Archive for May, 2010

tuesdays with tara – volume ten

By On May 25, 2010 In music, people, tuesdays with tara With 2 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume tenPermalink

“And I never wanted anything from you

Except everything you had

And what was left after that too.”

The dog days: we’ve all had ours.  Traditionally, dog days were a reference to the hottest summer days; days which were so brutally hot that we couldn’t be bothered to stir.  It’s a fitting enough analogy if you’ve ever had a dog.  I would extend the analogy to say, “If you’ve ever fully experienced your humanity enough to the extent that you have loved and subsequently lost the energy to move forward.”

I’m a romantic at heart, so there’s no telling how many times I’ve thought I was in love.  It’s been proclaimed in any number of ways over the years to however many partners I might have deemed worthy of such proclamations on my behalf.

But there’s dress rehearsal and then there’s the real thing.  And the real thing didn’t hit me until I was thirty years old.  Incidentally, by that time, I had been married for four years and divorced for another four.

There may have been men before that man who thought they had qualified for such a lofty position, my ex-husband included, but I assure you, I am absolute about the timing.

Before the fateful event, I was the boss.  I fell in love, sure, but I remained in charge.  All was orchestrated according to my plan, for the most part. Why that might have been, do you ask? : Quite simply, because the weight of the emotion was equally balanced on both sides.  Whether it was a meeting of the minds or an exercise in apathy, both parties in the equation were satisfied with the arrangement.

But I think you cannot truly understand the full power of love until you have given it to someone who is incapable of receiving it.  At least, that has been my experience.

When you pour all of your utmost energy into such a union only to have it spat back into your face, well, that is the moment when you feel humanity at its basest.  I basically crunched myself into a hyper-ball of manic energy for about two weeks (wherein I vented to all of my friends about how stupid I was/what a fool he was), did a hell of a lot of crying and introspective cyclical thinking and then?  Then I curled up into a ball for another month or so, licking my wounds.

At long last, I got back out there.  What else can you do?  Live and learn and all that.  So you got gutted like a fish?  So you felt depleted to the point of non-existence?  And?  You can either decide to be a victim or you can get on with the business of living.

And if I had a voice like Florence Welch, AKA Florence and the Machine, here, I would be ringing my badass gospel throughout the land.  Alas, I am a mere mortal who has not been blessed with such sultry vocal chords.  So my only recourse is to “pick up my pen”, or rather peck at the keys, and say a little something along the lines of this:

If you feel in your gut that you are not getting back the love you are giving, extricate yourself from that situation.  You will tell yourself that you have invested too much to just leave, but that’s bullshit.  It is.  The fact of the matter is that very few of us change.  We are who we are for the most part.  There comes a point when you can plainly see that you will never receive what you have given, and when that happens, gets to steppin’.  Every day that you hesitate is a day that you will suffer unnecessarily.

“Leave all your love and your loving behind, you can’t carry it with you if you want to survive.”

Take it from a sister who knows.

… and you’re welcome.

Florence and The Machine – The Dog Days Are Over

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Tara Noble.


man over-bored.

By On May 24, 2010 In uncategorized With 9 Comments Permanent Link to man over-bored.Permalink

there is nothing more humbling than being a first-time sailor. I might have said this before. we’ve grown up in cars, so would, even at a young age, have an idea to how it works. motorcycles as well. even our movie heroes have all, at one point or another, landed an airplane giving us a basic grasp for emergency procedures. in fact, there are more films about space travel than sailing – putting this newfound sport lifestyle at the very top of the most humbling things a boy in his early-thirties can embark upon.

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long story short, I have a very, very short grasp on what I’m doing.

I have a boat.

I have a mooring.

I can make it go.

and I can make it come back.

no doubt you’ve got a few verbal pats for my back about right now, something about ‘the basics’.

thank you. but… no.

with every time I go out on that happy little red thing to learn something,

I come back learning that I have even more to learn.

take yesterday for instance.

I rowed out to where my boat is moored.

the wind was blowing from the south-east,

which basically means in the direction of land.

which even more basically means if the boats tied up where mine is tied up weren’t tied up, they’d all be pushed up on the beach.

from the little I know about sailing, that’s a bad thing.

so, yes, I rowed out – it was choppy and I was already wet, but that didn’t matter as it was a gorgeous day.

I said ‘hello boat’ as I always do, as most always do, I would guess.

jumped up on board, cleaned off the mess of Jonathan Livingston’s birthday party the night before,

and made a point to hang some CD’s from my mast to keep them away in the future.

as they’re not nice party guests.

[ask the crab who was invited]

started the motor, even though I hate motors, to motor over to the boatyard a mile away, as I had some work to do.

[any excuse for hanging out at the boatyard, to be honest - but that's another story]

the motor was loudly running in neutral, as I untied all of the lines keeping my boat secured.

I dropped them all and walked to the back, sat in between some white poo, and threw the engine into gear.

we started moving, slowly against the wind, south-east, to the boatyard.

and then the motor died.

and wouldn’t start back up.

I wonder what you’re thinking right now, as maybe I’ve not done a good job setting this adventure up.

the boat is not tied to anything.

the motor just died.

meaning the boat was being pushed towards land.

[that's a very bad thing]

[a very, very bad thing - if you even come visit, I'll show you the hundreds of photos in the pub and why they call it 'shipwreck cove']

so, what would you do?

anchor, perhaps?

yes, that would be the most obvious. but I’ve never anchored anywhere, so that thought didn’t cross my mind… I don’t even know if my anchor was secured properly.

put the sails up?

another fantastic idea, but I didn’t have any of the covers off, or lines attached to do that… I had just planned to motor.

so – no sails, no anchor, no engine and my boat is slowly making it’s way to land.

I freaked.

in a few minutes, there would be no ‘fantastic summer’.

there would be no ‘Atlantic crossing’

there would be no ‘spear-fishing in the Caribbean’.

so… I did the only thing I could think of.

I tied a rope off of the end and jumped in.

it was a nice day, yes. a nice English day.

you know that video Jimmy Buffet shot here?

of course, you don’t. it never happened.

it’s not a tropical place.

it has no tropical waters.

it was very, very cold.

but my boat was about to die.

I threw the rope over my shoulder and began… well, swimming doesn’t exactly describe the movement.

I had a boat in tow via a rope over my right shoulder – so it was more of a heave.

left arm relaxes, legs stop kicking, legs start kicking, left arm paddles, right arm heaves.

all in icy waters,

with wind ‘on your nose’ as they say.

this could have gone on for 5 or 15 minutes.

relax, kick, paddle, pull.

all in the direction of the long rope hanging from my mooring.

it was only about 50 feet,

but bear in mind – I’m pulling a boat.

and by her stern, not even the way she likes to go.

I somehow made it,

but please do not let those simple four words denote anything of simplicity.

I had swallowed at least a liter of the Channel,

I was freezing.

and I was tired.

I had never done anything so physically exhausting in my life.

but I made it… well, mostly.

now I was stuck with a mooring rope in my left hand,

a rope with a boat in my right hand,

kicking violently to stay afloat.

still cold.

I passed the mooring rope to my right hand,

leaving my left for pulling myself up on the boat,

but was exhausted and cold,

stomach sick from the salt-water and near-boat death.

there would be no pulling myself up on deck.

I bobbed up-and-down for a few minutes,

trying to think of what to do.

see, this is where a movie would help, but what boating movies do we know of?

Titanic? that didn’t end well.

The Perfect Storm? that didn’t end well.

Jaws? fuck off.

I had no cinematic heroes to help me.

no friendly passer-byes to help me.

no Nick.

no one.

I would have to find a way onto the boat,

and soon,

as my hand holding both ropes was starting to go numb.

I worked my way to the very back of the boat and saw a tiny hole that excess water in the ‘bilge’ is pumped out of.

the a-hole, basically.

a small a-hole,

barely big enough to stick your thumb into.

too small for my big toe to go into,

meaning my… index [?] toe would have to fit.

all 190 pounds of me would have to be balanced on my… index [?] toe.

I have nice feet, and not feet that have the freakishly long… index [?] toe.

it’s slightly shorter than the big toe,

as toes should go.

meaning my normality was now officially a handicap.

long story short, I leaned back on the water,

stuck my toe in,

and pulled myself up by the rope,

until I could slam against the bar on the back.

the entire thing hurt,

but I was on the boat,

with both ropes,

and my boat wasn’t dead.

even though I felt like I was close.

I tied off the ropes and just sat there for a few minutes,

soaking up the sunshine,

and being thankful for the sunshine,

as, if this would have happened on a normal English day,

either me, or my boat, would have been dead.

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I rowed back to shore, and Nick came and picked me up.

[the motor started up nicely for him - of course it did]

we went back to the boatyard and I told him I needed a drink.

we sat in the beergarden and went through what I did, what I had learned and what I’d do the next time that happened.

but then some funny stuff happened.

Nick raised his glass to me being a ‘man of action’.

the South African, ‘H’, in the boatyard, an adventurer in his 50′s, listened intently on my story and laughed the laugh that could only come from someone who had been there.

even Tim, the boatyard owner, who has seen, heard or experienced himself everything there is to experience about boats seemed to give a nod of approval.

I had been through something they all had.

I, had been through something they all had.

I had been through something they all had.

… and I liked that.

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see, the night before, Nick and I had bbq’d on the beach,

and spoke of how we both worry about our boats when they’re out-of-sight.

it will soon be my only room, my car, my livelihood.

and, as Nick reminded me at the pub,

I could have taken a chance that she would have run up on soft sand,

and have gotten a tow back out.

but I didn’t, I jumped in.

because it was the only thing I knew to do.

I was willing to risk a few scrapes and bruises

for my little boat’s safety.

and while that might sound silly to you,

I think I know why I got so many approving nods at the yard.

as, in those few wet hours,

I had gone from some guy with a boat,

to some guy and his boat.

dogs

By On May 19, 2010 In films, friends, music, people, work With 4 Comments Permanent Link to dogsPermalink

I occasionally get asked to take part in some strange things.

for example, during a 6-month period in 2009, I was a consultant for a Swiss Bank. honest-engine. didn’t talk about it because of obvious reasons. I was also asked to produce an adult film back-in-the-day [behind the lens, thankfully - as porn 'shorts' have yet to take off], which I did, but then was asked to destroy the tape a few weeks later. this is also 100% true. and recently, I was asked to write a few hundred words for an upcoming exhibition in Las Vegas on ‘marketing for the social media generation’. me. writing something about ‘marketing’. the guy who bought his degree from a site called ‘phony diploma’.

anyway.

I thought long-and-hard for 2 minutes – a reoccurring time with me [see above] and came up with nothing at all. sorry about that, guys. if there’s a q-and-a for clever adult film titles ['late for rent'], then I’m your man. but ‘marketing’? no.

I went upstairs and showered.

and then it hit me.

Jon Garrou.

now – having already written of a slightly illegal/sinful employment past, the admittance to thinking about an old high school chum while lathered in a body wash called ‘strawberry milkshake’ should tell you I have no business writing any sort of guidelines for any sort of people who pay to get into a conference, but stay with me here.

Jon Garrou knew, at the age of 16, how to market something properly. he was kind of a visionary anyway, being the first to introduce us to The Lemonheads [again - best album to come out of the 90's] and phrases that borderlined the absurd, but somehow worked [they escape me now - but trust they were ground-breaking].

one day, after a basketball game, he forever planted himself in my daily life.

think about that – I knew the guy for 4 years, haven’t seen him since. and yet, I think about him every time I shower.

see, we had a friend named Gregg, he had big feet. they were often [debatable] dirty. someone commented to Gregg he should ‘wash his dirty feet’ and Jon pointed out that, in fact, said suggestion was asinine, as ‘feet pretty much washed themselves’.

I didn’t think much about that until I got into the shower that evening.

‘feet wash themselves’.

soap ends up on the shower floor. feet move around. feet do wash themselves.

brilliant.

and now you see why he comes to mind every time I’m naked and wet.

see, Jon Garrou knew something about marketing – find an everyday happening, and quickly come up with truncated catchy statement – one that will forever resonate.

this post will make slight sense to you, I know. until the next time you get into the shower. you’ll wash everything, make your way to the feets and will, undoubtedly, think of a man you’ve most likely never met.

and with that, Jon Garrou joins another in the shower.

well done.

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disclaimer – I realize the dangerous edge of blasphemy I walk, putting a photo up of Christ in a post that includes porn, illegal banking acts and naked men, but after searching ‘dirty feet’, I came upon a fetish I had no idea existed. and decided to put the Almighty up instead of some hooker with no shoes. I hope you understand.

tuesdays with tara – volume nine

By On May 18, 2010 In family, life, music, tuesdays with tara With 8 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume ninePermalink
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“Once there was a ghost living deep within my heart.  Came out at night and danced with me in the dark.”
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It always amazes me that something as subtle as a voice can open up a wellspring of emotional memories.  I’ve tuned in to hear a new song and before too long,  I find myself rekindling old spirits from so long past.  Doug Burr did that to me tonight, and ironically, he did it by sounding like someone else.
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I recently read an article about a certain neurologist.  His work has led him to theorize that when we recall a memory, we tailor it a little each time.  To wit, not only is the original event long gone, but so is our ability to recall it with perfect clarity.  His theory has been controversial in the neurological community.  I suppose it’s painful and perhaps disconcerting to think that our memories are, in fact, slipping away, and have been all the time, though we thought our minds to be sharp.  The doctor in question feels these studies may provide hope for people suffering from disorders such as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  If their incredibly traumatic memories can be dulled or altered in some way medically, they may be able to enjoy more fulfilling lives in the present.  I suppose it is a lot to chew, theory-wise.
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As I listened to this song tonight, I knew immediately who Mr.Burr sounded like to me:  a certain member of a little band named Fleetwood Mac.  Perhaps you have heard of them?
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Fleetwood Mac is one of those bands that is on the soundtrack of my childhood.  My father actually fell quite short in the parenting department, but he was pretty good at exposing me to terrific music:  Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Carly Simon, the Guess Who, the Eagles, and Neil Young to name just a few.  In fact, I think one of the very first images that may have been emblazoned upon my fragile young mind as a child was that Eagle’s album cover with the spooky bird skull painted with war paint on blue sand.
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I guess you could say that we beat the odds, my mother, my sister and I.  My father took off when I was three, my sister just born.  One would speculate that I had a rough childhood.  One would be wrong.  My mother carried on as though he had never been around, at least that was the image that she projected to us, though I am sure the truth was far worse.  She concentrated all of her efforts on loving the hell out of us and providing us with the best life she could possibly give.
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The teenaged Tara might have heard Fleetwood Mac and thought of her bum father’s musical legacy. The adult Tara wants to thank her mother for giving her a childhood without a big gaping hole.
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While she’s doling it out,  Adult Tara also wants to thank Doug Burr for sounding like Lindsey Buckingham.
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*this article is dedicated to my dearest Mumsy.  Yer a good’n.
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Doug Burr – Red Red

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if my internet connection’s Mother had done as good of a job raising it as Tara‘s did with her, you wouldn’t see the little lines between each paragraph. but it didn’t. so I’m sorry.

more weymouth. more photos. et al.

By On May 13, 2010 In photos, travel With 1 Comment Permanent Link to more weymouth. more photos. et al.Permalink

…are here. so go see them and stuff.

hi.

By On May 11, 2010 In family, my nephew With 3 Comments Permanent Link to hi.Permalink

8 pounds heavy.

20 inches long.

1 day old.

…and he can already tell that his Dad is a hero.

tuesdays with tara – volume eight

By On May 11, 2010 In music, people, tuesdays with tara With 6 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume eightPermalink

I try not to have regrets.  It’s not an easy task.  God knows I have made enough regrettable decisions in my life.  Mostly, though, I have caused other people pain that they didn’t deserve.  It’s not something I pride myself on, this desire to plunge the knife of my anger deep within the cavity of ones emotional chest.  But it has been done, many times too many.

Every now and again, I am gripped within the confines of a relentless melancholy.  It is within that cocoon that I like to drink whiskey and do it alone.  I can tear open my own chest and scoop out those things which I have swallowed; those which have left their scars on my insides.  I pour it out, piece by piece, and lay it out in front of me.  And I confront those ugly memories, those savage acts that spoke of my basest nature and I repent in my way.  It’s all I can do, after all.

When I was fifteen years old, I developed an unhealthy habit of banging my head on the wall until I blacked out when I couldn’t handle a certain emotion or situation.  It was dangerous and foolish and I am happy that I outgrew that sort of personal destruction.

Even though I may be 36 years old now, a bit older and wiser, or at least, no worse for the wear, I still sometimes need a place to toss the pain, the sense of loss, the secrets that have done their work with me.

These days, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes and a soundtrack provided by Mimicking Birds will do the job, and nobody gets hurt…

Which is all I ever really wanted to begin with.

Mimicking Birds – Rivers, Veins & Roots

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Miss Tara. read why she’s a fave.


dear new nephew.

By On May 8, 2010 In family, my nephew With 5 Comments Permanent Link to dear new nephew.Permalink

happy birthday.

I’m Aric, your Uncle.

you came into this world while I was drunk in another country, far away from where you arrived. this will most likely be a reoccurring theme, but trust that most of the pints were for you. see, as you can probably tell from my discussing alcohol with a 1 day year-old, I might not be the best parent. I might never be a parent – and that’s okay, because, well, I have you now.

when I woke up this morning and ran downstairs to see what you looked like, I expected the joy to leap from your blurry photo, a photo of you looking blurry – and it did, that joy. it leaped. but I was soon hit with a wave of terror – see, your little expression and fingers scared the shit me and having to cross that bad word out is why. you might someday look up to me and I don’t want you using words like that – it’s the lowest form of expression and hints at a lack of creativity, so… use them sparingly.

I do want you to know that I will work hardest at being the coolest Uncle you have. I know that you have AJ on the other side of the family who will be vying for this award, but he seems to be a nice fella and hopefully we’ll get him married-off and boring soon… that’s usually what happens to people when they settle down, but don’t tell your parents I said that.

in fact, while on the subject of secrets, I hope you know I’ll keep all of yours. even the bad ones. now, having said that, you might tell me something someday and I’ll tell you that ‘you need to tell your Dad about this’, but trust me when I tell you that it would have to be a very serious situation for me to do that. but things like girls, school, bullies, etc – I’m your man. even things like drinking and drugs. but I’ll warn you, if you’re thinking about those things, I’ll be telling you some stories that might scare the… that might scare you.

the one thing your parents and I might not agree on is travel – I’ll be in my late-forties by the time they let me send you a plane ticket to meet me somewhere that’s hard to pronounce, and I’ll do everything I can to talk you into staying longer. you’ll ultimately be the decider of what you do with your life and where, but at least let me show you a few things before that.

I want to apologize now for all of the times I won’t be there, but I also hope you don’t mind sitting down every once and a while and writing me a letter – by that time they might have some amazing machine that reads your mind and prints out whatever you were thinking, but humor an old guy and let me know about your life…

and know that even though I won’t be around, I’m always with you. and will do anything for you. see, the life and the lifestyle I’ve chosen means that I very well might not have one of you for myself – which, to be honest, I kind of like. what that means though, is that you’re going to sort of be a son to me.

I hope you think I’m cool – as, of this very morning, something funny happened…

you’re now the only person I care about thinking so.

love,

Uncle Aric

dorset, me lovely.

By On May 6, 2010 In photos With 2 Comments Permanent Link to dorset, me lovely.Permalink

this is the little town I live in.

sometimes, the bridge to my right,

[you can't see it]

is raised and lots-and-lots of boats go in-and-out.

as you can see,

lots of pubs,

a bakery with cornish pasties

[mmmmmm]

a few chippies

and more pubs.

the boys down here like their cider

and the girls like the occasional gossip.

mostly old sea folk

which keeps things quirky.

did I ever tell you the story about how I showed up here,

hungry, poor and scared from Ethiopia…

and a few months later had a boat of my own?

Absurdity.

tuesdays with tara – volume seven

By On May 4, 2010 In music, people, tuesdays with tara With 3 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume sevenPermalink

I’ve recently gotten the feeling that there’s more recycling going on than actual creativity.  You need look no further than your local movie theatre for evidence of this.  What eighties movie  or television show will not be shamelessly remade for no real reason whatsoever?  I have just read an article about a Smurfs movie that is in production.  It’s not animated.  It stars Neil Patrick Harris.  As cool as I think NPH is, are the studio execs who greenlighted this cracked out?  Does this seem like a good idea to anyone?  Incidentally, I hated the new Clash of the Titans and if I were still living in America, I’d  watch the original any Sunday they played it on TNT.  And I won’t even consider a remake of Karate Kid sans Pat Morita, no matter how cute Will Smith’s kid may be.  And an A Team movie is a bad enough idea; but an A-Team movie without Mr. T? Blasphemy beyond comprehension!

On a recent shopping trip, I also noticed, much to my horror, that the worst of eighties fashion has regurgitated itself this Spring.  Neon colors were cool when I was twelve.  But then again, so were Generra Hypercolor shirts and that trend lasted about ten minutes.  Yes, I was appalled and made to feel really old (as in, “Am I too old to wear trendy stuff?  Is this what the kids are wearing now?  Is it time for Dockers chinos and boat shoes?) looking at what I can only describe as New Jersey eighties hair metal chic:  acid-washed jeans with peg legs, factory-faded jean jacket vests with the sleeves made to look ripped off, pastel flowered tunic blouses with tiny studded belts.  Save me.  Deliver me from.  FTW.

For some reason, I don’t get as annoyed when I think a band may be trying to recycle an eighties sound.  That could be because music was so damn fun in the eighties, was it not?  Around the world, too, and so many genres.  Before goth and shoegazer and Insane Clown Posse and all of that taking-itself-entirely-too-seriously music there was Dead or Alive, “You Spin Me Right Round”, for example.  We had that song on 45 and we’d blast that shit and turn our basement into a discotheque.  To this day, if I see it on a karaoke menu, I can’t resist it.  It has stood the test of time in a way that a fake-ass Mr.T will never.  If I sound bitter, imagine how Mr.T feels.  He’s still alive, you know, and probably could use some work.

George Lewis Jr, AKA Twin Shadow, may very well be a hipster.  I don’t know much about him because he has yet to truly blow up.  He does seem, however, to know the right people.  After cutting his teeth in Berlin, he’s come home to roost in Brooklyn, and you could do worse locale-wise as a budding musician.  And he’s another bedroom musician, mixing and arranging everything all on his lonesome.  But he has been signed to Terrible Records who will soon release his first full-length album with assistance from Chris Taylor (Grizzly Bear’s sound man), and again, you could do worse.

Aric and I discussed this recently:  it’s time for synth lovers to come out of the closet.  We can come out into the light, embrace synth without irony and know true happiness.  Allow Twin Shadow to show you how.

Eighties rehash?  George Lewis Jr.: you’re doing it right.

Twin Shadow – Castles In The Snow

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Tara. and more Tara. she’ll soon become part of your daily habit.

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