make my heart an instrument

2011-11-07T08:15:00.001-08:00

you can vote for Caithlin De Marrais on Deli Magazine's Artist of the Month poll

http://nyc.thedelimagazine.com/

And why wouldn't you?

photo by Bernie DeChant

2011-08-21T20:03:00.000-07:00

2011-08-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

I am totally addicted to MSNBC's Making A Difference segments. No, I am not receiving money for this plug.

Also—Liam Kuehn informed me Tim Kinsella has a blog. Looks great, I need to dig in.

2011-08-15T12:24:00.001-07:00

my man Chris is recording an album

me & the old RMs are going to play on it

check it out

2011-04-16T18:28:00.000-07:00

Top 25 Most Played Songs on My iTunes

I was a little surprised myself . . .

2011-04-04T18:19:00.000-07:00

Andrew Vladeck's New Record

While I continue to plug my friends' music, may I commend to you Andrew Vladeck's new EP which you can order while simultaneously helping him raise money to make his next record.

Nope, that's not a video player up there. It just looks like one.

Love y'all
K

2011-03-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

FOOTBALL, ETC.

My friends in the great TX band Football, Etc. have at long last released their first full length record. You all should check it out.

I wrote them a nice email talking about how much I like the record and I thought it might be a helpful description for you all.

"You know, it was funny, I put it on my player and when I put it on, the volume was way way up, like all the way up. And when the record started, actually the first think I thought—even before 'OUCH!' was, 'Wow, that snare drum sounds SO GOOD!' And it's true. James is killin it on the record, hats off! Actually the whole record sounds really amazing, you all should be proud for making such wonderful sounds, and Trent too should take a bow for rendering them so honestly and so beautifully.

"Of course you must know that your skillful combination of Kinsella-y clean tones with those skronk-y, shuddering distortions I like so much are always a win for me. And Mercy's low end is sounding so lyrical——she's singing too in places, right? Really you all are up to great work.

"My favorite song is actually Safety, because the lyrics are so beautiful. I love that bit about 'I'll use whatever I can find, I'll use my own hair.' I was listening to it on the way back from teaching Tibetan downtown and was——I actually remember where I was, because I found it so affecting——was at 14th and 6th Ave, nearing the corner to cross, and that lyric was like a beautiful thunderbolt. And I thought, 'What band like this is writing a line like this?' Such a sweet and pure and wonderful sentiment. I really appreciated that. May we all live that way, be that person, for everyone we meet!

"I also really like how drawn out the singing is, almost like it is happening at a different tempo than the songs themselves. Your clear, no-vibrato thing has really developed into your own style, it's great to see. You sound very——pretty, actually!"

2011-03-21T20:03:00.001-07:00

see y'all on Saturday, OK?

2010-12-12T19:12:00.000-08:00

hey cool!

my dad and step-mom wrote a children's book

check it out
I can't wait to read it myself (I'm just a kid at heart)

2010-12-07T17:39:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody

Please consider supporting my dear dear friend Caithlin's Kickstarter effort to record her new album. I've heard many of the songs and they are totally totally amazing.

Love from Kyle

photo from Eric Nowels, knicked from his Flickr site. Thanks Eric!

2010-09-08T19:10:00.001-07:00

I'm teaching Classical Tibetan on Mondays starting Sept. 20th

It's a five-week series. Class starts at 7 p.m. Please come!

Three Jewels Center
61 Fourth Avenue
3rd Floor
New York NY 10003

2010-06-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

Check out our boy Chris McFarland's seriously lovely music video

Directed by the inimitable Jeremy Mack/Mack Attack Films.

If you like his song as much as I do, you can buy his EP here.

PS yes, I am the steel-playing goofball you see in the video

2010-05-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

Balthrop Alabama on NPR's song of the day!

2010-04-25T07:23:00.000-07:00

Genla was just finishing his oatmeal this morning. His spoon struck the edge of his bowl. It made a ringing sound. I looked up.

He beamed back at me. Holding the bowl in his left palm, he began to rap on the inside of it with his big silver spoon.

*dingdingdingdingdingdingding!*

Genla and I have used the same two bowls every morning for over a year now. "I never knew it made a sound like that," I said.

Genla replied, "Sakya Pandita says,

'mkhas pa brtsad cing ma dris pa
de yi bar du gting mi dpogs
rnga la dbyu gus ma bsnun pa
de srid gzhan dang khyad ci yod"

Then he translated for me,

"'If you don't seek out and question wise people,
their depths remain unfathomed.
Until you beat a drum with a stick,
how will you know
what difference it has from others?'"

and smiled.

2010-04-14T12:09:00.001-07:00

my friends Caithlin and Seb put out a record. CHECK IT OUT!

2010-04-14T12:05:00.001-07:00

Photos from Our Trip to India #3 - Genla puts on his scarf, preparing to leave the Gelug Temple in Sarnath

2010-02-22T15:40:00.000-08:00

my friend Sebastien sent me a link to this amazing blog by a young musicologist who is traveling the world

2010-02-19T18:40:00.000-08:00

Photos from Our Trip to India #2

small Buddha from altar at the Mahabodhi Society temple in Sarnath

2010-02-17T20:05:00.000-08:00

Photos from Our Trip to India #1

small engraving of a Buddha, near Dhamekh stupa, Sarnath

2010-02-17T07:46:00.000-08:00

Lately, Genla has been relaxing with some Winter Olympics time at the end of the evening. Last night, he was most interested in the men's figure skating short program.

We sat down in front of the TV with a bowl of chopped fruit and homemade yogurt as the garishly clad young athletes hit the ice.

I must be getting a little self-serious lately.

"Enjoy your life," Genla said, "watch this!"

2010-02-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

When you believe in cause and effect, there can be no accidents.

At my Wednesday night Dharma class, we'd been studying meditation according to instruction given by Pabongka Rinpoche in his superlative Liberation in the Palm of Your Hand, a book which I must recommend to absolutely everyone.

Then in December, at Genla's Dharma class at the tiny chinese Tibetan Buddhist Temple in Chinatown, we started the same passages we'd been reviewing on Wednesdays for a few weeks. The first of these includes instruction on the benefits of developing single-pointed concentration. One way to develop this is to try to hold a specific visualized image very clearly in your mind, as if seeing it in a mirror.

Here for instance is Genla's favorite sculpted image of Buddha Shakyamuni, from the museum in Sarnath.

The image you try to hold is supposed to be given to you by your precious Teacher. Very often, it is an image of the Buddha--perhaps one they give to you or show to you. Sometimes--as in mahamudra meditation--you are instructed to pay particular attention to your own stream of consciousness, as if watching it from outside.

In my own meditation, I often vacillate wildly in my visualization, something Pabongka Rinpoche specifically warns against. So on the subway on the way home, I got up the courage to ask Genla for specific instruction:

"Genla, what should I meditate on, while I'm working to develop single-pointed concentration?"

His single-pointed answer: "Garbage!"

I laughed out loud, but inwardly I was shocked. After a long silence, I screwed up my courage again and asked: "As a visualization? I should visualize garbage?"

"Have to visualize garbage. Have to pick up garbage. Every piece of garbage you pick up, you clear an obscuration. You pick up two pieces, even better. No more garbage, no more obscurations. This is called nirvana."

In his Himalayan accent, it sounds even better. Nirvana becomes "neer-wanna."

The subway door ping!-ed open at 14th Street, where we had to walk through the underground tunnel from 6th to 7th Avenue to make our transfer. I followed Genla out of the car and up the stairs to the passageway, pondering what a trash Buddha would look like.

And there, at the top of the stairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, accepting offerings from passersby, was a homeless man dressed--entirely--in garbage. Literally wearing shreds of newspaper all over his body and on his head, with a billowing skirt of black plastic garbage bags.

What seemed like a thousand Angels paraded by him, disguised as businessmen, handing him, one after another, what seemed like an endless supply of dollar bills.

We walked fifty yards up the passageway before I recovered my composure. I managed to ask Genla, "Did you see him?"

"Who?" he said.

"That man," I replied.

"What did you see?"

"There was a man sitting there, wearing garbage."

"I did not see him," Genla said, not needing to look at me. "I saw a deity."

2010-02-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

A year and a half ago, I was walking out of Naomi Jaffe's matchless yoga class in Brooklyn with my friend Caithlin. Cait said, "Have you heard what's happening in the Congo?" My heart was all opened up, coming from this wonderful yoga class, and when she told me about the devastating large-scale sexual violence that has been going on against women there, I cried.

On that afternoon, I could clearly connect the dots, and intuit how cause and effect hold true in all things. And as Caithlin spoke, I knew, instantly, the ways in which my own internalized misogyny had grown, from even small thoughts of anger and careless acts of desire, and was now contributing to the oppression of women everywhere. In the ugliest of ways.

Later that afternoon I read this article in the New York Times about the situation of women in the Congo. Be forewarned it is explicit.

(Don't think that only women suffer in this kind of epidemic. A later article, equally explicit, explained how the weapon of sexual violence was also being used against men there.)

Some months prior, I'd begun to aspire to change the way I related to all the women I knew--my mother, my sister, my friends, my girlfriend--and moreover to every woman I saw, be it on the street, in yoga class, on the subway, it didn't matter where or in what context. I have hardly always succeeded. But even frequently failing, I've tried my best to be intentional in every interaction. And what I've found is that those actions, loaded with intention, also took root, and then grew and grew.

And then just this afternoon, tucked away at the bottom of the Op Ed page, I saw this totally inspiring piece about Lisa Shannon, a woman about my age who had heard the same stories from the Congo, and similarly resolved to change her life. She has dedicated her entire existence to benefit these people.

Cause and effect are real. So if it's true my previous non-virtuous intentions towards women in some way participated in the oppression of those in the Congo, then it must likewise be true that my resolve to help participates in every effort to help them.

(yay!)

[images from the NYT web site]

2010-01-20T16:17:00.000-08:00

Ending War in Our Lifetime

2009-12-05T19:31:00.000-08:00

བྱང་ཆུབ་སེམས་དཔའ་རང་གི་བདེ་མ་ཆགས།
རང་གི་སྡུག་བསྔལ་རྣམས་ཀྱིས་མི་བརྫི་ཡང་།
གཞན་གྱི་སྡུག་བསྔལ་རྣམས་ཀྱིས་སྡུག་བསྔལ་ཏེ།
དེ་དག་བདེ་བས་དགའ་དང་ལྡན་པར་འགྱུར།

Bodhisattvas are not attached to their own happiness,
neither are they trampled by their own sufferings.
Instead, they suffer through others' sufferings,
and come to joy through others' happiness.

-from The Tantra Called 'The Inquiry of Subhahu'

2009-12-05T19:25:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned Genla sewed his own watchband from a piece of ribbon? Click on the pictures to enlarge.

2009-11-15T15:24:00.001-08:00

Tibetan dbu med chart

Since I just spent some time on the Web looking for this, I'm going to re-post it here, to make it more accessible for others.

My source was this blog. They aren't sure where it came from originally.

I hope it helps you students out there who want to learn to read or write Tibetan dbu med script. By the merit of our deeds, may we all pass together into the matchless bliss of perfect Buddhahood.

2009-10-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

Check out Fred and Daily's new Halloween song at endup.org

Whatsmore, listen to their album, and get it, if you haven't

2009-10-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

The Times reviewed my professor Paul Knitter's just-published memoir, Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian - a very interesting and highly recommended book. Just how interesting I'll let you know when I've read it.

You can order it from Amazon, of course. Or wherever quality books are sold.

2009-09-27T15:23:00.000-07:00

I skipped out on Izzi's birthday party yesterday so I could see Genla teach in Chinatown and then come home to do my own studies for school. These kinds of decisions are really hard for me. Who wouldn't rather be hanging out with their good friends? But I have this idea that by studying well, I can help a lot of people, including all those same friends. So I have been curtailing my extracurricular activities and hitting the books as much as I can.

I won't lie - it's hard!

As my friend Jeremy said, "I don't actually like reading. It's just I like ideas, and they happen to be in books." He's a PhD student.

Actually, I do like reading. All of the Tibetan scriptures we get to read are amazing. And FWIW I love love loved reading Roger Haight's Dynamics of Theology over the summer.

Roger Haight is scholar-in-residence at my school. He used to be a professor there, but the Vatican banned him from teaching. How exciting! (not for him). You can read a bit about it at this Union alum's blog.

2009-09-25T18:59:00.001-07:00

I saw the Burmese monks of the Saffron Revolution speak at Columbia last semester. They were totally inspiring. They're standing up for human rights in the face of unbelievable oppression. At the end of their talk they chanted in Pali, a prayer of loving-kindness for the whole world. What kind of beings can have such compassion for others--including their opponents--after being horribly beaten, abused, jailed and run out of their own country? Believe it or not, human beings.

Of course I have to include a Times link . . . above photo by photo Chang W. Lee/NY Times

support their cause any way can

2009-09-13T08:51:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, and sometimes take your extraordinary educational opportunities for granted, read this wonderful article from the Times magazine about the education of Afgan girls. The most inspiring back-to-school article ever.

2009-09-07T14:30:00.001-07:00

more flowers, different altar

2009-08-27T19:40:00.000-07:00

Flower for the Altar

2009-08-23T20:43:00.000-07:00

caught in the rain

taking refuge under a tree

2009-08-22T11:13:00.000-07:00

Great article in the Times today about young Sikhs in the U.S. and the general cultural shift towards smaller, laity-driven religious groups in different traditions. I like where we're headed. Reminds me of our Wednesday night Dharma class at the Three Jewels Center.

2009-08-21T12:18:00.001-07:00

Pearl the Mime

On the subway, a young boy and girl were staring at an Angel, mouths agape. Their mothers stood nearby. I figured them for tourists.

At the Angel's feet was an offering bowl. They didn't know the drill. I pulled an offering out of my wallet and gestured toward the offering bowl with it, then handed it to the boy. Without looking up at me he took it and walked forward to drop the offering into the bowl. He then spun on his heel, quickly nestling in again under his mother's arm, and waited for something to happen.

Sure enough--the Angel's right hand came subtly alive. Her four fingers waved like marine plants in soft sea currents, gesturing for the boy's return. His mother nudged him forward. He didn't walk to her so much as stumble, turning bright red. The Angel leaned down and seemed to whisper something in his ear. I wished it was me.

I hadn't noticed the tiny coin purse the Angel held in one hand. She opened it now, reaching inside. She handed something him something too small to see from where I was. I thought maybe it was only a gesture, and up to him to decide what it contained.

But the boy looked down into his hand, and then up at me. Then the boy ran back to show his treasure to the others. They all looked at it, then back to the Angel. She was gesturing to the girl now, with the same slow isolated movement.

I turned for the stairs. I did, after all, have a train to catch.

The little boy spoke from behind me. "Mister!" he said, "Mister!" I turned around.

"This is for you," he said, and lifted his palm to my eyes. In it was the tiniest little red paper heart, cut out by hand. I held it lightly between my thumb and forefinger, and the boy disappeared. A wave of joy crested over me, and a bright question rose out of it, pernicious as a gull: Why do I always imagine Angels live someplace far, far away?

2009-08-18T12:15:00.000-07:00

QUOTES

David: What is renunciation?
Genla: When you go to the movies, go to the movies.

Nancy: Genla, how do you meditate?
Genla: I don't meditate. I don't want to disturb my mind.

Kyle: What is lama practice?
Genla: Picking up trash in the street for the sake of others.

2009-08-08T19:05:00.001-07:00

Great Times article on happiness and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Thanks to my friend Jennifer for sending this link to me.

2009-07-30T10:52:00.001-07:00

flowers as food

thanks Megan!

2009-07-25T17:05:00.000-07:00

Loving Someone Well

Benaras: A Mystic Love Story was a Hindi film Genla and I watched together. It was his copy, a VHS tape with a fluorescent sticker on the spine, practically an artifact. Every time the tracking got way off, Genla’s TV made the screen go blue. I could only get the picture back by using the remote to first clicking over to “TV”, then back to “AV input.” The movie, nevertheless, was great.

A few days ago, in the afternoon, we went for a walk as we always do.

“Genla,” I said, “you know my father used to be a minster . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“When I was home he told me a story. One woman from his church--she was older--she had lung cancer.”

“And then?”

“She was dying. She had oxygen by her hospital bed.” I made a gesture with my hand as if holding a mask over my mouth and nose. “And she wanted to have a cigarette.”

“And then?”

“Dad turned off the oxygen for her so she could smoke.” Short pause.

“And then?” Genla asked.

“Is this compassion?” I wanted to know.

Genla continued walking. “Your father is smoking?” He meant, does your father smoke.

“He smokes now, yes.”

“Is your father happy you don’t smoke?”

“I think he would say it’s good. I don’t know. Maybe if I smoked he would be happy to have that in common.” I realized I had not yet asked what was really on my mind.

“You know my father had heart surgery,” I said, “but he’s still smoking every day. The doctors say it’s very bad for him.”

“Bad for the lungs.”

“Bad for the heart too. And I want to tell him to stop. But when he doesn’t smoke he is very unhappy. Smoking makes him very happy. So which is compassion, to ask him to stop--?”

I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. I wanted to say, “--or to turn off the oxygen?”

“Have to look at the consequences,” Genla said.

That’s right, I thought--illness, and eventually, death. But what Genla said next confused me. “You remember Banaras?”

“Of course,” I replied. But I wasn’t sure what it had to do with getting dad to quit smoking.

“In that movie, the mother wants to stop the girl from marrying that boy. The girl run away,” Genla said, misconjugating a verb. “You cannot know for sure the consequence of your father’s action. But like the mother of Benaras, you will see the consequence of your own action.”

On some level I had wanted Genla’s stamp of approval on my righteous ire. I want my dad to live forever for my sake. I don’t know what I would do without him. But ironically, as Genla was pointing out, my distress was in between me and loving him as he is, not holding out for what I wish he would be. It was, of course, a very Buddhist instruction--respond to the situation in front of you, not the one in your head--but by no means exclusively Buddhist. By loving people as they are, you open up new possbilities. You begin loving them well.

photo of Medicine Buddha and Tara

2009-06-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

I was telling Genla about Ken Pagano, a minister in Louisville who organized a bring-your-guns to church event. I read about it in the New York Times: "Pastor Invites Flock to Bring Guns to Church." Sounds like an Onion headline! The idea was totally lost in translation. Genla just looked at me dumbfounded and said, "Why? To confess?"

2009-06-27T19:38:00.000-07:00

Today as I picked up trash on the subway platform, my eyes fell on a stream of sunlight. It was just before noon. The mid-day sun was pouring through the grates above and pooling near the platform edge.

I stood and walked forward until it covered my body, as far as I could. For a little while, I wasn't waiting for something.

Looking up through the grates, the street level seemed like paradise. A few minutes ago it was just a thoroughfare.

"That's where I want to be," I thought. "If only I can collect a big enough pile of trash to climb out of here."

2009-06-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

CONGRATULATIONS TO ANDREW VLADECK . . .

. . . on the release of his album The Wheel, on End Up Records, recorded by yours truly and mixed by the inimitable Dave Schiffman (Johnny Cash, Mars Volta, RHCP, a million others).

Go ahead, have a listen. Then buy one.

2009-06-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

Of all the things I thought might happen once I moved in with Genla, joining Netflix was not one of them. But that's the thing about saints--they're never up to the things you think they ought to be up to. It's one way they keep you on your toes.

It was about a month into living here that I noticed Genla reading an old pulp novel called Lost Horizon.

The book tells the story of an American named Conway (and a few travel companions) who gets hijacked and winds up in "Shangri-la," a mythic city in a remote mountain range where perfect peace reigns, there is no illness and everyone ages slowly, happily and joyously, living to be hundreds of years old. Conway - on account of his incredible virtue - is chosen to succeed Shangri-La's current spiritual and temporal leader, now wizened. And he even meets this intriguing love interest in the process. But for flimsily-explained reason he becomes dissatisfied, and tries to escape to the West, getting quite far before realizing his foolishness, and then spending the rest of his life trying to get back to Shangri-La. Does he make it--or not? Hwaaaannnnnnnng!!! (That's the "suspense" sound effect).

Gesturing at the yellowing little paperback, Genla said, "They made movie. I want to see this movie. Can you find?"

So it was that I joined Netflix with their smallest membership, two rentals a month at one low price. So we started watching movies, very occasionally, often just a half-hour at a time, during dinner.

When I joined, I had put lots of Tibetan films in the "queue," which is the automated list of movies that Netflix sends you in the order you specify each time you send a movie back to them. After Shangri-La, I thought, we'll watch Wheel of Time--Werner Herzog's documentary on the Tibetan Buddhist tradition of Kalachakra intiation--followed by some choice bio-flicks on His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, maybe that three-part lecture series by Robert Thurman. I was really excited to continue my education via the magic of cinema!

Lost Horizon the film, directed by Frank Capra (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life), was excellent. I can honestly recommend it to anyone. As the closing credits rolled, Genla turned to me. "You like it?"

I confessed I did.

"Next I want to see," he paused, a bit grandly, and said, "The BAZAAR OF ARTS!!!"

"The Bazaar of Arts?" I repeated.

"The BI-ZAR OF ARTS!" Genla enunciated.

"The Bizarre of Arts?" I tried to repeat in vain.

"The WI-ZAR-DUH of ARRRRRRZ!!!"

He couldn't possibly be asking to see . . . "The Wizard of Oz?" I asked, eyebrows arching.

"Yes. I want to see--how do you say?"

"The Wizard of Oz."

TO BE CONTINUED. Hwannnnng!!!

2009-06-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

So You Want to Be a Translator?

Genla told me a story about Cudapanthaka ("Lam Phran Bstan" in Tibetan), a monk who was so stupid he could not even memorize his own name. He asked the Buddha for help, and Buddha told him to sweep the temple. Cudapanthaka wanted to follow the Buddha's instruction, but every time he went to sweep on the left, the winds blew the garbage to the right, and vice-versa. So Cudapanthaka returned to the Buddha with a heavy heart and asked again for help.

"Every time you sweep," the Buddha said, "chant, 'Rdul dag dri ma dag!" (which means "purify the dust, purify the stain"). Cudapanthaka did as he was told, and found he was now able to begin to clean. As he chanted, he also purified his own ignorance, attachment and craving. This freed his mind, and Cudapanthaka began to be able to memorize even long texts. He continued his studies, eventually becoming an Arhat, an enlightened being.

So as we pick up the trash, I recite: "Rdul dag dri ma dag," just like Cudapanthaka. I think of the trash as a "head fake"--did you all see that Randy Pausch Last Lecture? It's become quite famous. I borrowed that term from Randy. It looks like it's about litter but in fact it teaches you many other things. Attention to detail. Dilligence. Not to be squeamish (I saw Genla pick up a dried bluejay head today). And above all, that you're not too good for anything, my friend. All useful skills for a translator to have.

And I have to say, I think the Buddha's right - picking up trash seems to improve one's memory.

Here's a Japanese variant of the Cudapanthaka story if you're interested. Does a good job of explaining the "head fake" involved in various types of cleaning.

2009-06-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

The new morning ritual is that Genla reads the New York Times ("A" section only, the others line a birdcage--but that's another entry), underlining all the words he doesn't recognize. Then he asks me to explain them and gives me Tibetan equivalents.

I take these back to my room and recopy them into a notebook, then in the afternoon sometime I work them into sentences, preferably telling a little story with them and trying to use some different articles of grammar. Then I recopy what I've done to double-check my work.

In the evening after dinner, I ask Genla to quickly look it over and he makes corrections. I recopy the corrected homework on another page in Tibetan, wait a while, then see if I can then translate it back into English without peeking. Whew!

I heard someone say once, "Use a word three times and it's yours." I think that's probably true in your native language, but in Tibetan I think it takes me about 10 . . .

2009-06-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

Fascinating French news report about Tibetan and Indian oracles predicting Tibetan autonomy. Watched this today with Genla after Milarepa reading class, so inspiring.
Interesting section about the 100-year plan to translate the entire Tibetan Buddhist canon into English. I want on board!

Thanks to Michael and Mukta for sending it along.

Photo of the Nechung Oracle nicked from http://www.flickr.com/photos/ajayp/

2009-06-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Today several of us traveled out to Do Ngak Kunphen Ling in Redding CT, a Buddhist temple dedicated to universal peace. It looks like a great big beautiful house. Last weekend there was a giant Tibetan prayer flag ceremony there, with something like a thousand people, so the whole place was covered in prayer flags. Right now is Saga Dawa, a traditional Buddhist holiday.

This seems like maybe a lot of flags, but this is only the view from ONE direction on the lawn, and maybe not the most heavily covered area at that. Incredible.

We were there in attendance of the Thousand Buddhas Offering ceremony, a long-form chanted prayer in Tibetan, quite amazing to hear . . . I was captivated by a huge reproduction they have there of a Ladakhi statue of Maitreya, the future Buddha. His expression is absolutely rapturous and simultaneously inscrutable. "What would it be like to feel like that?" I thought, shifting uncomfortably on my floor pillow and losing my place in the prayer book.

Continuing this week's culinary theme: when we came home this evening, Genla announced we would be having tug-pa, which is a traditional Ladakhi soup. The broth is made with fresh ginger and onion boiled with a handful of dried cow and yak cheese--it's quite delicious. To that you add tomato and a leafy vegetable, in this case spinach, and strips of a simple homemade wheat dough that cook in the broth. That's the dough you see in the picture, not chicken! Mmmmmmmmmm very nice!

2009-06-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

An American student of Genla's just returned from the Amdo region of Tibet with a fresh bag of local tsampa. Genla did a little variation in the preparation--he's a wonderful and often whimsical cook--adding some bananas and honey, possibly in deference to the American (myself) eating it for the first time. It was quite delicious. A totally unique foodstuff - halfway between bland cookie dough and delicious sand.

2009-05-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

Words of My Perfect Teacher

Two months ago, my Tibetan teacher had a heart attack. I moved into his apartment just a few days later, to help during the recovery. Now it looks like I'll stay until he tells me to go.

His students call him Genla, a term of respect. About a week after his return home, Genla and I started taking walks in the park. I sometimes self-consciously "follow in his footsteps," a reminder to myself to study well.

We don't talk very much. Usually we walk a while in silence, then he says, in Tibetan:

"Bla ma dang. Mgon po."

These are the first words of a very well known prayer that I am memorizing. That's my cue to recite as much as I can. He fills in quickly when I falter. When I can't get any further, he gives me two or three words at a time. Every time I think I'm finished, he gives me more to memorize.

Genla told a story in class once about a young translator who asked so many questions, his teacher would run away from him in exhaustion. "You have to study like that," he said. Since then, I have tried to be such a student. When there is a little time I ask Genla questions. He is usually very patient. If I ask a question that is actually not so smart, he just says:

"Bla ma dang. Mgon po . . ."

Very early on in our walks, I started picking up trash. I was probably imitating him. But it's not out of character for me. My ex-girlfriend used to tell me to stop. But I wasn't OCD about it.

I picked up something. It might have been a cup. Genla said, "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I don't know," I said. "Probably from my mother." I remember mom picking up a piece of litter now and then. Once, when I was in grade school, someone in the car in front of us threw a couple of Coke cans out the window. I remember because mom got very angry. She turned the car around and circled back for the cans.

"That's good," Genla said. "If you do that in India, the novices will learn to do as well." Genla and I are planning on going to India this winter. He is planning a couple of monastery visits.

At first our walks were just a couple of blocks. Eight weeks later, they're two miles or more in length. Our route is a giant circle, circumscribing the park. We weave our way down to the water. Then we turn back along the bike path. It can be narrow there, between the riverbank and the roadway.

Genla came home with a book the other day. "The Legend of the Great Stupa," a Tibetan Buddhist classic of the Nyingma school, translated by Keith Dowman. A stupa is a mound-like structure containing Buddhist relics. The book tells the story of a very famous stupa.

"You can read this, if you want." I consider comments like this from Genla as directives. I've been reading the book before bed.

If you're familiar with Buddhism, you might have heard of ritual circumambulation. That means walking circles around a sacred object, like a temple or stupa. It came to mind during our walk today. We were circling the park again, and I remembered a passage from the "The Legend of the Great Stupa" that said:

"The benefits and favours received by any living creature who with a pure heart prostrates himself before the Great Stupa, circumambulates it and adores it are inconceivable and incalculable beyond the expression of the Buddhas of the past, present and future . . ."

Now in Tibetan Buddhism, there is the idea that you can make an ordinary thing more holy by treating it as a holy object. I thought I might make a very clever comparison. I said: "Genla, what's the difference between prostrating and circumambulating the Great Stupa, and walking around the park picking up trash?"

"Second one is better," he said. We took a few steps in silence. "Bla ma dang. Mgon po . . . "

2007-10-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

Oddly Moving

My friend Bernie made this skate video back in the day. I found myself strangely affected by it. I think there's a blog in here somewhere but I couldn't wait to post it so y'all can enjoy it right away.

K

2007-07-28T23:18:00.000-07:00

I first got interested in Sanskrit when I was studying German. English and German both belong to the larger family of languages called Indo-European, sharing common roots in or with Sanskrit. I was really excited to find this out and even signed up for Urdu at one point.

Reading Rainer Maria Rilke's passionate and mystical Duino Elegies eventually led me to Rumi and Hafiz and other Sufi poets. Then I spent ten years in a band, devoted myself entirely to music, and the connection mostly languished until in January I stumbled onto a book by Inayat Khan, a Sufi musician and thinker who taught in the early 20th century.

Khan uses music as the basis for a whole cosmoglogy. And he refuses any dichotomy between material and intelligence, saying that spirit and matter are grosser or finer expressions of the same stuff--sound. Having been raised a deist and then spent my 20's as a philosophical materialist , I was fascinated to find a cosmology that didn't assume an unspannable gap between the two. And as a musician I already believed that music is capable of anything and at the center of everything anyway.

I mull over stuff like this in the background of my head most of the day. But there aren't often times when it seems appropriate to break it down with people. Most of the time I try to live out my questions and act on my hunches instead. Lately more so, that's definitely the case.

It all burbled up in that last post. I haven't fallen off the deep end. I was just kissing my own reflection on the water like Narcissus!--a little too in love with the sound of my own voice. Thus the quirky sudden Sanskrit/Hebrew/chant-y sign-off at the end of that blog post. Never fear, dear reader! For today we close quite simply

Cheers!
or just plain love
K
ps cousin Ashley just reminded me Siddhartha was the first book I ever read in German. heh

2007-07-22T23:18:00.000-07:00

My completely incredible sister Jennifer is running a marathon in the Redwoods of California in September to mark her 30th birthday. In support of our work as peacemakers she has decided to raise money through her run for the Rebulding Alliance, which rebuilds homes in regions of war and occupation.

Spend five minutes with her blog "The Good Long Road," and then give five dollars in support of her work. You can take a couple of nice walks instead of riding the bus and donate the money you saved while enjoying your neighborhood.

www.jennifischer.blogspot.com

Until July 27th there are matching funds being donated for every gift.

Jenni taught me that peace exists in the Middle East even now - in the silence amidst the clamor, in the space in between the lines, and in the dark that follows every frame. When I quiet down and close my eyes, I hear it reverberating. It sounds like Om, Ah Um, I Am, Amen.

2007-03-21T00:10:00.000-07:00

I've been recording an amazing banjo player named Andrew Vladeck. One part of our mission has been to further refine his signature amplified banjo sound. To this end I built a terrific fuzz pedal based on the Dallas Arbiter Fuzz Face made famous by Jimi Hendrix. The Fuzz Face was a two-knob design (fuzz and output volume). Mine has four--those two and add'l knobs for "subtle" and "battery." The first allows you to indicate the degree of mellowness vs. harshness in the fuzz tone, the second allows you to make the battery starve or force feed the transistors in the pedal in order to further tweak the sound. It fairly versatile and definitely musical and lovely-sounding.

I boxed it in an enclosure I bought in Akihabara, in Tokyo, when Rainer Maria was touring in Japan. The red knobs you see were purchased there as well. The gold one is from my Waterstone tele-style guitar, I pulled them off and replaced them with gold Gibson knobs that had numbers on them bc that's my preference, damn you! Lastly the text is applied with stick-on letters from the art store over on Court Street. I love those things. Long live Helvetica, I guess . . .

Naming a pedal is always the best part of building. This one I named "The Kingdom" because my roommate Pascal and I just finished watching Lars von Trier's Twin Peaks-like TV miniseries of the same name. It's really good, y'all should check it out. Not for the easy-queasy though. At one point you see a woman give birth to creepy German actor Udo Kier (you may remember him as the creepy German trick who dances with a lamp in My Own Private Idaho. Then again that scene may not have resonated with all of you the way it did for me). Anyway it was super grody. But nonetheless a really interesting piece of television, filmed in accordance with those Dogma guidelines as far as I can tell.

Soon as I get something recorded with this thing I'll see if I can't post a clip.
cheers y'all -k

2007-02-03T23:30:00.000-08:00

I love this song

http://profile.myspace.com/newbuffalomusic

2007-01-07T16:03:00.000-08:00

My cousin Ashley and some of my other myspace friends sometimes post these questionnaires up on the Bulletin Board. I've become sort of fascinated with them so I thought I would fill one out for my blog.

W H O . W A S . T H E . L A S T . P E R S O N

1. You hung out with? Andrew Vladeck, banjo player, songwriter extraordinaire. We start in recording his album January 17th.

2. Rode in a car with? An unlicensed cab driver ("ghost cab") from Broadway and Houston in Manhattan to my apartment in Brooklyn. We drove for several minutes before we settled on the rate. It was the sketchiest New York experience I've had in awhile.

3. Went to the movies with? My girlfriend Lara - "Little Children." Solid. I could recommend it.

4. Went to the mall with? I can't remember the last time I went to the Mall, gratefully.

5. You talked on the phone to? Kevin. He'll be here in about 45 minutes.

6. Made you laugh? Chris Buckridge. I worked with him at the Fall Cafe this morning.

7. You told and/or they told you they loved you? My mom (on the phone).

8. To hug you? My next door neighbor Abbot.

9. To text you? Jess. She's leaving town and didn't get to say goodbye. "Good to see you!"

10. To IM you? Andrew. We were testing out iChat AV on his new Intel Mac. Nerd out! 36 hours to MacWorld, dude!

W O U L D . Y O U . R A T H E R.

1. Pierce your nose or tongue?: Had my tongue pierced once. Remember "Modern Primitives?" Those were the days . . .

2. Be serious or be funny?: Serious character, funny persona.

3. Drink whole or skim milk?: Soy. Unsweetened. But whole, if you insist.

4. Die in a fire or get shot?: Shot. I don't wanna melt like some Nazi on Raiders of the Lost Ark.

5. Spend time with your parents or enemies?: One and the same! Just kidding, mom. Bite me, dad! Just kidding, dad.

A N S W E R . T R U T H F U L L Y.

1. Do you like anyone? Far fewer people than you suspect.

2. Sun or moon? Sun.

3. Winter or Fall? Fall. Although there's little difference anymore as it was 71 degrees in Brooklyn yesterday.

4. Left or right? Left. Be back soon though.

5. 10 acquaintances or two best friends? Two best friends, if they live close enough.

6. Sunny or rainy? Sunny, scattered thundershowers.

A B O U T . Y O U.

1. Gender? Manly.

2. First Name? Thomas.

3. Where do you wanna live? In an incredible wood-floored multi-level combination home and studio (with at least two acoustically isolated studio suites) in a real nice area of Brooklyn. Or Berlin. Pref. one in each.

4. How many kids do you want? None. Max. one, if there was some sort of mishap.

5. Do you want to get married? I'm not above it.

6. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? OK now you're reaching.

7. Favorite ice cream? Probably still chocolate chip cookie dough. Eat the ice cream out first, then binge all the cookie dough at the end after it's softened just a little.

8. How many kinds of cereal are in your cabinet? Zero.

9. Do you cook? Just three nights ago, amazing creamy potato leek soup. And then last night my roommate made DIY salad dressing and we had spinach salad.

10. Current mood?: Stabilized.

I N . T H E . L A S T . 4 8 . H O U R S . H A V E . Y O U.

1. Kissed someone? No. My girlfriend is in India.

2. Sang? Yes. Andrew and I were doing a microphone shootout and I was hollering in the background of his song snippet.

3. Been hugged? Yes.

4. Felt stupid? Yes. Opening the Fall Cafe always makes me feel special because my short term memory is so poor. "Soy? Skim. Medium? Right small. Large. OK. Mocha? Vanilla. OK, um . . . was there a food order with this?"

5. Drank alcohol? No.

6. Danced like crazy? I so wish.

7. Made up a new word? There are so many good ones already.

8. Gotten your hair cut? That was 72 hours ago.

9. Cried? No.

10. Lied? Baby I would never lie to you.

S T U F F .

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops? Canadian border patrol. I had to pee so bad as we were approaching the border and our driver was like, "Just hang on, we'll be right across." They selected us for random (i.e. "you all look like a bunch of drug users") search and wouldn't let us go to the bathroom until they were done. Had to wait an hour. I thought I was going to drown.

2. Do you have a dog? No.

3. When's the last time you've been sledding? With Pascal and Caithlin in Connecticut, winter '99-'00. SO fun.

4. Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone? Someone else, of course.

5. Do you believe in ghosts? I never did before.

6. Do you consider yourself creative? Yes.

7. Who did you copy this from? My cousin Ashley.

8. Who was the last person who got mad at you? Got MAD at me . . ? "Angry" is different than "unhappy with" . . . hmm might have to get back to you on that one.

2006-12-30T14:58:00.000-08:00

Gee-tar Tabs

Our friend Mike Kinsella played second guitar with us on the first two of our band's last three shows. Preparaing for that involved writing out guitar tabs for the songs we'd be playing together. Since people sometimes have asked me how to play this song or that, I thought the notes I sent over to Mike might be of interest to some folks here. Guitar nerds, play along!

For starters you should tune your guitar to standard a half step down

Eb Ab C# F# Bb Eb

If your guitar plays funny--say, kinda out of tune--or if the strings are all flappy you could try moving up a string gauge, like .11s instead of .10s. Probably you'll be totally fine. I also use those nice Shubb capos, or the crazy new magical G-Force ones I think they're called, to keep from being pulled sharp by a capo without manual tension adjustment that's too tight. But you're as capo-savvy as me, so . . .

Note I AM GOING TO REFER TO THE CHORD POSITIONS AS IF WE WEREN'T TUNED DOWN, i.e. what they look like, not what they are. So I'm going to call the third string a "G" not an F# string. And even though what looks like a G chord is actually an F# chord when you tune it down a half-step, I'm still gonna call it a G.

Similarly, if I say for instance "3rd fret" and there's a capo involved, I mean "3 frets up from the capo."

In no particular order -

CATASTROPHE
Starts as a B power chord (I just play it as the 1 and the 5, no octave) at the 14th fret on the A string. Actually I play it at the 9th fret on the D string. Whatever.
Slides down to an octave chord at the tenth fret on the A string. We're calling that a G. These two chords alternate through the intro and the verses, until on the last one before the change, during the build, I add the 5th to that octave chord.
"Catastrophe keep us together . . . ": D and G, back and forth. Except the G looks like this
2
3
0
0
x
3
with that F# hanging around up top until the last time through when it resolves to a Gsus5 chord
3
3
0
0
x
3
which is a chord I play in like every song and so will refer to again and again.
"I've got a plan": "A" power chord and Gsus5 chord, back and forth. Notice just before the big part of the song this section is twice as long.
"At the end . . . of the world . . . ": D chord where the F# up top pulls off to become an E, and then that dimish-y G chord up, similarly pulling the top F# away to become an E. Before the transition back to the verse I always do a little left-hand-mute percussion on beats 3 and 4 a la Fugazi.

ALREADY LOST
It's fine on this one to just focus on the choruses, which is a Gsus5 then D then C, with the top portion of the chord holding steady. Gsus5 we saw above. D looks like this
3
3
2
0
x
x
and C looks like this
3
3
0
x
2
x
I think you call those those D/G and C/G. We're going to see them a lot too.
Every other time through the chorus when Caithlin does the little descending line I do it too, keep the top part of that chord in place and walk down bottom: C B A F# G.
You're welcome to try to learn the verses or to improvise another part for it if you like. The two basic chords are
0
0
5
5
0
x
and then
0
0
5
5
3
x
It might be good to just play those chords and let them ring as we come out of the 2nd verse. The transition part is Gsus5 and the C form above, except the E string is mostly open on both.

ARTIFICIAL LIGHT
capo 2nd
Opening chord--"No one defies"--is Csus5
3
1
0
x
3
x
then let go your index finger
3
0
0
x
3
x
then kind of an A minor
3
0
x
2
0
x
and finally a G, which in this case I play like this
3
0
0
0
x
x
but you can play any way you like.
"Simultaneous sitting": Csus5, walk that A string down one fret from C to B and hold tight up top, then that A minor chord above, then back to the B.
"Why is this technology . . ?" Csus5, climb to open D string and hold the top, fret 2nd fret or D and hold the top, back down to D.
"If I could just breathe" is the normal verse descending bit again, with that little twinkly riff up top. You're welcome to just frame the chords or play it with me, it's just 5-3-1 on that C chord, starting at the third fret or the E string.
"Always breathe back in." You could sit out the first half of this if you want, but should definitely be in for the back half when it picks up. The chords are like this:
3
1
2
x
3
x
(kinda of a C kinda of an F), then Csus5, then A minor with the 3rd fret on E string fretted, then G with 1st fret on B string added (call that G/C?), and back up again. Until the last time through the last chord is the same as the 2nd chord of the verse
3
1
0
x
2
x
to set up the tension for that resolve to C.

LIFE OF LEISURE
capo 3rd
I might have you play along on the verses, or it might be really cool for you to play a big E minor chord and let it hold over 'til halfway through. Then put your left hand across the strings to mute them all (don't press down too much) and use your middle finger on the low E string so when you strum across them all you get a harmonic at the 12th fret [relative to the capo, i.e. first dot at the top of the neck] and everything else just goes chuck-a-chuck. This is the whole verse except when I take my hand off the top strings to make more noise at transition points (like after 4 bars at the upbeat of 4), etc.
Transition to chorus is regular old G chord, then low E string moves down 1 fret to F# while B string is fretted at 3rd fret (optional).
"When will it all fall through . . .": Gsus5, D/G, E minor with top two strings still fretted as with previous chords (you can play this with the low E string or with just the top 4 strings, whichever you like), then C/G.
"On and off": the chord shapes turn into big generic cowboy-chord G, C and D.
"At first you . . . " this is an F bar chord but not fretted on the high or low E. The third (G string) pulls away open, that's the movement you hear. The second chord is a C, likewise the third (in this case D string) pulls away. Then on the third time through a high G is added to both chords, third fret on the high E string. On the last time through the C chord changes to G instead, then the low string descends to an F#.
BREAK--> big E minor chord. I solo on the high E (can't hear it very well on the recording). Welcome to make something up here or else just follow along with 8th notes on the high E. Coming out there are descending 12th fret (relative to the capo) harmonics, E B G - E B G - E B G - E B G and triplet palm mutes out.

ATLANTIC
tune high E string down to C#. Or don't and just ignore and mute that string.
The opening riff/chorus part is a Csus5 (D string is muted) chord that slides around, with the high E (now a C#) ringing out as a drone. It starts at the 10th fret (use pinky to move B string up two frets for opening riff), slides to 5th fret and then 2nd (B string open). Wait out intro and come in with the rest of the band.
Verse "Oh beautiful": C chord. Don't strum high E string. Then right away strum again but with B string open, plus the high C#.
Short break in verse after singing. Strum C chord but leave out low C (it's kind of an A minor at the same time, so . . . ) and with the B string frettted at the 3rd fret. Pulls away to open B, then strums at first fret (C), open to B quick and fretted again at 3rd. Way easier than it looks written down.
When the guitar opens up and drops out as we swing into the end part, and bass takes over, I just take my hand off and let it float for those four bars. Then it's a C chord, but all the action is on the B string. All pull-aways/hammer-ons: D C B C B C D C B C B C D C B C . . . repeat. You could maybe play this sometimes and goof around part of the time. When it kicks in it's Csus5, but the B string goes B C B C B C B C B C over and over til the drums double up and then that tricky riff above plays over the chord for the second half. Back and forth. Ends on Csus5.

THERE WILL BE NO NIGHT
I didn't send you a copy of this but I can
Basically in A (G# that is). I tune all crazy for it. Basically an open G# drone with movement underneath on the A string - 9th fret, 7th, 5th. Some harmonics, chords at end. Very simple. If you have time you can make something up. We're going to play the Atlantic EP in its entirety and in order.

CT CATHOLIC
capo 1st. This one is going to be so cool.
Intro and "Maybe now . . .": C4 shape at 11th fret, turning into a regular ol' C.
"Hottest summer ever": Gsus5, guess what--hold that top in place!--E minor, D, C. Then when it gets quiet, same progression but in normal cowboy-chord form.
The progression for the build is Gsus5, Em, D/G, and then "need any words" is a big regular C, then bigger D which I've started just letting ring out because it sounds more crazy. The explosion part is the same as the normal ig part, but the D and C are flipped--very important--so it's Gsus5, Em, C/G, D/G. You could keep chording through there while I play my dumb solo, or whatever. Same build at end.

SOUL SINGER
The entire verse is basically a big E drone:
0
0
9
9
7
0
all the way through, until that chord shape descends to the 4th and then 2nd fret. The top strings ring out all the way through. Mute the low E when the shape moves, or fret on the E string in the same place, whichever.
When it climbs it goes to the 12th fret, and then the top octave part (G string) drops down one fret to become what I think is called a sus7. It holds on the sus7 when it opens up. If you want to play that diddly stuff at the end or something like it, be my guest. It's just 13th, 14th, 15th, 13th over and over, basically.

HELL AND HIGH WATER
tune high E string down to C#, drones through whole song really
This one is a slightly more complicated. Don't kill yourself if it doesn't come quick.
Starts on Csus5 with B string open, adds one fret to C, then D. Open again, repeat until last time through climbs on B string to 5th fret and back down to 3rd.
"I've seen the girl . . . ": Csus5 form at 5th fret, B string opens up. Back down to intro riff, back up.
Transition to chorus riff slides just B string w/drones to 5fret, then 8th. Chorus: Csus5 at 10th fret, pinky frets up 2 on B string, slides in that shape down to 5 then to a normal Csus5, then Am, then G (with high E fretted up 2 frets extra to compensate for tuning), finally Fsus2 thing (might say C4), looks like this:
0
1
0
3
x
x
End thing enters on upbeat of 4, it's the Fsus2 (aka C4) to C to G (with E string up two frets).

MYSTERY AND MISERY
I'm going to have you do this in the cleaner, inverted 2nd guitar form from the record.
Opens with a Gsus5, but mute the B string. Add the 3rd fret on the B string on the upbeat of 1 in the second bar. The second chord is a Csus5, adding the third (2nd fret D string) at the same place I mention above.
"But now I am acquainted . . ": That Fsus2 aka C4 form from Hell and High Water
0
1
0
3
x
x
then C. Repeat all this. Right before the change it goes Fsus2 C Fsus2 G instead.
Chorus - "You've got a . . .": C without the D string, adding the 3rd fret on the E string halfway through, then Fsus2 like this
0 then 3
1
0 . . . . . and then add 2
3
x
x
"Oh, you're wicked . . . ": Am, G.
"I can something your eyes" break: G, G4 (1st fret B string), Gsus5 (3rd fret B string), back down to G4, G hammers on to G4, G, G4 to C ("aren't I?").
And repeat.

BOTTLE
This one I haven't sent over either.
Very simple. Starts as E power chord (7th fret), then octave chord
x
x
x
9
x
7
then
x
x
7
0
x
5
then
x
x
9
7
7
x
then repeats except last chord is
x
x
6-7-6
7
7
x
and finally before transition is as above but G string holds at 6th fret.
"It's like a bottle to the head": E and E4, back and forth, only on the top 4 strings--
0
0
1-2
2
x
x
Break: B power chords, A (no third), D, E.
Repeats, etc. That's the song.

2006-12-20T00:59:00.000-08:00

Today Is the 2nd Day of the Rest of Your Life

For a few weeks I've been loading my iPod with old school postpunk, stuff like J Church, Jawbreaker, Naked Raygun, Samiam and fIREHOSE. Totally duding out. These are all records I "grew up" on, records I was listening to in high school and especially the first year of college. I don't ever get to know a record that well anymore--every word, every riff, every drum fill, start to finish. That must be part of the reason those records get me so fired up, even when I don't always relate to every song like I used to.

It's the music I was listening to when I first formed a band. This was in college, and way before I learned anything about electronics. I played drums and we couldn't find a singer. So I heaped together wires and adaptors on the kitchen table in my apartment, plugging a battered microphone and my CD walkman into cassette deck to make a primitive karaoke machine. I'd record myself singing over different albums, try to figure out what my voice was like, whom I could easily imitate. A few attempts were successful, some of them hurt. Our neighbor knocked gingerly on the door and said she was about to call the police because she thought I was being murdered. I played the tapes for my roommate, the guitarist. We were excited. I sounded punk enough.

I had played drums throughout high school, though I never had a band back then. All my friends did. They had been playing together since Day One, and there was no way to crack into the lineup. I decided to attend the University of Wisconsin basically to start my own. I had a childhood friend, the aforementioned guitarist, who was a year ahead and already going there. Later, he taught me how to play the guitar and we got a different drummer.

He taught me intervals. A fifth--"power chord." A third--"sad power chord." It was years before I knew how to play a minor chord, much less in a minor key. When I quit his band our new drummer William left with me and we formed Rainer Maria.

I think those albums helped me get my mind around set list building for the final Rainer Maria shows, the last of which was just two days ago. At soundcheck one of my bandmates said they were playing a couple of the songs as a sort of compromise, maybe implying they didn't make as much sense now as when we wrote them. Pop music changes fuckin' fast, but that perspective still surprised me.

I remember the crazy excitement I felt the first time William and I went down into the basement together and strung a couple of little parts together into a song. We barely knew how to play anything, but my face ached from grinning.

I felt that kind of excitement the day our bass player Caithlin decided to try and sing for the first time, just the two of us downstairs. She was so self-conscious that we had to turn my amp up all the way so she could raise her voice without fear of anyone hearing. We had no idea she would come to front our band, or how awe-inspiring her voice could be.

It's been a long time, but despite the sore throat, muscle aches, and emotional exhaustion of those last shows, despite the cold I've caught and the crushing finality of what we've just done, I can feel that excitement again at the prospect of this new start. Shit, well, OK--I can't feel it at all. But I can hear it calling to me from way off, every time I put my headphones on.

2006-12-06T21:08:00.001-08:00

Sarah Schorr

I wrote this piece about some photos that NYC photographer Sarah Schorr showed me. The photographs will be exhibited in early 2007 at Yancey Richardson Gallery in Manhattan, with a book to follow.

Some of the photos are available for viewing at
http://www.yanceyrichardson.com/artists/sarahschorr/index.html

And more information on Sarah is available at
sarahschorr.com

Seeing Sarah Schorr's photographs for the first time, I got hooked on a white platform with a four-inch heel. It was clearly a performer's shoe, practical and ludicrous in equal degrees. It had an ankle-strap riveted with small metal eyelets, making the shoe both fetching and hard to lose even in acrobatic performance. Rivets continued down the upper side of the shoe, a unifying visual element.The strap showed signs of wear only at the third eyelet, suggesting heavy use by a single owner. It had been smudged by fingertips tacky with make-up. Painted and repainted, two shades of white were visible on the heel at the scuff-marks. Tiny dark blue flecks were stuck to one side. They were difficult to discern, nearly square--probably confetti.
Schorr rendered the shoe without apparent comment, via a flatbed scanner which doubled as camera for nearly half the photographs laid out for me. It was as though the shoe were far underwater, illuminated by a diver's beam, a single bright source pausing only briefly. It gave the center a dull but strong shine. Gradually it was absorbed into an inky black background--receding, falling--like an artifact from some great nautical disaster, once sensational, now almost forgotten.

Often the objects in this series were delivered to Schorr by their owners in clear plastic bags. Appearing against a neutral background, they seem at first evidential, but however ribald and often lowbrow burlesque's historical roots, nothing in the photographs suggests the performers or the artist view it as a criminal activity. However well-worn, rumpled, damaged or slightly corroded, the performers bagged them before handing them over, an indication of their personal importance. Glance, pore over, scrutinize freely, was the implication. But carefully. In not removing them from their bags before shooting, Schorr complied. When possible, she also photographed them with or in their cases as well. In fact the work is filled with containers and their accoutrements: bags, cases, rooms, costumes, fasteners, snaps. The photos are an additional wrapper.
Shot much closer, these false eyelashes, feather boas and make-up cases would be only surface and texture. By contrast Schorr's human subjects are rarely captured head-to-toe. These performers are shown in preparation, during costume changes, or after a show, often in various states of undress, displaying the ease of those who have long since unlearned modesty through performance. Devoid of erotic intent, the work escapes the soft-core trap into which many surveys of the burlesque revival fall.
In her work there is always an awareness of edges and margins. Many scenes, but no establishing shots: settings are only implied. Everywhere is indoors. Her framing can fairly well sever heads, appendages and lower bodies. Even when starkly exposed the subjects are not to be known intimately. Their backs are turned or their eyes in shadow. There are no head shots and no strict portraiture. As viewers, we never feel completely acquainted with anyone.
In the absence of a clear character study, it would be easy to read this body of work as instead thematizing performance. The subject matter is certainly theatrical. But the only time a subject is depicted in performance, she is veiled by a screen and lit from behind: a shadow, apparently in motion at that. These are not the lyrical suspensions of disbelief brought to us by Hollywood or even Broadway--rather a view from backstage, full of reminders that we are seeing the builders and relics of a hasty construction: abandoned drinks, open costume clasps, a paper towel blotted with make-up. Schorr draws ever closer in patient pursuit of her subjects. As viewers, we are sometimes acutely aware of her presence behind the lens. Other times it is diffuse--blush powder remnants on the inside of a makeup bag.
Burlesque performers are generally stars of stage not screen. Cinematic artifice serves to magnify actions--breathing, whispering, narrowing the eyes--bringing them terribly close to the viewer. But in the movie theater the actors are, despite all evidence of the eyes and ears, themselves rarely present, except perhaps at the film's opening or as part of a promotion. The theatrical presence, burlesque included, has no such disconnect. Rarely are Schorr's human subjects entirely in or out of costume. Actor and character are present in equal measure. Burlesque performance is often not an expression of self or a portrayal of character so much as the development of a persona, one which the performers may inhabit offstage as well. These ineffable burlesque personae are the true subject of every photo, threaded together by props and costumes, lit in performance as if from within.

2006-11-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

We Love You Too

The official press release:

Rainer Maria to Disband

The members of the rock band Rainer Maria--beloved to critics for a sound that defied easy comparison, and to fans for their exhilarating live performances--have announced their intention to disband at the end of 2006. This announcement comes 11 years after the band's formation in October 1995.

From singer Caithlin De Marrais, guitarist Kyle Fischer, and drummer William Kuehn:

"We are grateful to our new listeners and especially our longtime fans for their endless support and attention. We feel incredibly fortunate to have come up during a unique time in rock music, in a community that grew with us from the Midwest to Brooklyn and beyond. Making records has always been a revelation, and walking onto stage together we found a vision we could share.

"For us, this transition can be nothing short of heartbreaking. But for reasons both musical and personal, the three of us have chosen this time to move on."

. . .

We started our band before I graduated from college and my parents stopped covering the rent, basically the entirety of my adult life. I can hardly remember doing anything else once I got to college. I didn't grow up a Guitar Center disciple, praying every day to Jimi or Stevie Ray or Eric Clapton or anyone. I never dreamt of "stage lights and Lear jets, fortune and fame (1)." I never even picked a guitar up with any seriousness until the summer before we started our band. I was 20 years old by then.

I used to joke in interviews about having fallen so accidentally into making a living with music. "This wasn't anything we set out to do!" It was odd to find ourselves doing almost effortlessly something so many people hungered for. But the underside is that there are other loves--other dreams--we each put aside. It would have been possible to make another album, or two, or three, and to tour around and 'round and 'round again. And it really is all as wonderful as you imagine. But it's also harder than you think.

My instinct says sum up, on behalf of everyone. For myself, in search of the legendary and elusive closure, and for everyone else, first to explain and then to solidify the way we'll be remembered. It's as if I covered my mouth in shock, and now my hand prevents me from speaking. What I can say feels like so little, and so muffled. It's hard to say anything at all.

In the last phone interview I did, the question came up, why start a band? Good question! But one which, in 1995, would have seemed ridiculous to me.

We were lucky to have started in music when we did. We formed in October 1995. First show after 2 weeks, demo tape in six, on tour by the end of December. Our urgency makes it seem all the more hilarious now to think of the 90's as a time when things moved a little slower. It sounds like cowboy-talk in TV commercials. But when we formed, I had just opened my first email account. I didn't use it--there was no one to write. If you said "Hotmail" people thought you were gay (some things haven't changed). People read things they hadn't Googled. And without file sharing or myspace, regional flavors still predominated in independent music.

We set up shows almost every week in the basement where we practiced and at coffee houses and youth centers in Madison, with two or three touring bands on every bill. People complained if the shows were over five dollars. No one made a dime. No one cared. Cap'n Jazz, Braid, Gauge, Promise Ring, Joan of Arc, Sky by Sorella, Campanula Blue . . . all of our friends in the Midwest were having this musical conversation, and it would have been unnatural not to join in. Starting a band was self-explanatory. That we all created a sort of musical vernacular amazes me still.

(I remember carrying my amp in to our first show in Tokyo in 2004. I heard our friend Tim Kinsella playing guitar downstairs at soundcheck. And I thought, "What's Tim doing in Tokyo?" I had no idea he would be there. But walking up to the stage I saw it was an opening band, some Japanese kid so obsessed with Midwestern "emo" that his playing was a perfect tribute to that of his hero.)

Good music is like moonlight--pale but strong, of enduring quality, returning with constancy, a little different every time. It travels outward in waves, in time belonging less and less to its makers. Its witnesses become its caretakers. Please take care of ours.

---
(1)"Stage lights" quote comes to you from the Mountain Goats song, "The Best-Ever Death Metal Band out of Denton," from their superlative album "All Hail West Texas!"

2006-10-19T00:23:00.001-07:00

Food Fight: Rainer Maria Tour Diary 08-25-06

Dave is always pulling on his hair, inducing bedhead. He fronts first-of-four opening band Street to Nowhere. He was born to front a band, all dark-haired and extra sulky. He feels none of the mortification you or I might feel, trying to pull off a cover of "Chelsea Hotel" before an audience of mostly 14- to 18-year-old girls. He has unconscious aplomb. His demeanor is like a band T-shirt he fell asleep in, all soft and rumply. His bandmates say he sleeps in his outfits. You'd be peeling mine off me the next morning like a burn victim at the ER.

Dave and I had this totally unexpected food fight in Denver. It started because our singer Caithlin stayed at the club when the rest of us went for dinner. I neglected to call and ask what she wanted us to bring back for her, selecting instead what our waitress swore was "the best dish in the house." It also happened to be their most popular dish: penne with garlic and vegetables in a lovely vegan cream sauce, impossibly rich and oh-so-coy. Seriously--really, really good.

But a pox on me anyway. At the beginning of the set, Caithlin tossed out one of those sneaky stinging little asides one saves for a bandmate on stage, with onlookers all oblivious. Amidst a little guitar feedback, she made her opening remarks, then added wistfully: "I hate waiting for a phone call that never comes."

Non sequiturs have a kind of poetry. The entire club heard merely a singer's whimsical complaint--a reference, perhaps, to some inattentive lover far away--the kind of trifle that can seem very, very heavy at a rock concert. But I knew better. The canary was taunting me, right to my face, in front of the whole sold out audience. Apparently she'd have preferred grilled tempeh and steamed kale.

I winced, sniffled, died on the inside. I did my best Kevin Shields, spending most of the set staring at my Asics. Too tame for "Blue Suede Shoes," too lame for "My Adidas," such a shame. The crowd was eager and demonstrative, the sort that can turn a mid-sized city into the best show of tour.

There was just the one green room for all the bands, and after our set it was crawling with our own sweaty Rainers Maria, the perpetually buzzed Street to Nowhere, and all the Formatters who'd rolled out of the bus besotted with Gatorade and were now starting in on beer. And of course a couple of gracious, smiling, super sweet members of Anathallo were always embedded someplace nearby, soaking it all in, the Federal Air Marshals of tour.

Nate from the Format was chattering away amicably through a megaphone. Apparently pulls a Michael Stipe on one song, I don't know. It was a funny gag, I don't remember what he said. I think it was, "Erica, put your hands on your head! Step AWAAAAY from the Budweiser!" Something. Putting aside our rivalry for the moment, Caithlin palmed the megaphone and passed it to me behind her back. Perfect setup for a three-pointer. I remember what I said. It was, "Jetzt ist schluss mit dem affentheater!" In English, roughly: "That's the end of this theater of monkeys!" People love it when you holler anything German through a megaphone.

A digression. I was an exchange student in Germany for a year. That's what my second host father yelled when he kicked me out of the house, fists banging on the breakfast table, rattling the Besteck, spilling coffee on the Broetchen. You think "no more monkey business" makes any more sense? Go ahead and laugh, you ignorant sheltered monoglot.

In the end the joke is definitely on the krauts. "Hut" means "hat" in German, which, combined with that famous triangular logo, has plenty of Germans in the US psyched about dinner at "Pizza Hat." They think that's supposed to be a hat up there. Now, it may be that monkeys can sell snow shovels or play King Lear, but nobody can make a hat out of pizza. Nobody. Those things collapse and then they burn.

When the Format had started their third song, Caithlin looked at me and said, "Pax?" That means "Had enough?" in Greek. I nodded my tenuous consent to a cease-fire. She turned to someone else, gave me a high-five that was really a high-two.

Our secret argument had officially ended, but my crap mood was still building up steam. I don't know how the food fight started. I'm fairly certain I threw a food item at Dave unprovoked, definitely something grilled. He sized me up from under his long, shellaced bangs. He threw something back. There may have been a condiment involved.

My mom had bought me nice new white T-shirts from Wal-Mart and brought them to the Austin show, and I pulled mine off over my head so it wouldn't get ruined. Back home in Texas you learn early that if you're going to whoop, holler and behave like a jackass, it's best to go shirtless.

It was time to open up a party ball o' whup-ass on this kid. I wanted to throw this entire paper bowl of salsa at him, but it was too early in the game, so I put it over my head like a pizza hat instead, salsa running down my sideburns on either side past my ears. Then I tucked my chin into my chest and hit him in the middle like a linebacker. Though some would blame a third party, I believe it was Dave who then threw the tray of creamy yellow potato salad across the floor. For this, I apologize on his behalf to the entire custodial staff of the club, or at least to the person who cleans the rugs, should such a person exist, which they do not.

I grabbed the last catering tray (coleslaw! the coup de grace of any food fight), chased him out of the room and into the club, both of us deafened by the Format's encore. Halfway to the back, the coleslaw flipped over. I managed to keep hold of the empty tray for another second, but slipped on slaw and went straight down. A crowd quickly, to no one's surprise. Tried to stand and keep running, arms pinwheeling, legs treadmilling, and wound up face down in the same spot again.

Later, washing potato salad out of my jeans in the bathroom, I felt my mood lift. It always surprises me, the absurd situations in which we can find ourselves suddenly and truly happy. But it was neither impromptu laundry that did the trick, nor airborne foodstuffs. My advice to you: exercise. A little running in place is good for anybody.

2006-10-12T11:53:00.000-07:00

Notes from Rainer Maria Tour 08-10-06

Each tour is different, every tour is the same. Every day has its rhythm--lulling, even comforting. Wake, pack, drive, eat, drive, load in, wait, sound check, dinner, wait, play, wait, load out, drive, stop, sleep. Repeat indefinitely (feels like infinitely). All this you can count on.

Two other things you can count on: near-complete lack of privacy and filthy bathrooms everywhere.

I'm forever having to change clothes in the van or standing in the parking lot (that's me! behind the van in my underwear, soaking with sweat after the show), or whispering over the phone to the girlfriend back home, on the highway in the van with bandmates and crew present, music cranked and the balance set hard left to cover my voice, face turned to the window, towel over my head:

Me, whispering: "Oh my God I just really really love you."

Her, confused: "What? Sorry--[ak ak ak ak]--breaking up."

Me, louder: "What? Sorry baby, the hills, I think I'm breaking up."

Her, in rising panic: "You want to break up? We're breaking up?!?"

Me, with finger in right ear, shouting now: "I SAID OH MY GOD--"

Her, devastated: "WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS SHOUTING AT ME?!?" (a sharp wet inhalation of breath)

Three short beeps. Silence.
End of relationship.

Something's always broken, or missing. If a bathroom has toilet paper it won't have paper towels. Assuming the sink works, the hot water won't. Or it'll be scalding, with no cold to balance it out. Soap almost never, hepatitis sometimes. And apparently guys do ten times as many drugs in club restrooms as girls--what else could explain the punishing lack of stall doors on so many men's room toilets, sometimes with the toilet inexplicably situated in the middle of the room, sometimes directly facing the bathroom door, sometimes without a lock, sometimes with a clear view in from the stage--are you listening, The Living Room, Providence RI?!? Folks, your entertainment from the side stage this evening: Kyle Fischer, pants around his ankles.

Imagine: you're nervous, you're onstage in five, the woman who made your Taco Bell kept rubbing her cold sore with her latex-gloved finger (true story). Your bladder tenses, your colon FREAKS, you're at the club and thank God there's a stall but it doesn't lock and the toilet looks freshly imported from Bangladesh--never even SAW a scrub brush before, couldn't point it out in a lineup even if it waved its arms. You're crouching, jacket thrown over the stall door to say "occupied!", one hand full of cocktail napkins from the bar, the other arm outstretched, holding the stall door shut with the toilet plunger. The drunk punks steal your money from your jacket but leave your wallet so you won't catch on til after the show. And then: no soap, no water. You ask the bartender if you can wash your hands in the bar sink. She hands you a bottle of bleach and picks up the soda gun to rinse your hands.

What's stupendous about this whole affair is that the 35-60 minutes or so we get to play music every night somehow balances all this out. Even the crap nights, like first tour nights where no one knows we're there because the bill is full of jam bands and we're listed as "Rainy Marina" on all the flyers. The door money consists of an old mason jar passed around, half-full (check my optimism!) of nickels and menthols. And nobody can figure out if they're supposed to put stuff in or take it out. At the end of the night we make $6.87 and what amounts to half a pack of Newports. We play to a dozen or so bombed hippies, the majority of whom are half-conscious at best. And somehow, I'm not sure how, I have the time of my life.

Because music--despite the mountain of books dissecting its innards with sharp instruments, despite all its schools bursting with applicants, despite the countless traditions across the world and all their virtuosos--, music is ineffable. Inexplicable. There's no reason this thing should work at all, let alone well. Sympathetically undulating waves of air pressure aren't supposed to make me cry. No. Oprah is specifically engineered to make me cry, and even that doesn't usually work.

Face it--all our daily endeavors, even weird obtuse things like coding html or designing topographical maps or being Al Gore, these things are there for only one or two of a coupla three reasons. Either you gotta eat, and it helps feed you. Or you gotta take care of the brood, and it shleters them. Or you gotta propel the species forward, and _everybody_ knows topography will get you laid. Most all our activities help accomplish those goals, by whatever circuitous routes we've devised to keep ourselves interested in the meantime.

Not so with music. Music can be so cold it makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It can heat you into a melty gross sweat. I know what you're thinking, and it can, in fact, result in the making of babies, or rehearsing for it, but not really as often as anybody wishes, especially not musicians. Believe me, I've tried. If in fact you're all mainstrEMO, your love of music will likely earn you a breakup at best. Or worse, some sort of emo handicraft (a zine, a drawing, a flyer on the importance of a regular breast cancer self-exam with a personal message scrawled on it, something like "you saved my life by ruining it") handed to you by an intentionally-awkward college student who ought to know better, and who runs away like a headless chicken, gushing.

No, sorry, music is there to shove you into the chasm of whatever depression you're teetering on the edge of, or to lift you up til your widdle wax wings melt, or to embarrass you and your pathetically fidgety milkshake, which brings the boys about as far into the yard as the curb. It will ensnare you, it will confound you, it will thrill you, it will hurt you, it might even kill you, if you love it enough. Certainly, whoever you are, it will subtract years from your life. But a year, ten even, is worth it just for forty-five minutes or so of music--I promise, I swear to you, please believe me. Come to the show.