Posts in category "Random"

Natalie MacLean — Why Subscribe?

Natalie MacLean — award-win­ning wine writer, speak­er, judge, and author of the book “Red, White and Drunk All Over: A Wine-Soaked Journey from Grape to Glass” — com­mis­sioned me to make a video to sell sub­scrip­tions to her wine newslet­ter.

This was real­ly fun to do, as Natalie is very fun­ny, pleas­ant, and nat­ur­al, both in per­son and in front of the cam­era.

Shot with a Canon Vixia HF100, and edit­ed in Final Cut Pro. Soundtrack Pro was used for audio edit­ing, and Magic Bullet used for fil­ters.

Hide And Seek

Sometimes, when cer­tain songs come on, a tinge of jeal­ousy will strike me.

I’ve been known to be very pos­ses­sive about my music, because songs often mark my mem­o­ries and expe­ri­ences. These melodies I keep to myself mean much me, and I don’t share them with just any­one. A per­son has to be spe­cial before I let them hear it. They have to be able to appre­ci­ate the music. They have to deserve it.

I gave her my Eva Cassidy, Blonde Redhead, Vincent Gallo, Sia, Hooverphonic, Postal Service, Iron and Wine, Knife, Mars Volta, Shane Watt, and Scott Matthew. I let her in, I shared with her so many chords that stir up emo­tion in me, I ren­dered myself vul­ner­a­ble, and now I can’t lis­ten to some of them with­out think­ing of her. It seems unfair that I gave her so much, that I sac­ri­ficed things I hold so dear and sacred in my heart, with noth­ing to show for it.

But when I hear Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap, I start believ­ing that I’ve come out ahead.

One night, we sat in silence as she showed me this haunt­ing video, and it moves me now as much as it did when I first heard Imogen’s ethe­re­al voice fill­ing my head with lay­ers upon lay­ers of haunt­ing har­monies. Ironically enough, it’s been help­ing me through this peri­od, because I feel like I’m not the only one who was start­ing to get com­fort­able, let­ting the dust set­tle, only to have every­thing change, and to dis­cov­er cir­cu­lar inden­ta­tions in the car­pet where the fur­ni­ture used to sit, the sun-bleached dis­coloura­tion on the walls out­lin­ing places where pret­ty pic­tures once hung.

This song has made up for every­thing, not only because it brings com­fort and com­pa­ny to me now, but because it reminds me that every­thing I did was worth it too.

You Nostalgia, You Lose

Found this old video of back when I lived on Island Park in a 16th floor apart­ment, with Trolley and anoth­er per­son who shall remain unnamed.

Trolley looks so young! It’s not his face, just his hair that does it. And remem­ber when I could­n’t stop lis­ten­ing to that AFI album? Seems like so long ago. I guess you’d only remem­ber if you’ve been read­ing since 2004/2005, when we did stuff like this.

I won­der if I’m still too young to feel nos­tal­gic. It seems like the only peo­ple who rem­i­nisce are those who are much old­er than me, but I already get nos­tal­gic about my uni­ver­si­ty days, when things were relaxed, I could sleep in, or skip class, and I did­n’t have a mort­gage to wor­ry about.

Burning Twice As Bright

I seem to be writ­ing about only one thing late­ly.

In the day, there are rush­es of con­tent­ment amidst moments of clar­i­ty. Little things, like dri­ving on the high­way, feel­ing the wind ruf­fle my hair. Waking up to the fresh, cool morn­ing air that sig­nals the oncom­ing autumn. It all feels great, and for a moment, I can think of noth­ing else but how won­der­ful it all is.

The night is anoth­er sto­ry. The sky draws it’s cur­tains, leav­ing me with only haunt­ing mem­o­ries that turn vivid when the sun no longer wash­es them out. The dark­ness is only a reminder of the void she once filled with the very vibran­cy of her soul, and with­out her pres­ence to intox­i­cate me, I’m left feel­ing numb.

Jesus christ, I could go on and on.

I won­der why any­one would read all these ram­blings about love and loss. Isn’t it just the same shit over and over again? But love is the only thing I do well. Love is the only thing I know, and I can only write that which I know.

In time, I’ll have just as much to say in cel­e­bra­tion, but for now, I need to get every­thing else out of my sys­tem, stok­ing the fires of grief until I run out of fuel.

I made too much about you now to lie

Sometimes, I write these entries in my head over sev­er­al days, but when it comes to get­ting them on the screen, I can’t. Not because I don’t feel like it, but because the words come out with such dif­fi­cul­ty.

So I sit in my room with the lights off, hop­ing for some­thing to give me courage, some­thing to move my mute fin­gers.

Instead, I pro­cras­ti­nate. I buy myself time by play­ing a game on my iPhone, or surf­ing the net. It’s like I’m stalling, I’m build­ing up for a moment that’s no more impor­tant than any oth­er, like a ner­vous school­boy try­ing to ask his crush to the prom; pick­ing up the phone, dial­ing a num­ber, and hang­ing up again.

Maybe if I bury it after a bunch of incon­se­quen­tial thoughts — like how it’s hard for me to write about some­thing — then peo­ple will get bored and won’t both­er read­ing the rest. I try to con­vince myself that every­thing will be for­got­ten much quick­er than it took for me to write this. Nothing works, when all I’m try­ing to say is that every time I lis­ten to Letter Read by Rachael Yamagata, I imag­ine she’s lis­ten­ing to the same thing at the same time.

So some­times, you just have to say fuck it and write it any­way, even if you’re afraid and you can’t breathe, and put it out of your head that you’re left vul­ner­a­ble, that any­one could read it, that peo­ple know some­thing that you prob­a­bly should­n’t share, that you’re still think­ing about her when every­one is telling you not to, because none of it mat­ters when it’s the truth, and telling the truth is what makes you you.