Blob!

Confession: I am a swim rat.

A few weeks ago I headed out to Pretty Boy with Justin, Raven, Jess B., and Alison. We had planning on leaving pretty early, at least earlier than we ended up leaving, and as we got on the road, the skies grew dark.

(Insert dramatic music here. Suggestion: Garth Brooks - Thunder Rolls. And pay no mind that the lyrical content of the song has nothing to do with swimming or other happy things.)

We got off the 83 and our excitement was growing. Our trip to the reservoir had been talked about for what seemed like an eternity. We were finally doing it. It was just around the corner. It started to rain. Actually, it started to pour. Rats! We started hiking anyway. A little rain wasn’t going to stand in the way of us and a swim.

(Lightning enters stage right.)

One, two, three…

(Thunder enters stage right.)

But we kept swimming, swimming, swimming. Then Raven started to feel nervous and got out, proving her intelligence once again. “You guys should probably get out, too. The lightning is really close.” Swimming, swimming, swimming…

Then, all of a sudden, the heat lightning decided that it wasn’t getting its point across. A streak darts out of the clouds and touches down on the water about 200 yards over our shoulders. I didn’t see the look on the others’ faces, but Raven describes it as our eyes getting really big and sort of popping out of our heads.

It didn’t feel like much, but I guess that’s the scariest part about it. For the first, and hopefully only, time in my life, I felt nothingness. It was a dull feeling. I think that during the 10 seconds before one dies, if one happens to be conscious and aware of what’s going on, probably feels something like what we felt that day. It was only for a split second, but I couldn’t really move. Or at least I couldn’t think to move. That’s all it took for us to sprint out of the water and vow to never swim in a lightning storm again.

Let’s play the game, “How stupid can a bunch of college graduates be?” Jess B. has her master’s from a prestigious literary school. Alison has a master’s in sociology. Justin has an bachelor’s in computer science, and he does ridiculous innovative and difficult programming every day at work. And I have a bachelor’s in global studies. I guess college can’t teach you everything…

I am Ansel Adams’ nephew
son of trees
shrubs
herbs
seagulls,
to be sure!

Squawk, I do not.
I soar high above the earth,
staring down bald men’s mistakes
and misgivings,
searching for some clarity–

Thoughts of the Great Bay of California have come full circle many times in my head and although I may end up moving back to the Sunshine State in the future, I have decided to remain a Baltimartian for the time being. My work at the school has impacted me far beyond words this year and it would be silly for me to walk away from such a wonderful thing so soon. Besides, I still haven’t seen much of the East, and my sister, who now lives in Boston, would probably be bummed if we didn’t get a chance to hang out while we are both on the right coast.

However, for you Californians, a visit is in the works for sometime mid-June. The plan is that I will fly to San Francisco, buy a little Toyota pickup, drive to L.A., then drive back to Baltimore. It makes more sense to buy a vehicle there because anything I would buy out here would almost surely have rust damage already, and I’d like to avoid that as long as possible.

Borrrrrrring! I promise that I won’t bore you on the next post. Check back soon!

Welcome to the Blob. I’m trying to steer this away from acting as a diary or journal and more toward a creative space where I can post record reviews, some prose/poetry, and other random scribblings that nobody but I will like or understand. Enjoy your stay.

To write without editing is a wonderful thing. Damn, I already edited something, but not content, simply capitalization. Here is the first experiment of (hopefully) many:

The capital problem in life is wind and where it takes us. Or, rather, where it wishes to take us. It begs that we never stop, but what happens when we must? Do we turn our back on an old friend or do we forge on, therefore turning our backs on, well, our fronts, on ourselves. Certainly there are certain things that are more certain than others. Certain people may come and go, this is truth, but certain times calling for certain actions never come, only go. They don’t have time to announce their arrival or to tap us on the shoulder nicely as we walk down some random sidewalk. “Excuse me, sir, but I need to tell you something…” No, these things happen, and when they happen, we either happen with them or we disintegrate into meaninglessness.

I forgot how ridiculously expensive it is to live in the Bay Area. After kicking around Craigslist for a while, though, I was given a bit of a wake up call. If I move up there, I’ll have to pay at least $550 for a room in a cool part of the city. Maybe I can move in with one of my friends and a middle-aged gay couple. Or some eccentric painter, hippie, or historian. Or maybe a gay painter/historian who is madly in love with his life partner, who just so happens to be a gay hippie. Perfection.

This morning after I woke up a pigeon landed on my window sill. Our eyes met for a split second and then it flew away. It was almost as if he was trying to tell me something. Maybe Jonathan sent a message from the West, from the Sur! Maybe he was trying to tell me to come home. Then again, maybe ol’ Jon Seagull finally decided to put down some roots in the Inner Harbor with those damn cousin gulls he was always squawking about.

It’s always in the back of my mind, the idea of returning to California after my VISTA year is over, but I never let myself entertain the idea for more than a couple of seconds. It seems like I would be waving the proverbial white flag, just giving up, and I certainly don’t like that picture. Me, the self-proclaimed road-weary traveler who has moved 13 separate times since graduating high school? Nah, I don’t give up. But would it really be “giving up” to move back home, to see my closest friends and family on a regular basis?

I have met some great folks out here in Baltimore, and I’ll miss them all so much if I end up moving home. This has been a pretty tough winter for me, and I feel like I need to recharge. I definitely haven’t made any final decisions yet, but California might be the best place for me to do that. And I’m not starting to think about moving home because Baltimore lacks anything, but moreso because I miss the things that California has.

Here are some ideas for summer after my VISTA term ends (mid July):

1) Set up a 2-3 week tour for Small Sur. If the guys can do it, great, if not, I’ll play by myself or find somebody else who has the time to travel for a few weeks.

2) Go on a one-week backpacking excursion. Either solo or with a friend or two. Maybe hike a section of the Appalachian trail. Pennsylvania would probably be nice.

3) Start job, grad school, or fellowship program early September.

Possible locations include, in no particular order: Baltimore, Oakland, San Francisco

Possible programs include: OSI Fellowship (Baltimore), Bi-lingual/Multicultural elementary teaching credential (San Francisco/Oakland)

Tiger Saw, Sing! (2005, Kimchee Records)

Newburyport, Massachusetts, a seaside town of roughly 17,000 people, is home to one of today’s most honest and affecting songwriters, Dylan Metrano, who, along with an ever-changing cast of creatures, musicians, and most importantly, friends, comprises the refreshingly collectivist Tiger Saw.

Since the band’s conception in 1999, Metrano has been doing exactly what he’s always wanted to do; traveling from town to town and state-to-state, raising wire rimmed eyebrows and converting ramshackle indie kid audiences into bellowing choirs that proclaim the virtues of friendship, honesty, and of course, sorrow.

Tiger Saw’s latest effort, Sing!, is comprised of 11 celebratory sing-alongs that carry with them the power to transform any stage into a campfire. The subtle, anti-pretentious arrangements and melodies can and will crack the shell of even the most smile-weary of hipsters, and the grounded, earnest lyrics of songs such as “Postcards and Letters” remind us that “Home is never really that far / Keep a song with you wherever you are.”

However, “O’ Dylan, O’ Dylan” is probably my favorite track on the album. The tender timbre of Metrano’s voice is showcased ever so slightly above the choir’s hum as they join as one to reflect, “To fall is to feel / The weight of our pasts / A simple surrender / To a shudder that lasts.”

As a whole, Sing! is a gem of an album, but the group vocals and communal sing-alongs can become repetitive if the listener has not seen the band perform live. After participating in a Tiger Saw show, however, the album’s characteristic organic production and lingering choruses assume an entirely fresh significance. Bottom line, if you’re a fan of hushed indie rock/pop but are frustrated by the pretension that all too often comes along with it, look no further than Tiger Saw, and be sure to sing along.