O Internet Gods Show Me Who I Am!

Warren has been urging me to peek into this Pandora: The Music Genome Project, an internet radio site for the future that formulates your own personal station from the song structure, sound and "personality" of the artists you list as Favorite. Pandora looks as if to be a hybrid of technology and organic music understanding. Feeling extremely depressed at two in the every morning without fail, I thought now might be a good time to investigate this little demon. My review: clever, idealistic in it's objective but fairly generic in play, easy to use, quick and not too overstimulating. I enjoy the program. Is Pandora a golden box. Does it know me? Not really. I don't feel that it has yet pinnned down MY music. This could be because of what seems to be a corporate/big label music pull. But Warren was right, it's addictive and fun and pretty amazing to play this late at night, when the world is grumbling and rubbing it's feet together and rolling over.

Warren, I also checked out the notorious Stumbled Upon, and I am delightfully overwhelmed and dazed and happy with it. For those of you that don't know about Stumbled Upon, you've lost your chance at simply sumbling upon this program, which loads into your Internet navigation bar and lets you roll the dice and see what you can find, based on a profile you create at the homepage that lets the site "know" you...

Ah, smart technology. It would creepy if we hadn't been so well prepared by 50s sci-fi literature. I'm not scared. The internet radio can't tell the difference between legends like Tori Amos and hacks like Charlotte Martin. And Stumbled Upon can't automatically load the page I'm thinking of right this moment... Now! What page was I thinking of Stumbled Upon?

Remember that movie The Net starring Sandra Bullock? My favorite part of that "vilm" was when she ordered pizza on the Internet. I think, at the time, I was all preteen sweaty AOL chat room nights drinking chocolate milk and getting dizzy with power. I loved the internet back then. It was like.... well, you know, the world...... wide web. Now it's just like a toaster. Or a can opener. But when stuff like Pandora and StumbledUpon enters the picture, well, I feel like a kid again. So thanks to Warren for those recommendations.

sometimes I can bite my tongue, sometimes not.

we, like our fathers, are forgetting
all the things we learned before we
were born to our mothers.

there is no such thing as karma
starting now, and this will forever
be the end of the world.

gutterlings, foreign and trembling,
lie side by side in the ditches they
have dug so poorly.

this is not a poem. you are not a
poor little boy. I am not your mother
who thinks you are a man.

Who Should Have Won the Oscar

Okay, so far I am shocked. Seriously, who ARE "The Acadamy?" This is what should have happened:

Best Supporting Actress:

Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan!!!

Best Actress:

Julie Christie in Away From Her.

Best Animated Film:

This Makes Me Happy Today

My co-worker Bill showed me this today and it made my morning. It's like a cup of good, strong coffee for the soul. And I needed it. Thanks, Bill. And you're right, blogs are basically just links to other information. Like this.

poem: like you

I don't think you know your luxury, boy-- for the greatest lie
art ever told was to it's men, that they are soft like women.
I tell you now, you are not a woman. What do you think of that?
Does someone have to hold your wine while you take this
in? Did you assume you were too gentle for this world,
too fragile for the work force? Had you always wanted
to wear fishnet stockings too? If I were like you, owning art
with the rest of your sisters with sensitive dicks, I would
probably forget my role as well. If I were like you, my hands
all cut and bleeding with meaning, wary, misunderstood,
and drowned in the sorrow of no one being able to fuck
me as decently as my own hand then, well, I would be
shocked to hear the words: Be a man.
I would probably work al my life to be a vessel for
both sexes, for both sensibilities.
I would probably never be quite satisfied
with the sex of one or the other, as they are both in me.
And I would look at my sisters with sensitive dicks'
famous pieces and works in progress and experimentations
on such and such, and I would sigh, thinking I knew
beauty like no one else knows beauty. If I were like you.

The Woman Who Is Not Quite My Voice

She said, "I was the one in the mirror, sucking in my cheeks--
There! Do you see me? We were the princess. We were the--
"Were you the one in love with my father?" I ask, and she
laughs. Oh she laughs!
She says, "I have returned now."
I do not trust her. I say, "You want to kill me."
"No. You want to kill you. I like this body. I love this face."
"I am afraid."
"I know"
"Help me."
"Put on your makeup. Blow-dry your hair. Look in the mirror,
where I was once--"
"My heart."
"I know. I need to come back now."
"They say I will die!"
"They always say you will die..."
"My heart! My heart! This will kill me!"
"No. This will set you free. Take my hand."
And I laugh in the mirror at her because she is pretty. I laugh
because I have no other options, I have no strength to object
and I am so tired of being afraid.

In the Bar the Night I Wore the Fishnets

I think what's hardest about this breakup is the irritation of having to admit to a pre-existing perspective problem. Because that makes me the crazy ex-girlfriend so easily. How clever.

Yes, I have, in the last year or so, lost my grasp on what's real and what's mixed up psychic wiring. But now, it is incredibly hard to determine what is valid pain and what is just emotional fallout from all those expectations and desires for happiness layed so heavy on this person willing to accept them.

On top of that, being suddenly exposed to light and and blinking like a mouse in a cage hiding under his plastic tree trunk, I am also trying to decipher between what is shock and what is calm and wonder. It's something I've not quite experienced before. I've certainly been broken up with before, but not by someone that showed absolutely no sign of wanting to leave me up until the moment he did. So why did I feel so safe?

I can see us in the Springwater Supper Club, me wearing those goddamn fishnet stockings he wanted me to wear. And I wore them because I felt safe. I had no idea that this person that called me baby, meowed at me all the g'damn and held my hand like he'd never let go, was still auditiong me. I was auditioning in those fishnet stockings, like some sad-eyed, clueless exotic escort. He said later, "Shannon, we were only together twice." As if this was supposed to erase the truth, in one sentence. And I was so confused. So confused. Because that second time, I thought I was with my boyfriend, not my john. I mean, I flew to Nashville.

I didn't know that someone who assured you on the telephone late at night to let down your guard and not feel the need to tiptoe, who would talk about being honest and talking things out and working at a relationship, could then say, "It just wasn't the same in person." It sure seemed the same in person to me. I mean, all we did was spend quiet time, have sex, talk and cuddle, laugh and do that all again.

And there was the bar. Us in the bar. Was he hiding that he didn't want me? I don't believe it. I can't believe it. You weren't there. I was. He wanted me. We snuck out back and whispered to each other, smoked and stared and pulled and pushed and grabbed and he said, "You're going to get it when we get home." Now it's: The day to day was different. I just don't feel the same way. We were only together twice.

I find myself speechless nearly every day.

I find myself crawling into bed and refusing to call my closest friends to tell them about this because, honestly, I don't know what to say. I can still see his eyes, looking at me as if I were so dear and so precious and so sexy. I can still hear his voice the way it sounded before, calling me his precious Shanni, calling me sexy.

But what I can't see is what happened in Nashville that made it unsatisfactory. Starting then? Starting there? But I was there. I was there. And I came back missing him. We cried on the phone together when Polio died, and I still thought he was right there. See, this all sounds like the babble of an insane woman, talking about an invisible lover but I'm telling you.... he was there. And the most horrifying words I've ever heard are, "We were just together twice." As if the free trial were over. As if there was never any gauruntee of anything at all. As if I were overreacting. And you might think so too....

That's what's so clver and cruel about this situation-- how easy it was for him to brush off what we had in general, so as to make himself look sane. How much it seems like he was never there-- that I was seeing things, hearing things.

I presented his "It's intuition, we're not meant to be!" excuse to a guy named Itchy in the bathroom at the former Gaslight. And he looked at me with eyes that were truly sad. I said, "What?" And he said, "Let me tell you, please, as a man. There is someone else involved. He has other interests."

And I died.

But I knew suddenly it was true. I knew. And I probably knew before, when he stopped wanting to flirt and text sexy messages because he was "depressed".... but not too depresed to surf young women's Myspace profiles late at night. Not too depressed to start flirting with them. And now I guess it's no longer a mystery, this thing: "It;s just intuition. We're not meant to be." I don't think he DID believe this in Nashville like he says. I think that real got too hard, and he wanted to start chasing the unattainable again. He wanted the flirting stage again. He had gotten what he wanted from me. And I think I knew this about his character when we first met, though I won't go into details on why. But he was so sweet on the phone. So sweet in person then. But I think I saw it in his eyes. Still, I wantd to love him, so I did.

In back of that bar, with his hands all over me, I could never have guessed he would have been questioning his feelings for me. I could never have guessed he would be looking around for better prospects. But that's what, "We were only together twice." means when you say it to someone you told a few months earlier that you would marry on a beach in Maine. But I'm tired of those words now. I'm tired of them pounding in my head. I'm tired of looking down at my phone and wondering if I will ever believe anyone really adores me ever again. Because he said it. He said it over and over again. And it wasn't true.

If I had any idea that I was such a different person in person than I am on the phone. maybe I wouldn't have gone to Nashville. But I flew there because he was my boyfriend. My real boyfriend. At least I thought so. And if I have any idea I had the ability to turn someone off of me by wearing fisjnet stockings and kissing his nose like he asked, then I wouldn't have done those things. But I did them because he was my boyfriend. At least, that's what he said at the time.

But it was so different to him. Enough to let me go as quickly as possible and get right back to flirting with women that do not know him....

Women who, HOPEFULLY, are into man boobs and limp dick. But I'm sure these women are a dime a dozen. They're out there.

Dave, What I Did the Rest of the Night

Valentine's night I bought a small bottle of Canada Mist whiskey with what little cash I could dig out of drawers and dirty jeans, and headed to Starbucks to grab a tall house blend with room for "cream and suger." I stared intensely at the man sitting directly across from me reading YSA Today, willing his paper frozen in place. Then I left quickly with the bells and said a sweet 'thank you!' to the barista who had tried to sell me the new skinny latte.

I walked across Bradley campus to the library, looking for my old friend David. We said hello, and I offered him a sip of my Irish coffee. He said, I'll do you one better and we'll go to my house for a few cold ones. So we went. David offered me his best Flying Dog pint, which left him with Hamm's in the can. Such a gracious host, who filled me in on our beloved faculty at Bradley's intimate English department. We both looked longingly into the night and wondered what each of our most fuckable profs were doing at that moment. I wonder if Dr. Swafford is still happy in his marriage? Have you heard from Dr. Worthington? God, she's amazing/he's amazing. 'You should stop in to say hello to Dr. Vickroy and Dr. Craig,' and 'You should tell Dr. Palakeel hello!' Irish coffee in one hand, pint glass in the other, I felt serene for a moment. Thank you, David. I felt my eyes go hot coal, shine like they hadn't in a while.

But I wanted to trapse over to Mike's Tavern. You had to go back to work. To fill you in, Mike's wasn't too lonely. There were friends there, asking me about New York and what the hell happened to that boyfriend I had. There were drink chips, free beer, lots of opinions. There was flirtation between me and Krysta, Greg's fiance, but that was imagined. Then I went to the Owl's Nest, where there was fliration with the Scuicide Girl tending bar, also imagined. Her boyfriend lent me cigarettes, and she told me that artists will always break your hjeart. I figured she knew, she had so many tattoos. Then I called the girl zone (I needed a loan, you know what I mean, but then you hate that album.)

Carrie D, the butterfly of the girl zone came to my rescue. Turns out she needed conversation herself. So she took me under her lovely wing, and I felt like a real valentine after all. We flew from one hot spot to the next, you know, those bars, where everyone is in love with everyone else. And I remember standing outside on the back deck telling everyone about the first person who had taken me there. Then I said to a young nursing student something to the effect of, "You can change the world! This is the revolution!" Carrie insists I said this to the heat lamp. Too much smoking, Dave. Too many shots. Too much laughter from a girl that's bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

No one wants to go to New York with me, though, not really. But I had a good night. Thank you for your fire escape, and for mentioning the psychic and our friend Dave MacDonald's place. Thank you for the good beer.

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

It was as if, when the condoms ran out, there was nothing left of me for him. But then, I thought I was imagining things. Maybe he grasped my hand so tightly on the bus because he wanted to convince himself differently. I keep thinking, why couldn't he? I did. I convinced myself of him. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to figure out where my power goes when it leaves so suddenly without shutting the door. Where did I go between being his dream and being his past? What more could I be? I am a universe the size of a pea. I am low hanging limb of fruit tree. I am a womb and a white light. The moon, the limestone that shimmers in the sidewalk he walks on. I am the kitten that purrs against him and the cigarette he smokes. I am the songs I played him and the words I gave and the lips he kissed. How could he want more? I am burning down the fiery state hotel, one room at a time. My sweet boy, I'll show you the life of the mind.

Happy Valentine's Day

I wouldn't call it irony. The holiday has been overused this way, and I'm not about to give the candy companies satisfaction by buying up their heartshaped boxes and shoving chocolate into my face so as to forget the fact that I lost my Valentine about a week before their designated love fest. Okay, so I am doing this. I have been eating three Fanny May Trinidads a day, and re-reading the traditional Valentine's Day Cards I've received from my Grandma Joyce and my mom and dad with the most poisonous, solid mass of pain in my chest and an acute desire to stgeal a bottle of champagne from the Campus Town liquor store. But I can't go to Campus Town. Because we were there together. And I've already tried to go to the record store with Dave, but there's this deep suspicion that the manager, Jay, remembers that I was there with this very tall, very self-serious boy with the most beautiful mouth. And if Jay remembers, and even looks at me once as if he wonders what happened to that boy, who was the lsat person I visited the record store with, then I will have to buy another copy of Little Earthquakes from the sales rack and use it to torture myself at home. But I will smile as I purchase it, this shit smile that says, 'I'm a fool. I know.' And there will be a few tears behind my eyes because I absent mindedly picked up the David Bazan album and thought, "File under Pedro the Lion." And no one gets that joke except him.

But look at me! Look at me giving all this to the ancient cliche, the heart broken just before Valentine's Day. If I cared about things like Valentine's Day, having a Valentine or receiving gifts, then none of you would be reading this shit, because I would be an entirely different person. You all know I'm spiteful about holidays in general. I couldn't wait to get Christmas over with. But back then, I had a partner in cynicism. Left to my own growls and mumbles and ass twitches, it's not nearly as fun. I miss him so much. Not because it's Valentine's Day, but because I miss him. I don't care what day it is. Not at all. I don't even KNOW what day it is, really.

There is a lot of love in my life, though. Something I think he found quaint, maybe cute, but not satisfying enough. I am one of those people that can sicken the cool and solemn sometimes. If I'm not darkly into death and existential questions, then I am a little bunny jumping around giving hugs. And I thought he was a polar bear. A sweet, soft, big lug with a tender little heart and a nuzzling nose. A nose I loved to nuzzle. But it turns out, I had to be someone else. I had to be cool. I had to be perfect. I had to be an intellectual or a cynic or an art school confidential, or a goddess at all times or no go. No go. He left quickly, in the night. No, I didn't see it coming, so fuck you, I'm a fool, okay? But I wanted something real, where I could be real and maybe he could see that I could be both. But he didn't see that. And now I'm left wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Why don't I get to stay cool like he does?

But I have secrets. This I will always own. Lots of secrets, and things only certain people can see in my eyes. This is what makes me a bloody valentine, a funny valentine, a lethal valentine, the sweetest valentine to ever know too much about souls.

Miranda July: Are You Anybody's Favorite Person?

Something Like a Phenomena: Menomena

By far my favorite record of last year, Friend and Foe by Menomena, has it all. The record is classically pop, with confident and generous melodies, and ezquisitely layered (like Thom Yorke and Peter Gabriel had something to do with it) with impressionistic strokes of sonic genius. I am always in a trance when I'm listening to the piano driven and perfect tracks on this album, but I was certain that it was no secret gem. I pretty much thought everyone and their brother owned a copy of Friend and Foe, as it was nominated for a Grammy in the Best Album Art category, and had left the indie record stores for the big time (like Best Buy and Borders) probably soon after I had discovered the band by checking up on the Staff Picks at Chicago's famous Reckless Records one week last summer. But last night, I was shocked to hear my friend Pat Wooden (http://www.bagolove.com/) say that a0 he's never heard of Menomena and b) he doesn't read my blog. Wince. It hurt. The worst of it was that I had not gotten the word out about one of my cherished new bands, or that this hip-maker (he's the kind of person that knows what's cool before it even exists) hadn't come across them SOMEWHERE already. So, though this feels tiresome because I'm severely depressed and heartbroken and unable to make much sense, I owe it to Menomena (who got me through many a plane ride in the lsat few months) to feature them here on my blog. You can listen to tracks from Friend and Foe at projectplaylist.com.

Sleeveface.com

Sleeveface.com is yet another fun community site discovery I've made in the last month. This little slice of web haven has a very specific aim, however. It wants to collect as many perfectly posed album-cover-as-face photograph as it can. First, read about the fun. Then take a look at all of the successful attemps. Soon, you'll be calling your friend with the most free time to come over and give you a hand at this genius. I'm not saying I'm going to try it. But if you do, I'll judge your entries on the site. Have fun!

Poem: Nashville Snowglobe

poem: nashville snowglobe

by shannon moore

I threw the nashville snowglobe off a rooftop in brooklyn, but then ran down to see where it landed.

You cannot discard a memory this way. The rooftops here are too low; the yards a safety net of forgotten nativites.

The Baby Jesus wll break it's fall every time. And it will end up in your hand again, looking even more beautiful for it's injuries.

You might then question the significance of this tiny, glittering token, it's survival, and the softness of that ceramic child's hand.

But we all know: most things that look miraculous carry no significance at all. And we are safer burying them deep in the winter yard.

Just deep enough. I pushed the little dream down. I covered that snowglobe up like a tiny yard grave, and stood over it. But it was starting to rain.