Wednesday, April 20, 2005

sad songs and waltzes aren't selling this year

Just when everyone was starting to cut him some slack, the governator went all Marge Schott and advocated closing the California borders in a speaking engagement in San Francisco yesterday. Way to go, Arnie. You know, you're not, like, an immigrant yourself or anything. That's just an accent you decided to take on for your film career, right? Particularly amusing about this blunder are the assistants to the governor, who tried to jump in front of the bullets by explaining away that Ah-nuld only meant that we should have better border security. You know, for the terrorists and so on, and such and all that stuff. Note to Schwarzaneggers' toadies: dudes, if you're going to try to talk reporters out of taking his words the wrong way, try it in a different city than San Francisco. The people of this city are foaming at the mouth for any schadenfraude related to the governator.

In other news, National Poetry Month is killing me. Seriously. I thought it would be a nice idea, getting a poem emailed to me a day. It would be a nice way to keep up with reading. I've misjudged some things, but this one takes the cake. These poems have been reducing me to a shell of my former self. It doesn't help that I have some sort of iTunes playlist comprising of Sullen McBroodypants songs. Today, a poem by Katrina Vandenberg that referenced Bob Dylan took me down, to the mat, for the count. And then, as if I was on some level enjoying it, I decided to help myself to another serving by reading Rainer Maria Rilke. Yeah, I know, you're about to quote D12, and go all, "B*tch, are you retarded?" on me. And the answer is, well, clearly yes. I mean, should people susceptible to poetry even be allowed to read something like this:
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I have actually willed myself into a mope for no good reason, whatsoever. If I think about it rationally, I have nothing specific to be upset about. But I stupidly read this Rilke poem while listening to Lie in the Sound, and now I'm convinced I should be inconsolably melancholy. The only thing I really should be upset about is that I could never in a million years articulate with such precision and depth the feelings and thoughts that poets capture in such a sparsity of words, or that musicians capture in the lilt of their voice or a perfectly placed note.

So in sum, music + poetry= a deadly combination that should come with the kind of warning label that comes on alcoholic beverages. Moreover, I am an idiot, as I have currently concocted drama where it does not, in fact, exist at all. Go me!

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