“We were wild, for awhile. A burning wildfire.”

Take away everything else. Leave just one thing. This thing, this facet of you, was what drew me towards your burning essence.

There were red flags from the very get go. I didn’t go into it naive, not in the least. I may not have anticipated you, but once you arrived, I not only perked up, I made sure that I got in the head of the line. Whatever it was that you were sending out into the universe, I wanted to be in its path. I wanted it to run down my chin like honey; sticky and gloriously sweet.

You covered me with it. You did not disappoint. I was breathless. On a regular basis.

Tearing down the highway in the middle of the night, we were giddy with the summer breeze. We made our way to the reservoir. We stripped down and jumped off the rocks into the icy water below, a full moon illuminating our mad passion for the moment. It was the way we always did things: jumping right in and ripping the meat off the bone, stripping it down until there was nothing more and collapsing in a puddle of delirious exhaustion when we were through.

It was a difficult way to live life all the time, to be sure. I started to run low on fuel. Our exploits began to test my limits.

I remember a night; a night when I began to truly see.

We were sitting on a veranda, overlooking the water, the sky full of stars, and our spirits were filled to the brim. I raised my glass, made a toast, and pitched my glass over the wall and into the sea. That moment was meant to exhibit a deep sense of joy and instead, upon seeing your face, gazing detachedly in another direction, I felt chills run up my spine. You had become a drug to me. You were everything that an addiction could be: destructive, blinding, and all-encompassing. I had become addicted to the exhilaration that I felt as a result of your burning. I began to lose sight of my own values. I was replacing them with placebo emotion cloaked in adventure.

Why did it never occur to me that I wouldn’t be enough for you? Was it an ego issue? Was it misplaced trust? It may have been a lethal combination. Whatever the case may have been, I was buying it, whatever you were selling, for the longest time, because I wanted the goods. Your excuses were immediately received with faithful ears, apologies accepted with expedience. I needed to believe that you needed nothing more than me because I was giving you all that I had and reaching beyond that to give you more. I was betraying myself, time and time again in order to submit to you. I knew better. I didn’t care. I wanted more and I was going to get it.

And there is a price to be paid for such arrogance. The price is steep. Experiencing such dismal disappointment in yourself, seeing it laid out in front of you, trying to sleep at night; all of these have price tags.

Once I passed through my anger at you, at your insatiable appetite and all of your lies, I had to deal with myself.

Because you see, I knew better. I saw you coming. I bit anyway.

Play Today The Moon, Tomorrow The Sun’s ‘We Were Wild’

-

Tara – not Aric – has written forty-five others like this. forty-five. that’s a lot. you should read them.

-

I asked you to enter

and then I made you crawl

and you can’t be holding on

to what I’ve got when all I’ve got

is hurt.

-

 I used to imagine a far different outcome; an end far better than the one we made for ourselves. It was a terrific fantasy simply because of the absolute implausibility of it. In this alternative story, you have mercy on me. You respect my feelings. You treat my heart gently. You look into my eyes and you say those things, but this time, you mean what you say. You accept the weight of those words. The gravity of them moves the both of us and we are swept out to sea together; holding on to the other, swimming to shore as fast as we can; eager to begin anew.

And in this story, you apologize once more. You do it the same way: you collapse your head into my lap and you weep. You show me your wounded heart. You beg my forgiveness. You tell me that despite not being worthy of my love, you want it all the same; that you need it. But in this story, this moment heals us. It gives me the strength I need to let go of the pain that you have caused me. It gives me the confidence to start believing in you, in us, again.

But a story such as this is just entertainment in the end. It is no kind of salvation.

Just so that I make myself clear: it is not a wish to never have lost you. That day that I packed all of my things; that day that you followed me from room to room and cried, begging me not to go. No, you deserved that day. Had been building up to that grand finale for so very long. No, the fantasy is for this benefit alone: had you been kinder, had you been honest, had your love been real, you would not have turned me inside out the way you did. You would not have left the scar tissue that I am reminded of each day when I realize how hard it is to trust someone, to let them inside, to truly love them. You would not have left these jagged pieces with which I must contend as I try to move forward with another.

Some day, I suppose I will come to a place where I will be grateful for the ways in which you destroyed me. It will make the rebuilding of me that much more joyous.

I am not there yet.

Damien Rice ‘One’

[this is Tara's forty-fifth post. that means she's penned forty-four other ones. you might have just met your new addiction.]

-

“Find me inside the calm of the storm where lovers decide what comes with the dawn.”

 -

I knew exactly what I was saying; exactly what I wanted and didn’t want. I knew with a certainty what would come of it, having slugged through it before. It exists for us, anyway. It refuses to dissolve. Each time it gets stirred anew, it calcifies that much more; hardens before my eyes.

It is the one place where you cannot see. It is the one place where you cannot hear. It is your own personal fight. It is your battle of the wills. You are fighting against yourself. It is something you will have. You will stand your ground. You will not relent. You will never truly hear. You will not seek understanding. You will get what you want in the end because I do not want to be a part of this war. I never did.

But there’s something that you should know:

You will get what you want. Not because I will let you have it. I never had that kind of power, nor would I want it. You will get it because you can’t fight someone who has lost their will.

You begin this thing, this tug of war, and my heart beats frantically like a bird trapped in a small space. You come at me with daggers pointed, jagged defensive and hurtful words, and you are not the person I fell in love with. You are someone else entirely; someone I don’t even want to know.

I have given my heart to you in its entirety. You cannot return the favor. Such is my lot. It may ultimately be the decider of our fate. I may decide that I deserve better. I may be right.

There’s something else you should know:

You will get what you want. It will come with a very heavy price tag, so I hope it will all have been worth it to you.

I will love you less.

And this is exactly what you will deserve.

The Irrepressibles – ‘Forget The Past’

-

our girl’s penned 42 more of these. you should read 42 more of these.

-

“I wanna laugh and I wanna cry. I wanna spit, but my mouth’s too dry.”

-

New directions: It’s funny how they sometimes find you instead of the other way around. I mean, seek clarity all you like. Pray for it. Ask for it for Christmas. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ it.

I spent the lion’s share of my twenties engulfed, inexplicably, in some sort of cocoon of misery. I was angry at everyone and everything. Happiness was something that taunted me, coming close only to elude my grasp at the last minute. My motivations to propel myself in a forward motion were thwarted time and time again by an invisible barrier.

Fighting an imaginary enemy is exhausting and endless. People who are innocently trying to love you will suffer for their efforts. The downward spiral of shame and self-loathing becomes an oasis which you will fill with alcohol, tears, emotional blackouts; weapons of your own choosing. It’s no way to live. It’s barely living at all. When suicide is not an option, but every day you wake up filled with a sense of dread, what is one to do? How does one get dressed and go to work? How does one get out of bed at all?

When I reflect on that time in my life, I feel tremendously grateful that I found a way out. There was no magic pill involved. There was no epiphany. There was no mental breakdown in a sweat lodge. I just evolved beyond it. I just kept marching forward. Eventually, the anger that I used to carry just below the surface of my skin began to subside. My smile became genuine. I started cutting myself the occasional break. I could look within and see something besides the ugliness that once clouded my vision of who I was. I started to love little me. I started to embrace my life as something worth living, worth cherishing. I don’t know why this happened any more than I know why I slid so far in the opposite direction. There isn’t always a satisfying answer, despite our desire to sew it all up and put a big bow on it.

My thirties have been a decade of solidifying. My sense of self worth, my personal identity, the direction in which I hope to take my life; all of these things are very clear to me now. They are no longer concerns that I lose sleep over; that I drink a bottle of wine over. Knowing what you want out of life is a powerful thing. Knowing you may not get it and being okay with that, even more so. Allowing myself to be in the flow of life, taking what feeds me, getting rid of what holds me back; these are the actions of a functioning adult. They aren’t things that I take for granted because they are not abilities I have always had.

Lately I have been basking in the satisfaction of a life lived well. I am proud of who I have become, happy with the choices I have made, amazed at how things seem to be falling into place effortlessly. In other words, I feel as though I am living as I ought.

It’s a new direction.

It’s a good’n.

Black Lips – ‘New Direction’

-

this your first tuesday with tara. tsk on you. you should have started this months ago.

as you can see from this fabulous makeover, there’s changes in the air – and it’s not just aesthetical. I’m not sure that’s a word, but this wine disagrees, so we’re going to go with it for now.

for the past 3-4 months – along with finalizing the book, getting it ready for Amazon and iPads and the masses [who else is there, really?] – myself and a few others have been going back-and-forth on a little [now big] idea I’ve had for the better part of 5 years. that new title on the header bar might give you a clue…

it’s a really good idea and is in no way original, but it still just might work. there’s still not a lot I can say about it, which is tough, seeing how I’m crap at keeping exciting news a secret, but I can tell you it’s exciting news. I can also tell you that all of your wildest web dreams are about to come true – I’m about 72% sure of it.

here’s also what I can tell you:

- the OMKOS and rough sundays podcasts have all been archived and will be back here.

- I’m getting back into making little movies.

- I miss local live music.

- my current Flickr is messy.

- I am constantly blessed with meeting the most interesting and wonderful of people.

- there’s another book being worked on.

- and an app.

…

okay, so I was going to space all of that out over the next few months, but this wine is too tasty.

basically, what I’m saying is this:

check back often.

excuse the mess.

and get ready to see something pretty fuckin’ cool.

more soon.

a

-

the little basement was basically done – one weekend’s hangover overtaking and me gutting the entire section, a few trips to Ikea and a lot of sweeping. my own little cave, with a desk and a couch and a chair and an end table. but it was missing something. I didn’t know what at first, but it lacked soul – somewhere in my new lounge was a spot for one more thing and thank fuck it didn’t feel like it needed to be Swedish. and then it hit me – a turntable. a real record player! for those rainy mornings or times needing to hide from daylight. I had no idea what to buy. growing up on my parent’s one, sure – with Perry Como, The Beatles White Album and a lot of Otis Redding, but since the invention of the compact disc, mini disc and then iPod, my travels had never allowed me a time and place to have one. oh sure, most nights at Scott’s or P’s were huddled around one, but they also had records from years – if not decades – of collecting. and vinyl was considered illegal when I lived in Shanghai. true story. so I never had one and now I wanted one. but again – what to buy? I didn’t know which was which, so I emailed Scott. ‘Scott’ I wrote – only I didn’t write ‘Scott’, I wrote ‘neighbor’, cause that’s what we do – ‘neighbor, am in need of some turntable consulting – what do you suggest I buy?’. and wouldn’t you know it, he wrote write back saying ‘dude!’ [only he didn't say 'dude', he said 'neighbor', but I'm trying to mix it up for you] – ‘neighbor! how fucking weird – I was just about to move to [removed] and had P’s old player and didn’t know what to do with it, seeing how I couldn’t take it!’. well, now, if you know anything about the 3 of us, or you’ve read the book, or both, you’ll know how big this was. in Scott’s possession was an heirloom, an oscillating machine of friendship fuel, owned by one, inherited by another and now possibly passed-down to the last. but we had a problem – it was in Shanghai. and you can’t just pack up a turntable in Shanghai – one that’s priceless – and send to the US. so Scott wrote some more ‘might be tricky, though – unless you know anyone coming from Shanghai to the States’ – and even then they would have to take it to the Post Office and send to me in NYC. poop, right? yes – poop. we were so close and I didn’t understand why we would have been allowed to be so close and it not happen. so we left it.

a few days later, another dear friend of mine named Riaad emailed me out of the blue saying he was going to be flying from [you can see where this is going] – flying from Shanghai to Portland, OR and didn’t know if I was in the area or what, but did I need anything from the ‘Hai? I did, actually, and asked him a Godfather’s Daughter’s Wedding Favor, to haul this bad boy over with him, and I’d sort out a way to get FedEx to pick it up and then to me. problem with this is that I didn’t even want to think about how much that might cost, so I didn’t. if I had to eat water and raw toast for breakfast for a month, then I would. fuck it, right? yes – fuck it. the next day, work gave me my dates I was to be in Seattle and [you can see where this is going] – wouldn’t you know it? I was to be 3 hours North of where Riaad was going to be. at the same time. so, I hired a car one weekend, went to see him, got the turntable, took him on a tour of [removed - to be used in the new project launching in Nov], and then brought the turntable back to Seattle with me, through customs on the way back and down the stairs to its new home in Brooklyn.

and what did I see lying on my bed? a large package from editor-at-large, Sunny. it was about 12” x 12” and [you can see where this is going] it was a record by Otis Redding. keep in mind, neither Sunny, nor anyone else – save for Riaad and Scott – knew nothing about my Turntable Adventure 3000, but just so happened to pass a store with this in it, think of me, mail it and somehow time it so that it was waiting there for me on my return.

ri-fucking-diculous.

I plugged it in – got some technical help from Scott and Otis on. the needle is old and it needs some doctoring per the counterweight, but whatever…

see, I’m a big believer in surrounding yourself with things that make you happy on a daily basis. my little Vespa, for example. it’s noisy and smokey and getting a license for it turned into a major pain in the ass, but every morning, when I cross over the Manhattan Bridge, with downtown New York fuckin’ City waking up in front me – a quick look to the left to see Lady Liberty keeping watch – I smile. and I’m not a huge smiler. but I smile. sometimes I shake my head, but most of the time, that’s not a good idea on the bridge on a Vespa. but it’s a daily reminder of my fortune.

and now – when I come home – and walk by this music playing device that has had the hands of the brotherhood on it, I smile as well. I smile because the world works in bizarre and wonderful ways and I have friends who act on instinct and schlep large electronics around the world and make it all work out.

I mentioned it doesn’t sound perfect – and it doesn’t.

who knows why – definitely not me.

but I also don’t want it to be fixed.

cause, brother, I got to be honest…

it sounds perfect.

-

“You got the drunken letter home. I can hear him on the telephone.”

Somehow, it was inevitable, our friendship, like two shoals of ice, drifting helplessly on a certain collision course. I was young, dislocated and sad. You were half-cocked and clinically divided. We were both thirsty and so you took me to your bar.

I was impressionable and you poured your words into me. Three drinks in, teetering on my bar stool, Portishead on the jukebox, a cigarette dangling from my dry lower lip, I received your gospel, hung on your every postulation.

We held on to one another on those late night walks home. We couldn’t have made it any other way. Like two characters from a Bukowski short story; singing show tunes in a pizza parlor, soaked in booze and goodwill, turning out our pockets in hopes of finding enough left for a slice.

But you disappeared. Often. You weren’t just quirky, no. You were schizophrenic. For this, you needed medication. But there were months when the money ran dry. And there were months when your mind wandered elsewhere just long enough that you fell off the page. Your lights were all blazing, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone. I watched you from the street, pacing like a furious animal, holding your cat to your chest, smoking on the fire escape. I called to you. You finally looked down at me, but you could make no connection with my face. I felt that you were not there. I knew no one could bring you back in that state. So, I waited. There was nothing else for it.

You fell for a girl in your building. I say girl because she was just shy of twenty and yet she seemed to me to be pushing sixty. She was brash and bawdy, mouthy and coarse. Her language and mannerisms were aggressive to the point of being abusive. She immediately took a dislike to me, being the only other female with whom she felt she must share the stage. When I made the others laugh, she glared at me with heated malice, wishing me away, wishing me harm. It bothered me that you wanted her. It bothered me she knew it; took advantage of it. I wanted to protect you from the world and people like her were a big part of that. But you did what you wanted. You went your own way. It was something that I deeply understood.

And in much the same way that you blew into my world, you blew your way out. Without much of a warning, you were gone. Looking back, I probably could have seen traces of a goodbye in your hug, your wave at the door. It’s not anything I would have wanted to admit to myself which is why it would only register many years later.

The worst part of it for me has been the not knowing. The suspicion that you may have gone far away and taken your own life; that you may have just given up the constant wearying battle. That you did what you wanted. That you went your own way one last time.

Joel Nicholson – ‘Bobby’

-

for many, many, many more tuesdays with tara, visit her archives.

“I found your long black hairs. I felt your poltergeist presence in the frame of the bed.”

-

I will be the first one to say it: it surprised me. It doesn’t usually happen to me, that kind of nervous hysterical jealousy. To say that I am confident, comfortable in my skin, is to speak the truth. I don’t shy away. I don’t skirt the topic. I don’t bury my head. I reach out and grab it; pull it towards me and stare it down. That’s how I deal. I don’t often retreat into my head so dramatically that events begin to pass through a sour filter of my own melodramatic creation. No. I don’t do this.

I will tell you the truth now. I won’t mince words. I felt your ghost. I felt your breath on my neck. I felt your hand on my shoulder, so close did I sense you. I wondered if you had cast some sort of spell in your wake. I thought I might be a victim of some form of witchcraft. And that spell was  one that forced me time and time again to feel you, to see your face, to think of you, when you were the last person I wanted in my head.

Honestly, I want to say this to you: I felt like your prisoner. I knew you wanted it that way. This form of insidious torture was the only way you could get to me. I had what you wanted; what you suddenly wanted once I had it. I predicted it from the moment I first heard your name. He didn’t believe me, but I didn’t need him to. It was enough for me to assume a protective stance in dealings with you. My guard firmly in place, my wall impenetrable, or so I thought.

But the more I tried to push you out of my mind, the more you flooded it. It bordered on obsession. I want to remind you of something: this is not me. This is not what I do. I am not prone to believing in these sorts of fantastic uses of power and yet, your hold on me was undeniable.

In time, the very mention of your name was enough to produce tiny electric shocks under my skin. And when he went on the defense in your honor, it choked me with an icy fear. It threatened to take me under. All the time I wanted to scream, “Let him go and let me go and let us go and let us be.” It’s all I really wanted to say and all I really needed to say. I didn’t want to say it to you alone. I wanted to say it to him, as well. I wanted to choke out your solidarity, the shadowy presence of it, so that I might have a chance to plant my own garden. It wasn’t too much to ask. He chose me, you will remember. He mourned you and he moved forward and what was lost is forever gone.

It is only now, many months later, when I can pull one of your long black hairs out of something and not feel my stomach curdle. Your ghost is not here in this place. It has been banished and sent on its way. I do not know if it left willingly. It doesn’t concern me how it departed; only that it is gone for good.

Please tell me that it is gone for good.

 Timber Timbre – ‘Bad Ritual’

-

for 39 more ‘tuesdays with tara’, spend a few days in the archives. you’ll be happy about that decision.

every time I go to write something, I usually don’t write something because writing takes effort. and I’m trying to enjoy the downtime between this book being officially released [read: on Amazon in the next few weeks, ebooks, etc.] and the next one starting. it’s a collection of short stories between Dec ’08-present. I’m looking forward to starting it, and I’m looking even more forward to being done with the first one. did you know I’ve never even read it? it’s sitting right next to me, as I had to reference it for a slight design change, but I’ve never picked it up. I should though, it’s a good book. but I digress…

this shall be the most random of catch-ups. I’m doing it more for me than you, but that shouldn’t come as a shock:

- it’s a shame we lost in the final minutes of the Women’s World Cup. it’s a shame we don’t give a shit. but well-played [for the first 108 minutes, at least], girls. you actually made female professional sports exciting. weird.

- the Vespa Saga continues. that actually deserves its own post and I will – as soon as I’m official – post the entire headache. if I do it now, I’ll just be annoyed.

- speaking of annoyed. I can no longer hide my insane jealousy for Mel and Nick’s choice to put their stuff in storage, quit their [very successful] careers and took off sailing the world for a few years. the only thing that outdoes my envy is my intrigue. and respect.

- this has been a favorite summer song for some time, and it is again this summer. hey, you should make it one of yours.

- oh! the second day in Philly I wanted to tell you about? the crazy castle [yes, castle. see below] we went to, built by the eccentric tile-maker James Mercer? one of the coolest places in the States, I kid you not. the website doesn’t do it justice. well worth a day trip from Philly. no photos allowed inside, but I got a few of the exterior.

- the hair stylist convinced me to get something called a ‘keratin blowout’ done to my locks. I’m still confused to what happened.

- the ’101 best sandwich’ attempt died out [shocking!], as they were all a] more than $10 and b] beginning to not be within walking distance from my office.

- my office is in the exact area the term ’23 skidoo’ was coined. good band as well.

- I haven’t picked up my Leica once since moving to NYC. this hipstamatic stuff is brilliant.

- ah. yes. photos and NYC – that reminds me. took a shot of this the other week and made a point of going back when it was open. one of the coolest shops I’ve ever been in. worth a trip to Park Slope. am pretty sure it’s a Dave Eggers project.

- speaking of iStuff. if you have an iPad, download this. Brother Scott did the music for it and it’s been charting for weeks now on Apple.

- while I’ve always been mildly interested in the occult, reading ‘The Serpent and The Rainbow’ has elevated my curiousity in voodoo and black magic to a point of virtual hopelessness. I’m obsessed. have never seen the film, but have it downloaded for when I’m done.

- speaking of things to watch, I get about 40 minutes a week of time to do it, but Californication is one of the smartest shows ever to come out of the States. season 5 especially.

- this also looks amazing.

- NYC is a fucking fun town. has anyone ever said that before?

- Brother Ben [remember Brother Ben?] has a new project he’s working on and needs help. am hoping to interview him before the deadline, but if not, try and wrap your head around this.

- I rarely drink beer these days. if you email me, I’ll let you in on the best kept secret in the wine world. I’m buying it by the case and would love to say ‘and I’m even dropping some weight in the process’, but no. it is good, though. and cheap.

- please stop using photos of your child for your profile picture on Facebook. Brother Cohn wrote last year that ‘I’m friends with you, not your child’ and it caused a shitstorm. why? I don’t know. photos of your kids on Facebook? of course! photos of you + your kids in your Facebook profile? sure! photos of your kids as your profile photo? no. stop it. it’s weird.

- this little blog is about to have some major changes happen to it. I’m kind of excited. I hope you like it. it’s cool. and exciting… thus, the excitement.

- a copy of my book was handed to Annie Clark [St. Vincent]. I’m totally keeping an eye out for her next album to see if I’m mentioned.

- I’m turning 35 in a few weeks and change. please don’t forget.

- this is a fun town.

- see ya later.

“People say that old road is haunted. If you travel on it long enough, you won’t get off it.”

-

Stories. We all love to hear them. We may even love to tell them. But what of the stories we tell ourselves? What of the stories that become such an entrenched part of our inner fabric that we begin to assume them as fact; the way things are, or were, or will be.

Internal dialogue. We’re all entitled to our very own. We sometimes make the leap of faith to allow another person into that sacred space where such thinking is contained. This is not an easy gesture to make. If I choose to open that place and usher you inside, I lose some of my power. Whatever it is you choose to see, to perceive, to come away with, may be entirely apart from what it is I assumed was tucked inside there. And what are we to do, then? Are we at an impasse? We are. It is a stand-off of epic proportion. I stand before you and I say that what it is you have seen deep inside of me is one way. You stand before me and tell me that what it is that you have seen deep inside of me is something else.

And who is right?

Naturally, you assume that you are correct. It is, after all, your mind, your conscience that has been peered into. It is your very soul that you have bared and so, does it not then follow that the power of its contents should rightly belong to you? That any and every interpretation of what has been revealed ought only to appear as it has been presented? And yet, is this not an impossibility? Is it not the case that once the leap of faith has been made, and once the space has been opened; in fact, once you have opened that door, are you not then subjective to what it is that might walk through?

Is it not the case that you cannot tell me how it is that I feel? Is it not the case that this very fact, may actually, chill you to your very bones? And yet, this is where we stand. This is where we find ourselves. You empty the contents of your emotions. I absorb it and decide what it is I can do with it. I cannot promise you that I will always make the wisest choice. I also cannot promise you that how I feel will be something that will leave you with a sense of well-being or peace. It may, in fact, be the very opposite. This may happen again, as it happened today; as it happened a month ago. It is where we are. It where we might find ourselves tomorrow. What, then, are we to do about this? Well, for one, we can let go. We can forget all about the need for power. We can forget all about the need for control. We can remember love. We can remember that. It’s what we’ve got.

More than anything, in times like these, I want to say this to you: please come back to us.

Grieves ‘Bloody Poetry’

-

written, as it always is, by Miss Tara Noble. visit 36 more here. this girl’s the jam. when she’s not living in a campervan.

I can’t sort it out.

It has been flooded; inundated, this brain. It is full up and sloshing sloppily out of badly sealed corners. Today, it is equal parts cold medicine and good old fashioned displacement. Displacement getting me down? This gypsy? Never say never.

If any praise can be lauded upon routine, it is this: a sense of certainty. There is plenty to be said for that kind of stability. So what happens, then, when everything is new and everything is upside down and nothing is what it was and where you are heading is unclear? Let’s not even enter into the discussion the power of insecurity and second guessing. Let’s leave that out of the equation for today. Let’s deal only with an over-active mind that is filling to the brim on a daily basis for lack of much else to do and can I please, pretty please have something else to do?

What I do know is this: that I am expending a ridiculous amount of energy merely trying to keep my happy face above water. I know my joy is one of the best things I have going. My desire to hold on to that, to safeguard that, is occupying a fair amount of my days. I take a little time each day to remind myself of what is good and right about what I have done with my life. I remind myself of time-honored platitudes such as, “This too shall pass.” I pet the cat. I cook something delicious. I look out the window and I think, “Yeah. This is good where I am now.”

I believe it, too. I have a genuine sense of peace that fell into my lap out here. Sometimes when you stop looking for something, it finds you instead. So why, then, does my life not catch up with my spirit so that I can go forth and be productive? So that I can make room in my head for things more worth thinking about?

This song made so much sense to me today. I have no idea what he is saying. But if feels joyful to me. It has momentum. It moves along in a relentless way. It refuses to stay down.

I get that more than you could know.

Shugo Tokumaru – ‘Lahaha’

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for a whole lot more of ‘tuesdays with tara’, visit the archives. or, stalk her. or both.

“I get eaten by the rust you create and eat the dust.”

Whilst going through the usual morning motions today, I stumbled upon something that gave me pause. It was a link to a thread on reddit. A man, using the moniker lucidending, announced that he now had only fifty one hours to live. He has been suffering and deteriorating from cancer which, he felt, was robbing him of all dignity. He is a resident of the state of Oregon (where I am currently living) and has legally won the right to die today through the Death with Dignity Act. I had no idea that Oregon had a law like this on its books. It makes me even more proud to live here.

I was drawn into the thread by the seeming humility of this man. (“Who I was doesn’t matter. I’m in pain, I’m tired and I’m finally being granted a small shred of respect.”) He made no statements that could be construed as antagonistic. Though there will no doubt be those who will say that it is all a hoax, I feel that can only reveal a deep cynicism within those people. The man opened the thread with the intention of fielding questions that anyone might have about ending one’s life consciously. There was a lot of naked humanity in that thread. When asked how he felt, knowing that his death was imminent, he merely said that he hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much; naturally, he was afraid, and he felt sorry for those he would leave behind. I’ve given the subject enough thought to say that I would feel much the same, though who can know how much an inevitable reality might change those thoughts?

lucidending has had an eventful couple of days, according to the thread. People from all over the world stopped by to say hello/goodbye/aloha. People began posting pictures and videos of where they were so that he might feel he had been there. When he regretted never having seen the Northern Lights, a man from Iceland signed in to say that this was something that he witnessed so often, he took it for granted. And here was someone, on their death bed, who had always yearned to see it. It gave him pause.

And on and on went this chain reaction.

A young college student spoke of losing a loved one to cancer. He posted a quote from Socrates that he said helped get him through. It was one I couldn’t believe I’d never heard:

“To fear death, my friends, is only to think ourselves wise, without being wise, for it is to think that we know what we do not know. For anything that men can tell, death may be the greatest good that can happen to them, but they fear it as if they knew quite well that it was the greatest of evils. And what is this but that shameful ignorance of thinking that we know what we do not know?”

Many years ago, on an unassuming afternoon, something monumental happened to me. A very good friend of mine was terminally ill. Our friendship had been largely reduced to bedside visits. Though he was virtually staring death in the face each and every day, he always found the energy to be a delightful host. The stories he told and the way he made me laugh! I was so happy to have him in my life. And then one afternoon, he knocked the wind out of me.

Our conversation had taken a morbid turn. I suppose I knew this was an eventuality. He had recently increased his pain medication. His nurse, an implacable woman, grew largely quiet. He told me that the he was having trouble seeing the point of being around much longer. He was slowly decaying and falling apart. Did I have any idea what that felt like? I was a healthy twenty something, so of course, this question was nonsensical.

He asked me if I loved him. It went without saying, but I said it anyway. He asked me if I would help him, should the need arise.

He asked me if I would help him die.

I immediately burst into tears. Why was he asking me this, I had to know. He knew that I was an advocate of the right to die. He knew I was strong. He grossly overestimated me in this second point, evidently.

I left that afternoon with the heaviest heart imaginable. I told him that I would have to give the matter some thought. But what was there to think about? Of course I couldn’t do it. Aside from the fact that it would be considered a crime in the state where we lived, I knew I was physically incapable of such an act. I once had to conduct a mercy killing on a suffering chipmunk. I suffered the memory of that act for days on end, with a heaving bosom.

Today, when I read about lucidending, I couldn’t help remembering this friend of mine, and how he had been made to suffer until the bitter end. I wish he could have had the chance to make amends and say his goodbyes. I wish that he had been given the benefit of maintaining a semblance of dignity. He was robbed of all of those things in the end and it makes me angry to think of it.

By the time you read this, lucidending may be gone. May it occupy your thoughts for some length of time.

Deertick – ‘Christ Jesus’

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‘tuesdays with tara’ – archive.

tara noble herself.

I just Google’d ‘Nostalghia+the+next+big+thing’ and got nothing.

and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.

because very, very soon, someone smart is going to realize they’re doing something amazing – and I’ll be the lucky kid who penned that title first.

trust me, though, I’m not the first person to say it – just write it. everyone who hears them and then hears that they’re not already snapped up by a major label says the same thing… they’re going to be big. very, very big.

a few weeks ago, I was in Los Angeles visiting my good friend and writing mentor J.W., and even before we could open a beer to toast his recent success as a screenwriter, he made me sit down in a big comfortable chair.

‘listen to this’ he said, barely whispering the ‘this’, as if he knew something that I didn’t.

he did.

after seeing my reaction, he called them – Ciscandra and Roy – over for drinks and from the moment they walked in, it was easy to see that they were put on this earth to make something amazing.

I begged them for an interview and they accepted – whether or not they’ll approve of my playing the first 5 tracks off of their debut ‘I Am Robot Hear Me Glitch‘ album is a different story. but I couldn’t pick one and I couldn’t pick a favorite.

I apologize… but give me a few minutes and you’ll understand.

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Nostalghia – ‘Golden Horse’

Ciscandra, describe you and Roy:

Both of us are hacks. Like, real and in the flesh, hacks. Except that Roy kicks major ass on drums and percussion. I wasn’t really allowed to pursue music the way I wanted to as a kid. Persian families, though close-nit and lovely in their own way, can be really close minded. Asking them to buy you a guitar, is like telling them the hour of your death. My Uncle didn’t make it easy for me. He was a musician, had drug problems and all that jazz, so my mother thought it was the devil. I saved up lunch money, and bought my first guitar. Then everyone just started dumping their sad instruments on me. Both Roy and I like picking up random shit, and playing the hell out of it. The other night we were jamming with the ropes of a hammock. It was cool.

Nostalghia – ‘MechANICal’

how about this track ‘MechANICal?’ [above] I heard that Roy made you play it by use of an interesting coaching method.

Well, it was mainly about trespassing; trespassing property. There’s nothing like stepping over caution tape. It’s like Walt Disney creating this wonderful Disneyland of adventure, and then saying  ’Sorry, not for you!’ I mean, the campus wasn’t a Disneyland, but in a sense, anything hidden is worth learning more about. I was curious, and so I did it, and ended up with a song. One of the first songs I’ve ever written. When I got on campus I took off all the caution tape and made this giant BobDylan/Einstein-esque face with it on the grass, chalked up the sidewalk with the question why. (And really, why?!? I mean, if you really want people staying off campus, tape isn’t the best barrier. Get magical evil dogs or something). And then I ran in the fountain. This is where Mechanical was born. Sitting drenched in this fountain, that I still swear had eels in it. I suppose through rebellion, I felt more in touch with something bigger than myself – freedumb. My mother told me the song was awful, and it almost never saw the light of day. Until Roy put a gun to my head and forced me to play it (true story).

Nostalghia – ‘You and I’

so… that’s the occasional recording method. how about the writing process?

Oh god. I don’t know if I’d call it a process. More like a psychosis. I write songs in ten minutes. Then I walk up to strangers and ask if they can screw me up a bit more before I hit the studio, just a little jab to the brain. No. But I do write in ten minutes, and insist on recording the basics of it right away. Roy loves recording to a click track. I want to kill them. So for at least five minutes I’m telling him how much I hate click tracks, and he’s saying, ‘Well, we don’t have to use it, it’ll just make it more difficult if we don’t’ and I’m swaying back and forth, until eventually I’m set up to a click track. One day, I’d like to record in the middle of a forest. Or on a long line, that lets me run through the sand, and really feel alive. Right now, we record in Roy’s bathroom, not as exotic, but he does have a nice floral spray.

Nostalghia – ‘I Am Robot’

it sounds like this – making music – is something you both knew that you were supposed to do:

Roy always wanted this. He spewed from Pennsatucky and straight into the jaws of music. I feel very lucky to have met my musical soul mate at such a young age. I sort of, always innately knew, that music was it for me, I just didn’t believe I was any good. I didn’t know I could sing until about three years ago. I was always a writer, pen to paper all the time. I tricked my parents into buying this karaoke machine (if I was singing other’s songs it was deemed safe), and used it as a tool for hearing my voice back. I slaved for hours in my room, trying to figure out if I had vibe. My mother would walk in and I’d be playing concerts for the world. It was embarrassing. But that silver piece of junk really helped me solidify what music was to me. It boiled in my blood, and when playing, I was a goner, transcendent. It really helped to meet Roy, he was one of the first to truly believe in what was pouring out of me, and now he helps make my spewage into something pretty.

Nostalghia – ‘Love Will Make Us Insane’

[web exclusive! join the band's Facebook page and get a free download of this track]

and lastly, seeing how you have a show coming up – your range is something that would make even Jeff Buckley blush, but what about the live gigs? I saw a video of you on YouTube sitting down [below] seemingly bleeding all over the floor with emotion, but then I hear a new track like the gypsy-influenced ‘Love Will Make Me Insane’ [above]… what’s the best mindset/physical expectation of you all performing in the flesh?

Live shows are my favorite, I get to be however I feel, and my capsule doesn’t matter. I am bigger than myself on stage, all my blood rushes to the white of my skin, to my palms, I am you, and the man next to you, and the woman behind you, I am raw, and real, and what everyone feels like doing but only some do. I am dust. Nothing. Just blood, and guts, and truth on a fancy clubs floor. And I’m fucking lucky to have a beautiful band (even strings!) to withhold me. I play a lot of strange instruments, and often I’m pulled to the ground. Not because I’m shy, but because I like how it vibrates when everyone plays, like taking off in a spaceship, and I’m allowed to be alien. Roy is a madman on stage. He plays a bunch of weird shit, and makes it sound incredibly cohesive. He lets me be, and lets me bleed, and lets me breathe, and lets me move, and lets me do whatever the hell I want. And I just cross my fingers, that maybe some people will walk away feeling more…human…alive. I want to wake people up, and I want to tell them that it’s okay to feel.

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if you’re anywhere in the L.A. area on February 2nd, do yourself a favor and catch their show at the Paul Gleason Theater.

also! visit their Facebook page for an exclusive listen to ‘Cool for Chaos!’, the first single from their upcoming sophomore album.

“Some people’s love is so new, they just can’t keep it inside.”

You have a box. It’s a little box of us. It’s a time capsule, really. It charts a progression. It starts and stops. It sharply reveals a gap; a chasm of time. It’s when we let go; when we put it to bed. Only it didn’t stay put, which is how I can be in your room now reading about how I felt in 1994.

There was a time back then when all we had were letters and the phone. Thousands of miles stretched between us. Both of us, on separate coasts, struggling to find ourselves in new environments. We talked to each other; and I mean really talked. It was safer for us then when we couldn’t see the other’s face and yet it caused us hardship. It’s what we had to work with and we did what we could with these limited tools. I will always argue that we did the best we could.

And so you called, late at night, and you weren’t sober. It was just easier for you that way and I understood exactly why because I felt the same way. I sometimes wondered how often we must have been feeling the same way without realizing it. We weren’t in a position to use such knowledge to our advantage then. You once said to me, about us, that we had to be tempered by life to have this at long last. I agree with you. I believed that truer words could not have been spoken of us, and so very many words have been spoken of us. You saved more than a few. You gave them a home in that box. You carried them all of these years and treated them with a reverence. I like what it says about your character. I like what I said on July 8, 1994 after we spoke on the phone:

“Have you ever swam in a pool in the summertime, right after a thunderstorm, in the dark? The water is so warm and it’s so dark that you can’t make out your body in the water and you just sort of melt away into the warmth and the darkness and the smell of grass post-storm. That’s how it felt to hear your voice. It was like squishing my toes into mud or wet sand. It was like closing my eyes in the snow and letting the flakes collect on the shelves of my eyelashes. It was like waking up and feeling my kitten’s breath on my tummy as he curled up next to me. It was like being back in my fuzzy zip-up pajamas with the feet. It was like waking up in the middle of the night on a family road trip and finding out that we were in a new state. It was like how I feel when I look at a picture of me, my sister and brother, laying in a circle like flower petals, our heads touching and autumn leaves covering our bodies. Let me know if I can elaborate any more on this matter.”

And we have this because you kept it. We have this because it mattered to you.

It’s sixteen years later and we no longer need the phone.

Donovan Woods – ‘Phone’

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Tara appears every Tuesday here. and almost every day there. ‘that’s a lot of Tara!’, you might say, until you read her and then you’ll realize it’s not nearly enough.

I’ve got a thing for nice guys.

see, with a former career in radio and having spent enough time in LA, I’ve met some famous people. I’ve also met some talented people. sometimes, they’re even both. but more often than not, they’re rarely famous, talented and genuinely nice.

John Wicks is all of those – his niceness will most likely mean he will never admit to being a big deal, but a quick look at his resume will tell you that he is, in fact, not just a drummer to the stars, but a star himself:

B.O.B., Bruno Mars, Cee Lo, Meshell Ndegeocello, Chocolate Genius Inc., Fitz & The Tantrums, RZA, David Byrne, George Clinton, Money Mark, Mike Watt, Heather Porcaro, Skerik, Sam Sparro, NASA, Gift Of Gab, Chali 2na, John Fruciante, Teddy Bears w/ Iggy Pop, Brandi Shearer, Cory Chisel, Donovan Frankenreiter, Jessie Baylin, Joshua Radin, Zack Hexum, Soccermom, and many more…

after a Tweet [ugh] about how happy I was that Fitz and The Tantrums brought back real music, he responded with a ‘thanks’ and I decided to exploit his kindness with a few messages back and forth in hopes of talking him into an interview.

he, obviously, agreed, and with no hesitation, taking a lot of time out to go back-and-forth with every one of my questions… and then some.

John Wicks is simply a great guy. he’s a talented guy. and he took the time to do this… in between playing at Daryl Hall’s house and showing up on Carson Daly.

enjoy.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

okay, first off, you’ve played with the most eclectic group of musicians imaginable… from Bruno Mars to GZA, David Bryne to George Clinton, Meshell Ndegeocello to Donovan Frankenreiter and many, many more. not asking you to pick a favorite here, but give us a few career highlights:

One of my main goals as a musician has always been to “speak without an accent” in as many styles of music as possible.  I’ve been very blessed that these artists you mentioned and/or the producers I worked with on their records trusted me enough to be a part of their music.  I have to say though, I record on a lot of artists’ records without ever having the pleasure of meeting them.  Bruno Mars is an example of this.  I co-wrote and played on a song called “The Other Side” that was originally intended for Cee Lo Green’s record but ended up on Bruno Mars record!  That type of thing happens a lot these days.

Honestly, I have to say that recording Marc Anthony Thompson’s (aka Chocolate Genius Inc.) record “Swan Songs” earlier this year was definitely a career highlight and truly an honor.  I have been such a fan of his music since his record “Black Music” came out in 1998.  I actually kinda stalked him shortly after moving to LA seven years ago.  He was doing a residency at Largo and I approached him with  a disc containing Pro Tools session files of music that I had been working on with the hopes that he would just sing anything over them.  Well he never did it because of some computer glitch, but I must have made some kind of impression on him because he checked out my Myspace page and dug what he heard enough to contact me from New York just to say hi and stay in touch.  A few years went by and I got a call to do a couple of local casual gigs with him and then the record date!  While tracking his record, I cried with joy and emotional overload just hearing his voice coming through the headphones.  That realization of a dream was so powerful, and the joy of knowing that my playing and my musical decisions actually worked for his music still gives me so much satisfaction.

Doing that record also led to the opportunity to tour and play with Meshell.  The guitarist on that Chocolate Genius record was Chris Bruce who has been playing with Meshell for quite some time, and he gave her my number.  She has been a musical hero of mine for a long time.  Earlier this year, because of high demand from her fans, she decided to re-visit the material on her record entitled “Bitter” which is a shared favorite of both my wife and I, so it was very special getting to do those songs with her in a very stripped down trio format.  I learned a TON on this gig.  Meshell and Chris are great teachers as well as beautiful human beings.  It was another dream realized.

you mentioned finding your sound while attending Mardi Gras as a kid, but then later would work under Dave Coleman Sr., one of Billie Holidays guys, but still stick to sounding ‘southern’. what does a Southern Louisiana Jazz-understudy sound sound like?

My father was a Commander in the Navy.  We moved around a lot during my early childhood and one place we were fortunate enough to live was New Orleans.  My mother was extremely enthusiastic about music, jazz in particular.  If there was music happening, my mom was there and she always had me in tow whether it was a jazz funeral, Mardi Gras, Preservation Hall, or whatever.  When we lived in Pensacola, Florida, we would hang outside of a black gospel church almost every Sunday just to hear the music.  We felt like we would be looked at as impostors if we entered, until finally one Sunday, they just invited us in.  It felt like we were floating a couple of feet off of the ground.  All of these early experiences had a huge impact on me, and I’m so grateful to have lived in that part of the country during that time.  When my dad retired from the Navy, we moved up to Bainbridge Island, WA. Even though we didn’t live in the South any longer, I always found myself unknowingly gravitating towards drummers from New Orleans.  Most notably, Vernel Fournier.  My mom and dad were huge fans of pianist Ahmad Jamal and had his record “Live At The Pershing” which really features Vernel.  That was it.  It had everything I wanted.  Swing, funk, bounce, space, clarity, everything.  It still blows my mind and inspires me on a daily basis.  That is what I strive for, that level of groove, discipline, and musicality, no matter what style of music I’m playing.

now – to the present, over the past few years there’s been this Motown/soul/Stax Records revival of sorts and no one is doing that better than Fitz & The Tantrums, a band you’re drumming for. we all know what it’s like from down here, but what is it like day in/day out for you all? hang on, that sounded generic – what I’m trying to say is that based on the occasional shot we see of the crowd in the live shows, people seem to be having a genuinely good time as opposed to the previous shoe-gazer movement… if that makes sense?

Being from a jazz background, I’m used to usually playing for a couple of drunks at the bar and a bartender who is either preoccupied with a game on TV or is looking at us like we’ve got 5 heads or something.  This is the first band I’ve been involved with where it has a broad appeal and an enormous amount of wind in it’s sails.  It’s always a surprise when I look out and not only are people dancing like crazy, but they are singing all of the words as well!

As far as what it’s like day in and day out for us; In short we are all learning how to make this thing work smoothly with our personal lives which can be tough at the rapid rate that we are working.  There are so many decisions to be made, and so many personal factors that come into play.  The heat is really turned up on me as the only guy in the band with a wife, babies, and a mortgage.  It is a juggling act especially when the work is out of town.  I have to trust that the work I’m being asked to do is worth missing out on the experience of looking at my twin girls grow in front of my eyes.

It is really mind-blowing when I think of how fast this band has taken off.  We played our first gig at Hotel Cafe in LA almost exactly 2 years ago.  Since then we’ve been the support act for Flogging Molly, Maroon 5, and Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings playing dream venues like Red Rocks and college stadiums.  We signed to a great label in Dangerbird, had our music placed in commercials and T.V. shows.  I have to say though that the biggest thrill that happens now is witnessing the ever growing audience that we are connecting with, and it’s such a positive energy being mirrored back at us at every show.  I’m still in disbelief.  Especially since all of this has happened solely on word of mouth and the quality of the songs.

what’s in store for FATT? tours? new album? things must be insane right now…

You know, I kind of use my Google Alerts as a gauge of how crazy the buzz is and right now the buzz IS insane!  I’m getting an alert every hour on the hour.  We’ve made it on so many “Best of 2010″ lists, it just boggles my mind.

On January 12th we play on the Jimmy Kimmel show and then we leave the next day for a month long tour with only a couple of days off.  It’s our first tour on a proper tour bus, and it’s our first extended tour as the headliner!  We’re doing mostly East coast and Mid-West cities but it also marks our first entrance into Canada.  I’m not stoked about the cold and the snow but at least this time we’ll have a professional driver and I can sleep.

We just started writing and recording for our next record a couple of weeks ago, which I’m really stoked about.  I have an enormous collection of drums.  Some beautiful and some serious Fat Albert meets Sanford and Son looking stuff.  I’m using it all and getting some really great sounds and really making an effort to play some original, new grooves that are still super hooky and danceable.

you’ve also worked with Mickey Avalon, who seems to have caught onto that controversial self-promotional thing that has worked for so many before him – Marilyn Manson, Bowie, Lady Gaga, etc. what, in the world, is a former-addict/prostitute-cum-rapper like to work with? and better yet, what does Daddy tell the twin girls when he gets home from work?

You know, I’ve only met Mickey briefly at the Sundance Film Festival a couple of years ago.  I was there with Money Mark and we played just before him.  I had heard the stories about his health issues prior to meeting him or ever hearing his music.  All I could think of that evening was that it was kind of sad that the crowd was really there to see the train wreck.  Don’t get me wrong, they were singing along to his stuff so I think they dug the music but the vibe was just not a positive one.  I’m a fan of all of the folks you mentioned in your question.  I think Lady Gaga is a legitimate talent as is Marilyn Manson, and I can also tell that they are very intelligent people.  Of course Bowie is just one of my faves of all time.  I think they all are masters of pushing people’s buttons and being visually exciting but hopefully not letting it overshadow the music.  I just wish Mickey could see that line, but if drugs are involved he’s not going to see anything.  I originally co-wrote and played on a song that was intended for him, but he was dropped or put on hiatus from his label until he gets healthy so the song ended up with another artist.  As for what I tell the girls, at one and a half they are too young to know what that all means.  When they are old enough though, we’re gonna be living in the wilderness and I’m just gonna sit on my porch, polishing my shotgun waiting for potential suitors.  Just kiddin’.  Sort of.

give us a few highlights of a career that started from the day you picked up some drumsticks in the 3rd grade.

There are too many, so I’m just gonna run off the first few that come to mind.

1.  Playing a festival in Holland with my high school jazz ensemble, I realized that you could see the world and play music.  Never looked back.
2.  Playing with and getting to know Money Mark.  He’s a dear friend and a genius.
3.  Playing with, recording with, and getting to know Marc Anthony Thompson aka Chocolate Genius.
4.  Working with Cee Lo Green.  I only wish he was allowed to put out the incredible, innovative songs that I have heard him invent.
4.  Studying with Joe Hunt in Boston.  He made me a better listener.
5.  Playing with organist Joe Doria and guitarist Dan Heck in Seattle for years was a huge learning experience.
6.  Teaching.  I love doing it.
7.  Buying a house, and paying off my car knowing that drums did it for me.
8.  There was a night at The Echo where all of us in Fitz & The Tantrums collectively felt the tide shift in our favor.  Folks were singing along, partying, sweating and we all felt this floaty high for a while when we got off of stage and just kinda stood wide-eyed asking “What just happened?!”
9.  Before drums paid the rent, I had day jobs ranging from barista to working in a slaughter house in but one career highlight that I hold dear is that I never worked in a cubicle.  I’m not knocking folks that do it, I just don’t think I’m built for it.

who are you listening to?

Again, too much to list here, so here are the CD’s strewn about in my car.  Major Lazer, Obi Best, a lot of late 80′s/early 90′s New Jack Swing stuff, anything with James Gadson on drums, Cameo, Siouxie & The Banshees, Missing Persons, ELO, Divinyls, B-52′s, Deee Lite, ABC, and anything that came out of Sigma Sound Studios.

here’s a question I’ve never seemed to get the same answer to, no matter how many people I ask. best drummer of all time… Neal Peart? Keith Moon? Terry Bozzio? I once sat down at a pub in England with Roger Pope [of Elton John, Hall and Oats fame] and he puts Phil Collins up there in the Top 10 – say it ain’t so!

Stevie Wonder.

after seeing this, I might have to agree with you.

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follow John on Twitter.

read John’s blog.

go see John play.