the jacket by an opposing force.

This patch of air cannot escape upward as is the natural want when in a drop of a meter and a half-ish. The naive bit of protogenic sludge wearing the jacket has foolishly zipped it all the way up to his chin in a failed attempt to stave off the chill. The sleeves, surely? But alas, they soon are weighed down by the great equalizer. After all, water always wins.

From waist band to collar, this polyester parachute of public punitivity has popped, pillowed, and plumed into a sphere most sardonic. Like some gum-chewing pre-adolescent in a confectionary manufacturing establishment, I blue up.

Ballooned as such, I bobbed like a buoy between the boat and the dock. The positioning of both, along with the tide, could likely have caused an unfortunate collision to crush my cranium, but enough alliteration already, are we agreed?

From up in the night sky, the stars twinkled with exasperation. The city lights echoed their chorus all to serve as backdrop for the moment. Yes, it had finally come. With the flame of purpose burning in his proud chest, a lone crewman saw his chance. Vaulting o'er the rope's cautious arm, he spun into a gold-medal-worthy dive and plunged his chiseled magnificence deep beneath the salty swell. Like Namor the Sub-Mariner himself, this marvel burst forth from the waves only at most ten or twenty seconds later. He swam like mermen might someday swim, perhaps when hipster culture reaches Altantica. Wrapping his own railing-worthy nautical ropes around me in an embrace so fierce it forced all the air out of my jacket-bubble, he scrambled to hold on as I rocketed several feet into the air. Not having yet developed the kind of gravity-defying acrobatic skills I would later come to give up on ever developing, I fell back into the water, submerging once again into the dank depths. Thus, with my daring rescuers herculean strength to assist, I hopped on the deck and flopped like a fish. 

Those in the crowd could later be heard gossiping about who occasionally likes a glass of wine with dinner and saying, "how'd you get all wet?", "whose kid is this?", and "oh, don't let him drip on me!"

IF there is a moral to any of this, I guess it's maybe don't be so consumed with trying to get out of everyone else's way that you forget you deserve a spot on dry land just as much as they do.

And the money?

It all washed away. 

Thanks for reading,
Odist

p.s. - CLICK HERE FOR THE TOP TEN CUTEST PUPPY MOMENTS YOU WON'T BELIEVE

4/52: Show Me the Way

National borders are the corporate constructs of a failing enterprise
We pledge our fealty to the institutions that bargain lands and goods with human lives
Bombing missions and carbon emissions buy our admission to a flooded future
Empty divisions like nationalism paint dark, splattered visions like shredded sutures

Dear Internauts,

On Thursday, I went to the open mic held at Patterson Creations in Attleboro, MA which looks a little something like this:

While there I played a few songs and listened to some cool music, as well as got a chance to meet with Jermaine Patterson, the owner, who has developed the space with a goal toward promoting the arts and artists. He spoke of going to clubs and venues and making note of whatever he wished was there as a way to continually design this space into something better. He and the other musicians there were very encouraging, though it's obvious the place needs to be found by more people. They have plenty of different events going on, so please check it out.

To give you a sense of the time 'twas had, here are a few quick doodles I penned while trying to remember the words for the songs I might play:

 This past week, I also went to a job fair. It was small and crowded, and as with pretty much any job fair, made me feel like I was getting stitches with steel wool on the inside of my ribs.

I did have one interview, which turned into me planning a trip to the DMV tomorrow to take a test for a specific kind of driving certificate so that I can maybe become a temporary substitute van driver. 

Also, I saw the film Twentieth Century Women, written and directed by Mike Mills, which was absolutely charming. One of those rare dramas that allows its cast to fully inhabit imperfect characters, both addressing and disregarding expected roles and decisions. 

Still no word on insurance yet, but I was able to get some meds for a short while. The hope is that I'll be able to do all such adult things like get a job and insurance in order to pay for the meds that will enable me to be sane enough to do all such adult things. 

Honesty, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but in some ways I think we could all benefit from a psychotic break. Having the chance to be stripped of all sense of self and normal emotional function is a good way to finally prioritize. We act like maturity is some kind of armor, but really the idea that one needs to constantly be wearing this heavy armor against the world or if one has it held on for them like a shield are both great ways to avoid growing up. Such confines stunt your growth. Thinking that whatever comes after me is okay because I have such and such a mantra about peace or faith or hope or the inherent goodness of humanity can be helpful. However, at some point, we all likely face a situation that is too much for our self-assurances. We're back into a wall and realize that no matter what we may believe about ourselves or the abstract "world" out there, sometimes what we face can never be made to be or even seem okay. 

My whole life, there have been adults looking down at me and telling me that whenever I face trouble in life, I just need to have more faith. I just need to pray more or study the bible more or give more of my money or time to some program. There's the solution. Or maybe I should work harder in school or

listen more to my superiors or my peers or to the vague, quite changeable idea of god. Nothing I could ever do or achieve would ever be enough to solve any problem I faced, while with every new problem the answer was always to do or achieve more and more and more and more and more.

When I've been most depressed, it wasn't trying to put on a brave face that lost me friends. People don't want real nearly as much as they say they do. I'd get messages from folks I thought had no issue with me just for them to tell me how much they hated how sad I always seemed. Only years later did a doctor finally tell me there was something medically wrong with me. For the longest time, I thought I simply wasn't displaying the joy of the lord strongly enough. And no matter how hard you work at it, even depression is gonna make it next to impossible to pretend at happiness.

I wanted to make the comparison to a physical illness. I could write something about how when you're sick in any other part of your body no one tells you how much they dislike how broken-legged you are all the time. Except, of course, that's not true is it? Not every building has wheelchair accessibility. Being chronically tired or in pain is very damaging to any kind of interpersonal relationships. It would be so much easier for everyone if we could only be sick on their time scale and in ways that they understood.

But we're not. We can't be. We won't ever be easy for others to understand. I don't get you the way you wish I did. Even the simplest things can get boggled up in my brain and spill out horribly if I can even get anything close to words out at all. Humanity is innately community-based both in our need for one another and our need to differentiate from one to another.

After taking the test tomorrow,  I'll be trying out another open mic. The key is to keep playing, to keep reminding myself that despite all the ways in which I don't fit in with the puzzle of human society, I can write and perform a few songs that might mean something to somebody. So I'll keep trying to be more me. How about you?

I know this week's post is a bit more scattered and short than many before. Trying to keep a regular schedule doesn't always mean I have anything much to say. Though I can touch on different topics of pop culture, politics, etc, I'm not sure how much my voice won't just be another bit of spitting in the wind. Feel free to let me know if there's ever anything you'd like me to touch on, contact me whenever at odistabettor@gmail.com; twitter.com/odistabettor; facebook.com/odistabettormusic; or through the comments below. As always, I'm just trying to figure my way from one moment to the next, still writing songs and stories, still looking for art and meaning. Still hoping there's notch in this rock I can use for a handhold. 

- Odist

#NoBanNoWall

3/52: Transcendental Weirdification

...something about frosted mini wheats being the most disappointing milk pouring experience of all breakfast cereals...

Dear Internauts,

Yes, I know, it's almost midnight. I almost didn't post and I'm only on week three. Now, I could sit here and go on about all my reasons/excuses, like how my mom came up to visit this weekend or I've been both exhausted and in a weird head space due to my meds still being out of wack or how the Pats are goin to the Super Bowl. I could do that...

In fact, I just did.

Three weeks into this new adventure and I'm still just about as lost. Gotta get these meds worked out, 'cause I can already feel the weirdo side-effects kickin' in from withdrawal. Pain and sleeplessness are one thing, but an imbalance in psychoactive pharmaceuticals can get weird. I mean, dream after dream after dream of waking up while not being able to actually wake up kinda weird. Get so tired from this cycle that the logical part of my brain fails to recognize the increasingly nonsensical nature of each new dream scheme kinda weird. Super grateful for a dream about defending mutant rights alongside the X-Men because at least that has a kind of cohesive internal logic to it kinda weird. Almost enjoy watching the AFC championship game despite never having much interest in professional sports or the ability to follow along with even the simplest of athletic proceedings kinda weird.

Switching topics now before the weird transcends the kinda.

In writing fiction, I think a lot about the roles that characters play as both representations of relatable humanity and symbolic packages of poetic truth. Recently, I've been considering the role of the antagonist, more specifically that of the VILLAIN. While many of my favorite non-heroes tend to have aspects about them which serve as grips for the intrepid story-climber, to humanize or anesthetize or synchronize, there is also something so fascinating about evil at its most vulgar, most absurd, most diabolical.

How do you create a character who is simultaneously complex and connecting while they also slaughter and mangle and assault and abuse and horrify in the creepiest, most nauseating ways? Can you portray evil in a way which is obviously evil as done by a character who isn't in their description and execution, far from the obvious? Can you make us fall in love with a villain without romanticizing the acts of their villainy?

Sure, there are layers and matters of meaning to be found in the way in which a work winds its wires through the wills of the willing audience to see and be that which they unwillingly may find entertaining. We enjoy the dark and the light in fantasy, partly, I think, because of the license of the unreal to help as process a more disciplined and constructed sense of self in relation to the other during our more real life. Surreality is intertextual.

But what of the license fiction can give to a perception of facts, such as in the case of encouraging stereotypical classifications of those with whom our most common interaction is fictitious?

While I've been privileged to grow up within a culture where those who fit many of the same basic categories of shallow classification as myself are presented with an extraordinarily broad palette of temperaments, moralities, occupations, abilities, and social requirements, only all too recently have I come to see how unusual this is. Growing up, I wanted to be a jedi (like luke, obi-wan, anakin etc...), a superhero (like batman, spider-man, angel, green arrow, cyclops, captain america, etc...), an adventure or warrior or scientist or athlete or artist or musician or actor etc...etc...etc...

I constantly saw a face like mine on the TV, at the movies, and on comics and novel covers. The leaders I was taught to look up to or respect were more often than not older versions of the kid I saw in the mirror every day. I've had so much experience with media painting white cis males like me as protagonist (or even just the most common character in a statistically misleading crowd scene), that I never had much reason to feel suspect of this narrative. It took some very patient people to explain to me the limitations of this perspective. It takes an introspective vigilance and a very purposeful, regular quest for empathy to continue to question what is presented to me as normal.

When someone expresses concern over their voice not being heard, it's not that hard for me to change the channel or keep scrolling or just accept that I don't get it, but just because I'm comfortable with the way the world works doesn't mean that the way the world works is working. If my first response to someone saying they've been hurt is to talk over them about how I'm not hurt or how at least I wasn't the one who hurt them, then all I'm doing is ignoring their pain to placate my own immature need for constant pampering.

For instance, human rights are, in a very general sense, inherent. Inalienable rights are yours as a person by nature of being a person. Far as I'm concerned, that's the only requirement. So if you are being denied any of those rights, the sympathetic perspective from me as your fellow human being is NOT to start a measured discussion over the political ramifications or the logistical requirements or the respectability issues of what it takes to make sure you are no longer denied those rights. If I see you, my fellow human being denied your rights, the only step that makes any sense both logically and ethically for me to take is to support you in making whatever changes you deem sufficient until those rights are no longer denied.

They are your rights. They belong to you. They are not mine or your parent's or your church's or your government's to dole our to you as we deem fitting or feasible. To deny them to you is to steal from you. To treat you as less than worthy of those rights is to deny your very existence. To say that your inalienable rights should be less than mine is to say that your existence matters less than mine does.

So, if you happen to we happen to see somebody maybe post something or hold up a sign or wear a t-shirt that declares that their existence does matter, the only justifiable response is to carry that refrain and be proud of and happy for them for that statement. It's not a time to be offended as if they said anything about your existence not mattering, 'cause nobody said that. It's not a time to get up in their face and discourage them from believing that their existence does matter. It's not a time to equate a statement of basic human ideology with some sort of hate crime.

The belief that one's life matters is a belief that should be celebrated, encouraged, and lived out with all the strength you can muster. The belief that every life matters is not a tool for shouting down someone else's belief that their life (as part of every life) does matter. In case we need still yet another reminder, if an enormous movement of people feel the need to bring up that a specific group of lives matter, there's probably something going down on an enormous scale to make that reminder necessary. If at any point we find in our society that anyone's life is being treated like it does not matter or if they are being denied rights as if there existence is not of the same caliber as our own, then the problem is NOT that they're making too much of a fuss about it and it is NOT that they picked the wrong time to bring it up or the wrong method to face it and it is certainly NOT that everything was so much better or simpler or greater at some time or place in the past when we didn't have to think about it. The problem is simply that they are not being treated justly.

If there is injustice anywhere, it is an affront to justice everywhere.

I don't support a policy of policing the world in some giant fascist occupation whenever we get a hankering to go fix a leaky pipeline. I don't support a policy of killing our fellow human beings under the license of war or democracy or liberty. AND I don't support a policy of locking our doors and shutting our gates and closing our eyes to the needs and disparities in the world either. I don't support the kind of nationalism that forgets that we are all people and the blood which binds us is far thicker than some water or some line on a map between us. I don't support the greed and arrogance which declares any nation to be first if it means that any person is pushed to last.

Because, honestly, I'm just a twenty-six year old writer trying to live in this world, and I really do believe that Jewel was correct when she sang, "In the end, only kindness matters."

But fuck politics, right? It's all a big circus. You don't need me to tell ya how to live. I'm just supposed to sing songs and fail at adulthood then write some run-on sentences about it for you few folks to read if you get bored. What do I know?

Well...

The other night, I saw the movie Split. I think it's one of my favorite, if not my favorite Shyamalan movies now, with the performances of the leads, McAvoy and Joy, being phenomenal and unique. Now, I can completely understand and will not try and argue with anyone who sees this film as just one more example of a movie painting someone suffering under mental illness as evil, as the monster. It's definitely the most plain message of the film that the character most obviously dealing with mental illness is, yes, the villain of the piece, and is, yes, monstrous, and is, yes, a monstrous villain due to the nature of their illness. However—and I will attempt not to spoil anything while being completely real with you here—I think the true beauty of the film is found in its portrayal of how its leads both deal with the trauma of their past. They've both been through a lot, and though the essential conceit of the film is to paint the way in which McAvoy's Kevin has neurologically dealt with trauma to be something akin to a supernatural evil, it would be dismissive of both the performance, the script, and mental illness as a whole to say that the dark sides of his character are all that there is to the character. The other lead character, Casey, is a far more subtle example of the kind of internal strength blossomed out of pain by which the mind learns to persevere, and I feel it is in this contrast that a brilliant study of human potential and, ultimately, hope shines through. Based on the trailer or even on your perspective after watching the film, I would not necessarily fault you for believing this to be a scapegoating of the mentally ill via some absurdly sensationalist, adrenaline-junkie-esque vilification of a dubious diagnosis. However, as with my perspective on most story-telling media, I'd prefer to give all this hard work and talent the benefit of the doubt and believe Split to be a celebration and reaffirmation of our ability to continue finding reasons to keep living and to keep hoping, despite incomprehensible anguish and mistreatment (especially early on in life by those we're supposed to be able to trust). No matter your lot, in sickness and health, in safety and danger, you can keep taking one step after the next and find even a little corner of light in the dark.*

No matter how trapped you may feel from bars within or without, there is, deeper still, an infinity of possibilities.

Yours in transcendent weirdness,
Odist Abettor

p.s.- played at an open mic in rhode island the other night. gotta get out there and play some more. get back into the scene. this is a music blog after all, right? but what would you have me right about, how radio hip hop and pop have the stupidest lyrics and the same beat for every song? nah, that would prob be too divisive...

*If, as likely, I didn't make it clear enough—this isn't me saying you should go see this film. What I got out of it is just as likely plenty of folks won't. There are already far too many films where a character with mental illness is painted as a monster either because of or in heavy relation to that illness. This kind of harmful stereotyping shows up in society and its sickening. Also, this is a horror film with a lot of freaky, disturbing stuff in this movie. It's not for me to say what you should or shouldn't see, and this isn't a movie review blog. If anything, this is simply my attempt to explain something i found very affirming in a time when much of life was very disheartening.

2/52 - What If Can Be a Waste of Time (but this blog isn't...probably)

Dear Internauts,

If you'd like to keep track at home, this post marks the first time I've been on schedule for pretty much anything in my entire life. The idea of posting a blog a week (meaning, of course, waiting till Sunday night and then just kinda winging it) wasn't simply a new challenge but a reaction to last years goal of writing a blog a day. That lasted about two days, and so far this is doing about as well.

How was this past week in your life?

Hear any decent speeches? Watch any decent films? Listen to any decent original cast recordings of Broadway stage productions of musicals based on the lives of historical figures?

Before we proceed, you should know that the current recording project is also proceeding. We proceed as it proceeds at a different speed. Believe me, I'll see to informing you as the news on that front pours in.

For a long time now (either a few months or maybe the past eighteen years), I've been working on a novel-length endeavor involving some original characters that are always floating around in my head. Sure, I've written short stories and poems and songs, but never something of this great length. Even when, having completed all 50,000 words of NaNoWriMo some Novembers past, I still never reached the end of the story. Like so many others, I've been unable to grasp that golden fleece of simply finishing a work.

"Most people never finish the books they start. I’m guessing 97 percent. So if you can just finish the damn thing, you’re thousands of miles ahead of most other writers. So just finish it." - Douglas Coupland

Perhaps if I spent less time reading about writing and more time writing, I'd have actually written something by now. Instead, I have folder after folder, which, if they were not digital, would have long since burst with the scraps of plot ideas, character descriptions, witty snippets of dialogue, and the ever elusive whole chapter of nearly there story.

My attention span and energy level are often in dueling flux, and while this could easily be ascribed to some millennial affect of the digital age, I'd like to believe it has more to do with the imbalances of neuro-pharmaceutical tide pools in my tilting cranium. Similarly, I'd like to believe that, had I been in regular therapy, under the spell of prescription medication, in my teenage years, much of my life would have occurred differently. When I say that I'd like to believe this, I mean it in that tragedy can sometimes be easier to digest than monotony.

I used to think, wouldn't it be so terrible if I wasn't in fact mentally ill?

What if I'm not crazy at all, I'm just crazy?

What if all the inner turmoil and outward damage I've caused wasn't because there's something actually wrong with me, but rather that there's just something wrong with me?

In other words, what if I'm not bad because I'm sick but sick because I'm bad?

What if my failure to connect with other people on the level I believe them to be connecting to one another isn't because I'm an introvert with social anxiety disorder, a somewhat exclusive set of interests, no marketable skills, an inability to find common ground in socially acceptable topics within normal conversational parameters, and the haunting belief that everyone in the world is out to get me?

What if it's because I'm just a shitty kinda guy?

Plenty of other people have seemed to believe that, so is it too dismissive of me to assume that everyone who thinks I'm a jerk must be so far off-base? Is it arrogant of me to believe that every time someone has taken their anger out on me, it was some kind of deflection, bouncing off toward me through an arc of unfairness?

How many people should have to tell me that the world would be a better place without me in it before I start to think that, at very least, I might not have what it takes to live in their world?

And how many times could all my fears, doubts, anxiety, and dangerously debilitating self-destructive tendencies been assuaged if, instead of praising me for how hard I worked to be the perfect son, boyfriend, friend, leader, delegate, student, writer, christian, employee, etc...

What if just one person had thought to ask if I was okay? What if all my voracious vim and vigor had less to do with wanting to be my best and more to do with fear of being anything less?

Hindsight may be 20/20, but if I spent all my time looking back, I'd likely run into something I should have otherwise been able to avoid.

All that to say, this novel outline I've been working on since I was a wee lad has no become a graphic novel outline, despite my feeling of inadequacy as a writer and an artist. The key, I think, is to continue pushing ahead. I can focus on fixing things in later drafts. Taking the lessons I've learned along the way from paying attention to outside influences and learning from my past mistakes, I can create something otherwise never made. For now, though, the key is to keep moving forward.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. What do we do? We write.

(and draw.) 

Yours most indubitably,
Odist Abettor

P.S. - Here's a lovely little animated video I ran into recently. Taking a bit of a spin on the old story of Job.

P.S.S. - Also, forgot to mention—I spent Saturday morning working with my uncle's brother replacing blinds at a big, fancy house. Mostly I held stuff and moved stuff and packed stuff and tried to follow directions without breaking anything. It's nice to see someone in their zone, working hard at something they are both good at and enjoy doing. Back in high school, sometimes the cast parties for plays and musicals would be held at the houses of the more affluent families in order to facilitate more guests. I never felt comfortable in those houses, but felt more uncomfortable at parties in general, so it didn't much matter either way. Though it's never an exact science telling what kind of nightmares I'll be host to at the end of the day, I was spot on when it came to one prediction in particular. After having spent all morning trying to carefully balance heavy boxes of fragile materials while teetering on the edge of an enormous indoor pool, specifically one with the plastic cover drawn tight, my subconscious has discovered a brand new symbolic totem of doom. Yay! Still, despite the fact I'm not sure if I'll ever enjoy the kind of work I got to do, it was something of a refreshing shift to feel somewhat useful.

1/52: Ghost Stories (Don't Call it a Comeback...or Do)

Dearest Internauts,

I write to you from the hallowed halls of a big chain coffee shop, where the comfort of corporate familiarity now serves more to accent my sense of migrancy...migrantitude...migrance...alienishness than to provide the kind of womb-like serenity only available to those scant few of us with no clear memory of our time as fetal matter save a haunting whiff of disappointment following after us ever since that first existential ejection into this mad, mad world.

Speaking of familiar faces, as of the end of this past year, I have shifted bodily from the regular study of one set of advanced humanoid countenances to an entirely different—and by degrees further genetically removed, though reportedly no less humanoid—conglomeration of relations. In order to bridge the permutations of my intractable neural masonry during this transition from one colloquial synthesis of "home" to a more abstract, though no less Brobdingnagian formulation of the same sentiment, I theorize that what may unfold is a precept and presupposition-shattering reimagining of one of our cultures most poignant, fragrant, flagrant segments of sagacious gauntlet-tossing:

To the turn, Go big or go home!
I humbly submit, Go big AND go home!

And that, my cheeky little wunderkinds, is how this neurotic bard found his feet once again padding tracks through Massachusetts snow, that yawning glaze of snarky paper teeth, not too far from the city in which 9 out of 10 doctors agree I was most likely born, I have found a place with the family of my mother's sister.

After three years of burrowing deep into a tiny, padded cell by the angelic grace, unending patience, and newly discovered friendship with my gravity-defying Mother and Father, I was more than overdue to jump back in the deep end of the pool. Just like when I was a bubble-limbed tadpole at the local Y, I knew there was no use in a slow wade. In the tradition of most major life decisions, I both waited till the very last instance—having first decided to go in early 2016 and only actually going as an extension of a year-end holiday visit—and, despite that procrastination, just sort of did it.

But Odist, you're totally thinking right now, how did you go from running for your life FROM this Northeasterly wonderland to running for your life TO this Eastnorthernly landerwond? Well, that, dear reader brings us to the start of a new series, whose name may change but for the moment I deem to call...

HOW THE $#!& DID WE GET HERE!?!! 

AKA, The Road to New England: Part the First

I started this here bloggity blog in the months between dropping out of the college I'd planned to go to since before I could snap my fingers. Having faced off against the roaring parademons of higher education brand depression, anxiety, and disillusionment (plus some other quirky maladies), I'd entered into a phase of redefinition. How could I have fathomed that the steep slope I'd been cascading down in my new, early-post-collegiate young adulthood would mutate into a hack and slash-fic free fall? Well, maybe if I'd been just a bit more genre-savvy...

I went to see this woman in Philadelphia, you see, a raven-haired opera singer I'd loved in my younger and more vulnerable years who'd somehow plot-twisted her way back into my cast of characters. As often occurs when we revisit with remarkable people or places after so much time, we struck an old refrain akin to the thematic callback of the "I want" song from just before the intermission of your average stage musical. While knowing logically that I'd packed up, planned, and preemptively postluded for my move the next day, the howl of my sixteen year old ghost would not be ignored. So, as you may have guessed, we spent this lovely, midsummer afternoon scrambling from store to store in search of a perfect birthday present for the boyfriend she hadn't told me about until we got on the subway. Of course, that was not the catalyst for my grand self-revelation to come. I will have you know I offered some wonderful gift suggestions, and as can happen when two people who are legitimately fond of one another's company spend time in close proximity, it wasn't that bad of a time. Recalling my forthcoming departure, a rare sort of confidence filled me as I'd only last felt when I slammed the door on some BS degree. We actually talked about how things had been, how they still were, and how despite all that apparently still was, IT just wasn't.

Then we got back to her block and passed her neighbors house. A few preteen kids were hanging out on the porch in that way only preteen kids can hang out on a porch. My past-tense-paramour tended to power walk at the most chill of times due to her height, which was, admittedly, both endearing and intimidating. Passing that porch, she broke into a pace and form not often witnessed outside of competitive speed-walking. I stumbled to catch up (though my stride-per-height is average, my balance or lack of usually discourages sudden shifts in acceleration).

Outside her front door—by now it was fairly clear I wasn't to be asked inside—I asked her the cause of her mushroom burst, my earlier devil-may-sigh confidence having run its course. (Get it? RUN.) Those kids are bad news, she told me from the top step. They would usually yell out obscenities at her, her housemates, and anyone who crosses their path. We got lucky this time, but they're just such foul-mouthed delinquents [insert a long list of the type of horrendous and absurdly vulgar abuses of the spoken word usually reserved for Tarantino rough drafts, but all too often find ample imagination for fuel in the bamboozled brain of pre-adolescent rebel-types].  And their parents don't even care that they skip school all the time. You should see the kind of stuff they write on the sidewalk and even on our house if they're not just throwing shit at it. I seriously can't stand them. And they've gotten so much worse over the summer.

Not wanting to end on an even more diminished note than this duet called for, I whistled up some weak muzak idealism to the tune of how hopefully a teacher or counselor or maybe some other patient, caring adult would find their way into the lives of these kids and help them find a more positive, productive kind of self-expression. I said something about it being a matter of environment, social pressure, and a clear cry for attention.

Had I sooner recognized my vague homily as patronizing and unhelpful, I would NOT have added what I foolishly thought was an affirmation of her character—maybe one of those positive influences could be from a neighbor even. I don't think I went on to quote from the book of Esther about being put in such and such a place for such and such a time as this, but I mean, what's one more inch of cement on my shoes if I'm already napping with Neptune.

This is someone I truly care about, I thought...on the drive home.

If I'd been paying better attention to the colossal weight of anxiety, loneliness, and self-degradation this human being I "truly care about" was radiating the entire day and well before, maybe I could've spent the day being a real friend. Maybe the jealousy and feelings of ineptitude I heaped into my afternoon mood could've been pulled aside and replaced with a smidge of empathy. While she had an anxiety attack over finding the perfect gift for yet another guy she expected to leave her if she wasn't exactly right, I could've spent less time thinking about what this day meant for my inner soap opera, and how I just can't catch a break. When every expression of dissatisfaction translated in my head to a chance for me to swoop in and save the damn day, it actually turned out that some of the exact same youthful immaturity and egocentrism which had shattered our teenage dreams could show up to crash the party even when it appeared like such an adult and tasteful dinner party or cheese tasting.

I had gone looking for ghosts, but I foolishly thought I wouldn't be haunted in return.

In case you're wondering, her response to my trite babbling was simple.  "No, you don't understand. It's hopeless. Sometimes, some things, some people are just hopeless."

And I honestly thought that it was this stark contrast with my idealistic belief that there is always hope which gave me the burst of philosophical determination to head out on my next adventure. Long after I've concieveably moved on from the guy I was and how I felt on that day, full to the brim with conversation— my mind is still tangled in wild knots over how much can be communicated with two simple words like 'it's hopeless'. And maybe if I'd been listening like a decent friend on that day, I wouldn't find myself so freshly considering a few more simple phrases, like I'm listening, I hear you, and I believe you.

Stay tuned for Part Two of How The $#!& Did We Get Here !?!! as well as an update on my current recording project with producer Joe Casey, the novel outline turned graphic novel outline, my thoughts on music, movies, and munchies (like spicy spinach/black bean/sweet potato quesadillas), and the ongoing ravings of a songwriter trying to find a job and a gig in a brand new town.

Respect,
Odist Abettor

“Ah, yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it...or learn from it.” -Rafiki (The Lion King)

 

Follow Your Dreams (like Speed Racer chasing the ghost of his dead brother...)

Dear Internaut,

Follow your dreams. 

That's it. That's the blog. Odist out.  

[In answer to a Quora question: People say follow your dreams, but how do I avoid going homeless and poor if I fail to become a successful musician?]

Everyone I know who is involved in an arts-based profession started off while working in another job. Though I would never want to discourage you from following your dreams—and always used to get pissed at people who would tell me to be more “rational” or “practical”—I think the way we often see ourselves pursuing those dreams is too narrow. It’s important to be sure what FAILURE and SUCCESS truly mean to you, and that’s different for different people.

When I first moved down to Nashville, I wanted to be a professional singer/songwriter. When my rooming situation didn’t work out as planned, I slept in my car for nearly two months. I got work in a thrift store, and a few weeks after that was finally able to find a place to stay and some roommates. A few months after that, I found a (slightly) better paying job at a hotel and later moved in with a friend who also felt drawn to the music industry.

During that whole time and ever since, I never stopped writing songs, practicing singing and playing instruments, playing out at open mics, and booking gigs WHENEVER and WHEREVER I could. I was lucky to know other musicians for whom I could open shows, but I met a whole lot of people by playing shows, going to open mics, and being open to meeting new folks via friend of a friend of a friend. That’s how I was able to meet folks with whom I could record or set up shows together or even (early on) have a couch to sleep on or a shower to use before work.

As with many “industries” it does have a lot to do with who you know, and like many aspects of this life, that can be discouraging. Rather, I think it’s important firstly to be the best person you can be for the kind of role you’d like. You want to be a successful musician? Then you better be practicing your craft daily.

Writing, playing, performing as much as possible, everything gets better with experience.

Booking shows is tough and I don’t have many answers. I will recommend indie on the move for finding local gigs, but that can be hit or miss. On those lines, there are diff message boards for various cities, but the biggest help is probably getting in touch with acts you’ll meet at open mics, those you’ve opened for before, those you might go to see in your town (support local music!), or even getting in touch with the employee in charge of booking at local venues. If you have any kind of local following, the booking agents for venues will be more receptive. If you don’t or it’s still small, there’s always the chance they have an opening spot to fill or you’ll be able to find a spot with a group coming through town who needs to fill that spot quickly.

Obviously, the more you play, the more you’ll get to play. Gaining an online following is easier than ever by sharing your music on youtube. You don’t have to be some enormous YT celeb or constantly trending. You don’t even always have to be that cliche YT star who found some gimmick. Truth is, the professional songwriters I’ve met are mostly folks that no one outside the industry has heard of, but they continue to get work because they continue to work. The folks who are in bands that play a lot of shows do so because they continue to practice and play the best shows when they get to.

I do know some folks who are on the road right now, and not a one of them was an overnight success story. Most people who are professionals in the arts weren’t discovered all of a sudden and became huge. I’m sure you get this, but the important thing is that while spending their days or nights working at a job necessary to survive, they devoted their free time to their art.
If you’re like me, the daily grind of a “normal job” can drain all your emotional, physical, and mental energy away, but the truth is, I played a lot more shows when I didn’t have to worry about being woken up by a cop at my car window every night. I had the energy to keep practicing and recording and open mic-ing when I’d eaten at least one meal that day.

I would never ever want to discourage you. Quite the opposite. You will need every bit of encouragement. Because while everyone else around you may be spending their time off gaming or relaxing or dating or watching Netflix or whatever (all great things, no lie), folks like you and me have to be on the grind making great art. Every job you have doesn’t have to be life-fulfilling and most won’t be if you’re anything like me and most folks I know. You may not have much juice left over at the end of a long shift, but everything you have has gotta go into becoming better and better. That way, when you are able to book a show or record a single, you can give the performance which blows everything else away. Those are the moments we live for. Those are the moments which make angry customers or dirty toilets or long commutes worth it.

Being a success in music isn’t fame. If you crave fame more than you crave music, than your music will suffer for it. However, if you pursue the best music you can make and you give yourself over to it, than all the toil and idiocy of the stuff you gotta do to make time and money for it will be worthwhile. It’s a daily grind. It’s a very purposeful habit to make, but here’s the choice: while some folks may be musicians as an occupation without ever having to work anywhere else, no one who has had to work elsewhere ever became a full-time musician without taking any and all extra time to devote to their art.

That’s why so many famous actors, authors, and musicians all have stories of the awful jobs they had back in the day. There are so many folks who have those same jobs and wish they were acting or writing or making music, but when their shift is done, they don’t spend any time on that dream.

Follow your dreams! DO IT. But don’t you dare sit around waiting for them to come to you. Every moment you have to mop up some drunk a-holes throw up or listen to a customer curse you out or choose paying rent over going out with your friends, those moments don’t have to be complete bummers. You can know that those moments mean something because when you get back to your house or apartment or car or friends’ couch or curbside by the park, you will be making music. You sweep and hum. You type and practice rhythm. You file and write a song in your head. You get up early to practice and stay up late to practice. You spend one less minute on facebook or twitter or quora and one more emailing bands or bookers about gigs. You record on your phone or your laptop and upload it, because quality is in the music not the expense. You look for any and every chance to make contacts with others who share your dream. You collaborate. You play in as many loud, sticky bars and pretentious coffee shops as you can. You stand in line to sign up for an open mic not because some A&R agent is hiding in the crowd, but because every single chance you get to play your music is what your life is about.

I’m not saying that every “successful” musician who ever lived spent years suffering through crappy day jobs or scary night shifts or getting stale beer thrown at them for not playing Free Bird, but what I am saying is that the musicians who did go through that kinda muck and kept at it anyway are the only ones who had a chance of making it out of there.

Pursue your art. Every day. Hard as it is to find the time or energy. Don’t give up just because you have to get a day job for now. It’s just for now. Tell yourself that, and don’t forget what you’re doing it for.

If you really care about music. You’ll find the time and energy to work at it. If you do, you’ll be miles ahead of most folks with big dreams.

Follow your dreams. Not like you follow a speck of dust through the air during math class or you follow a route on the GPS. No.

Follow your dreams like your chasing something fast. Follow your dreams like your life depends on it. Follow your dreams like they actually matter to you enough to do what it takes to survive long enough to reach them.

The fear of and/or romance of this idea of the homeless, starving artist grows dull real quick when you’re actually cold or hungry or walking around with nowhere to go. Some day it may mean cold beans on the road, touring across the country.

For now it may mean sweeping the floor or sitting in a business meeting that is so not punk rock.

My grandpa cut meat at the super market for most of his adult life. His big dream wasn’t to be a rock star or win the world cup but to provide for his family and spend time being a good dad, husband, and friend. Did every slice feel like he was winning that dream, I doubt it. But when he got home, he worked at that dream. Like an actor running lines on their fifteen minute lunch break. Like a writer typing into the night after a grueling double shift.

Maybe that’s not what you’re looking for, but that’s all I know. That’s where I am now as a writer and musician and performer. That’s where a lot of my friends are with their art, too. Chewing on some raw pasta I found in a crack the back seat of my civic may not have directly led to playing for a packed cafe or eventual grammy success someday or whatever, but it did keep me from going too hungry that one night. The next morning I went to work, and after that I went to work with my guitar.

Who knows? Maybe someday we’ll both look back and have all these stories and know what led to what.

Thanks,
Odist

Quote from Daniel Avidan of GameGrumps and NSP