Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Ainsley's Mom Freestyles
This video is one that I have posted elsewhere but thought I'd throw up here for a bit of nostalgia.
Most holidays at Ainsley's folks house include a musicfest of some sort - usually the epic kind. Moroccas, djembes, guitars, an upright bass, a keyboard, more mics than are humanly necessary, meticulously organized songbooks the size of Texas and and ecclectic and diverse group of guests comprise these evenings.
To mix things up a few years back, I thought I'd beatbox during an intermission from the music.
Noteable things:
1. At the request of Ainsley's germophobic father, I was forced to use a tissue to prevent any chance of slobber ending up on the precious microphone.
2. Ainsley's mom was the main act. This entire rap was freestyled and her references to "the boy" throughout refer to a nickname given to me until our wedding day, when I could be regarded on a first name basis.
Enjoy.
Most holidays at Ainsley's folks house include a musicfest of some sort - usually the epic kind. Moroccas, djembes, guitars, an upright bass, a keyboard, more mics than are humanly necessary, meticulously organized songbooks the size of Texas and and ecclectic and diverse group of guests comprise these evenings.
To mix things up a few years back, I thought I'd beatbox during an intermission from the music.
Noteable things:
1. At the request of Ainsley's germophobic father, I was forced to use a tissue to prevent any chance of slobber ending up on the precious microphone.
2. Ainsley's mom was the main act. This entire rap was freestyled and her references to "the boy" throughout refer to a nickname given to me until our wedding day, when I could be regarded on a first name basis.
Enjoy.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Splitting Wood
My buddy Kirk, from Seattle, wrote an essay regarding his experienece splitting wood. It triggered my own memories of the loathe/love dichotomy of swinging an axe. Check out Kirk's story
- here -
and the following poem by Billy Collins...beautiful.
Splitting Wood
Frost covered this decades ago,
and frost will cover it again tonight,
the leafy disarray of this woodland
now thinned down to half its trees,
but this morning I stand here
sweating in a thin shirt
as I split a stack of ash logs
into firewood
with two wedges, an ax, and a blue-headed maul.
The pleasures here are well known:
the feet planted wide,
the silent unstoppable flow of the downswing,
the coordination that is called hand-eye,
because the hand achieves
whatever the concupiscent eye desires
when it longs for a certain spot,
which, in this case, is the slightest fissure
visible at one end of the log
where the thin, insinuating edge
of the blade can gain entry,
where the shape of its will can be done.
I want to say there is nothing
like the sudden opening of wood,
but it is like so many other things—
the stroke of the ax like lightning,
the bisection so perfect
the halves fall away from each other
as in a mirror
and hit the soft ground
like twins shot through the heart.
And rarely, if the wood
accepts the blade without conditions,
the two pieces keep their balance
in spite of the blow,
remain stunned on the block
as if they cannot believe their division,
their sudden separateness.
Still upright, still together,
they wobble slightly
as two lovers, once secretly bound,
might stand revealed,
more naked than ever,
the darkness inside the tree they shared
now instantly exposed to the blunt
light of this clear November day,
all the inner twisting of the grain
that held them blindly
in their augmentation and contortion
now rushed into this brightness
as if by a shutter
that, once opened, can never be closed.
—Billy Collins
- here -
and the following poem by Billy Collins...beautiful.
Splitting Wood
Frost covered this decades ago,
and frost will cover it again tonight,
the leafy disarray of this woodland
now thinned down to half its trees,
but this morning I stand here
sweating in a thin shirt
as I split a stack of ash logs
into firewood
with two wedges, an ax, and a blue-headed maul.
The pleasures here are well known:
the feet planted wide,
the silent unstoppable flow of the downswing,
the coordination that is called hand-eye,
because the hand achieves
whatever the concupiscent eye desires
when it longs for a certain spot,
which, in this case, is the slightest fissure
visible at one end of the log
where the thin, insinuating edge
of the blade can gain entry,
where the shape of its will can be done.
I want to say there is nothing
like the sudden opening of wood,
but it is like so many other things—
the stroke of the ax like lightning,
the bisection so perfect
the halves fall away from each other
as in a mirror
and hit the soft ground
like twins shot through the heart.
And rarely, if the wood
accepts the blade without conditions,
the two pieces keep their balance
in spite of the blow,
remain stunned on the block
as if they cannot believe their division,
their sudden separateness.
Still upright, still together,
they wobble slightly
as two lovers, once secretly bound,
might stand revealed,
more naked than ever,
the darkness inside the tree they shared
now instantly exposed to the blunt
light of this clear November day,
all the inner twisting of the grain
that held them blindly
in their augmentation and contortion
now rushed into this brightness
as if by a shutter
that, once opened, can never be closed.
—Billy Collins
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Our good friend Eric is in the process of getting an album recorded. He's about to head to Nashville to spend a month in the studio. In the mean time, he's playing shows around town. If you haven't yet, check out his material and show him some love.
The Early Hours
-myspace
-pure volume
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