Die Alone -- Girls and Boys Review

Some time ago, while I was still posting almost daily on this blog, my cousin recommended an album for me to review (and analyze) as I had Forget and Not Slow Down. It was Girls and Boys by Ingrid Michaelson. Around that time I sat down and transcribed the lyrics to most of the songs on the album as I heard them. Then I sat on the lyrics, at first waiting for a time that I could listen to them and analyze the lyrics and music to get at the meaning and, less importantly, let you know if the songs are any good.

I can tell you most of the songs are pretty good in my book, if that helps.

Time passed, and distance made the heart grow more apathetic. I stopped blogging on here for what, four months? I've been sitting on a lot of drafts and not taking the time to dig into them, but now I'm getting to them because I'll be remiss if I let myself have a backlog when I'm supposed to have all this time on my hands. So pretty soon I'll be rolling out my song reviews for Girls and Boys and weighing in on the album as a whole. This may be my Monday posts for few months, or I might schedule them more sporadically. We'll find out when it happens, won't we?

Another note I wanted to make before I launched into this was that I loved on Forget and Not Slow Down hard last year, and Relient K's latest outing Collapsible Lung disappointed me so much that I cannot listen to older RK and feel the same way as I did. There might be a blog post, even a review of the new album, at some point. In fact, there's enough music for me to open up another day just for music talk.

Hit me up with your opinions about that. Any feeback is nope can't say it.

Let's get started.

Die Alone

(Ingrid Michaelson)

I woke up this morning

A funny taste in my head

Spackled some butter

over my whole-grain bread

Something tastes different

maybe it’s my tongue

something tastes different

suddenly I’m not so young

I’m just a stranger

Even to myself

A rearranger

of the proverbial bookshelf

Don’t be a fool girl

Tell him you love him

Don’t be a fool girl

You're not above him

I never thought I could love 

anyone but myself

now I know I can't love

Anyone but you

but you make me think that maybe I won't die alone

Maybe I won't die alone

Kiss the boys as they walk by

Call me their baby

But little do they know

I'm just a maybe

Maybe my baby will be the one to leave me sore

Maybe my baby will settle the score

I never thought I could love

anyone but myself

now I know I can't love

anyone but you

but you make me think that maybe I won't die alone

Maybe I won't die alone

What have I become?

Something soft

and really quite dumb

'cause I've fallen

'cause I've fa—fallen

'cause I've fall—fall—fallen

so far away from the 

place where I started from

I never thought I could love anyone

I never thought I could love anyone

I never thought I could love anyone

but you but you but you

(I never thought I could love anyone)

but you make me think that maybe I won't die alone

Maybe I won't die alone

---

First off, the beginning of this song is mighty tasty. I don't know what the style for the guitar is called. Blues came to my mind. Maybe it's more R&B? Or maybe I'm totally off. The play is three eighth notes on guitar before a snare hit on the beat. The distortion is used sparingly. This ain't a rock album, folks, not that rock is the only thing using distortion these days. The album's genre is listed as "pop-folk." I don't even. I can't wrap my head around today's classifications.

I'm noticing a lot of what sound like hand drums on this album, which is something I like. In this song they take a back seat to the electric guitar and drum kit, but that's fine.

Like I was saying, this song is tasty for the ears. The majority of the song is tonally minor, which suits my sensibilities. Michaelson's delivery blends just the right sweetness and edge to sell the lyrics. Okay, that's enough music talk for now. Lyrics time.

The first verse's lyrics are as tasty as the music, honestly. Our speaker wakes up (the opening line to the album, by the way) with "a funny taste in" her "head." That unusual sense pairing sets the tone for the song. A little tongue in cheek. A little off-kilter. As I mentioned parenthetically a moment ago, this opening stanza also colors the whole album experience (if you're listening sequentially like a good little consumer). The lines about "spackling" (an uncommon verb) butter onto "whole-grain bread" further characterize the speaker's predicament as something that takes place in the mundane world. There's still breakfast to make (and healthy choices to make about it). I think this emphasizes the intrusions of the speaker's sudden strange affliction. The next stanza says it plainly, albeit still strangely. "Something tastes different," Michaelson says. It could be her tongue, but the last line of that thought throws the whole concept of food out the window. She's abruptly "not so young."

A musical interlude breaks up the first two stanzas from the third, in which Michaelson says she's a "stranger/ even to" herself. She calls herself a "rearranger" of "proverbial bookshel[ves]." This is a person who doesn't know who she is, and this seems to unnerve her. This has all been back drop for the subject of the song, which starts in the next stanza.

The speaker addresses herself, goading her to man up and tell her love interest her feelings. The presence of this stanza amidst the rest of the monologue, as well as the melodic line it inhabits, creates the impression to me that the command comes from another part of Michaelson's psyche, probably one a little deeper and less burdened by the uncertainty Michaelson has been describing.

We then come to chorus, where Michaelson speaks directly to her love. What the chorus says is that the speaker never expected to love another, but that to her surprise she finds she can only love her man (sort of a cliché thing to say), and that this leads her to hope she won't "die alone." It should be noted that outside the chorus Michaelson doesn't appear to be speaking to him (see the line "maybe my baby... after the first chorus"). This contributes to the sort of disjointing that the song dwells in. It is also significant because the song dwells on Michaelson and her mental and emotional state, without describing the object of her love in any detail. All mention of him is filtered through a focus on Michaelson.

This could be taken as a sign of selfishness, but that the chorus departs from this by addressing Michaelson's love directly, and is seen as a sign of hope, takes that superficial reading and turns it towards a deeper meaning. That this lover could mean a significant departure from Michaelson's present state. Like a new taste. Like getting older.

But hope is not grasped once glimpsed. After the first chorus we get this stanza, where Michaelson calls herself a "maybe," drifting through relationships, unless her "baby" can do something about it. What is startling is what Michaelson suggests her baby might do. "Leave" her "sore." "Settle the score." This implies there may be some guilt behind Michaelson's descriptions of her malaise of uncertainty, echoing the omen of "suddenly I'm not so young," which is a pretty tightly written way to refer to loss of innocence as it's often depicted. I'm just reading into lyrics here, trying to fit pieces, so that could be bunk. But it seems to me the speaker in this song wants to change but needs help as hard as it is to admit, and even though it will probably hurt (soreness).

After the stanza (which is structured differently from the first verse) is another instance of the chorus, then the bridge which follows the thoughts established previously. Michaelson is astonished at what she's become, but what is that? "Something soft/ and really quite dumb." We get another layer, and part of the reason this song is tonally minor. I think Michaelson is not someone who wants to need a man. I think that idea rankles her, but that regardless she feels what she feels, as the chorus indicates. I don't think that's all of it, as I suggested when I was talking about the second verse. But if, desiring to be strong and smart (rather than soft and dumb), you've closed yourself off (which is rather hard and sharp), then the process of opening yourself up again is going to be both painful and difficult. This would also explain why Michaelson says she's "fallen so from the place that [she] started from." You don't aim to protect yourself so that you can turn out cruel. And we all ostensibly start from somewhere at least partly innocent.

And we end with the chorus. I failed to mention earlier that the chorus is tonally major, at least to an extent, which also separates it from the rest of the song. We end with hope, even if the hope is that Michaelson "won't die alone." Those last words are delivered just as the music ends, and the last note is dark.

Now, I have to say that all of this context I've been reading in this song has an extra layer from Michaelson's deliver, that much of this is a little tongue-in-cheek. At least, there might be a bit of satire in this, that it's not as serious as all that (or is it?). You don't ever get the sense Michaelson's moping in her room, struggling with depression. It's not that kind of minor tonality.

My verdict on the song is that its good. It's fun. I don't think it's a masterpiece, but it does provoke some thought, and like I said to start with, it's tasty to listen to. I've gone on quite long enough. Now to get to work on the other reviews.

Thought Lives Are Weird

So lately my brain had been confused about whether I am considering becoming an atheist. I say this because in the last few weeks I have found myself debating the points in my head why it would be a bad idea for everyone else were I to make that decision, without an easily discernible source.

You see, I am quite happy believing in my all-powerful, all-good, loving Creator who saved me by dying as a man and coming back to life. I am convinced that everything good in my life has come from Him, that all my problems are a result of the sins of humanity (primarily my own), and that He is the solution.

Yet I find myself thinking about nihilism. I think about what the world would seem to me if God did not exist, and basically it all looks like ashes to me without Him.

Now, I am going through a real crisis of sorts, trying to find my feet in a flood of friends and peers throwing their support behind homosexuality (and the topic of marriage especially). A year ago I knew what to think, but what complicates it is first, the number of people, including close friends, who are altering or tweaking their stance, and second, the compelling arguments made by such folks.

But I don't really believe that either stance on homosexuality is going to keep someone from heaven. Its just that I am beginning to feel singled out and I don't know if I should welcome it or reevaluate my own convictions more fully than these checks my system keeps seeming to run without me. Either way this isn't making me doubt the existence of God.

If anything, that would be my friends. I have one or two friends who are wrestling and angry with my Loving Savior, and perhaps my mind is trying to place itself in their shoes to try and understand where they're coming from. The problem is for me the existence of God is axiomatic, that is, so intrinsic to my understanding of the universe that without Him nothing means anything. I have a line of reasoning to back this up, rooted in philosophy, and maybe there'll be a blog post on that.

But when I'm thinking about these things I am not intentionally trying to put myself in another's shoes. I seem to be deciding on that subconsciously and skipping to the part where I have strong emotional responses to trying to imagine a universe without its source of meaning. It's not even helpful for these friends because my response sort of devolves into "disbelieving God is stupid for reasons I find hard to articulate because I emotions and there are a lot of reasons."

Couple this with my general dissatisfaction with grunt working life, the pittance of writing I am doing, finances, and sundry, and you have another part of my brain observing the part that's having emotional reactions and asking the general overseer if I'm okay. To which I respond:
"Nope, not really."

At least I don't ask myself if I want to talk about it. Instead I start composing a blog post in my head.

Or in this case actually writing one.

This has been a peek at my brain. Sorry if it scarred you. And don't worry about me, I'm as okay ever.

Skyrim

I spent the bulk of this Monday slaughtering bandits, discovering new magic, and resurrecting my housecarl from the dead using eldritch commands against the universe.

Yeah, I got Skyrim because it was on sale and. Well you van do all that stuff. It is no longer Monday, so I shall do what I said I would. However, I did post a video of me apologizing as per parameters, but not on my blog. It's still just on YouTube as of yet. I plan to fix that, probably around the time I craft another silly couplet to sorry you with.

Skyrim as a game captures my attention primarily by the form of its progression. You go anywhere (within Skyrim) at a pace set by you, and you choose how to deal with the situations as they arise.

Shortly after the game was released (at nearly two years old, this game is practically a dinosaur) I watched a video of someone playing a pacifist khajiit. He used mostly illusion spells to dissuade things that wanted to kill him. I've discovered first hand that the calm spell is remarkably effective at convincing even raging spriggan that you're nothing to be bothered about. It is humorous to hear a calmed bandit complain gently about being magicked, too.

I hear often that the main story of Skyrim is rather lackluster. I can't defend or attack the stance, because the majority of my 70 odd hours of Skyrim have been repeatedly starting New characters on friends' copies of the game. Now that I am playing my own game, I find myself struggling to reach High Hrothgar between distracting forts full of bandits, flooded out prisons haunted by ghosts, and caves crawling with falmer and black spitting death beetles.

Not that Ragh, my high-elf who fights with orcish weapons and any spell whose tome he can flip through, feels very strongly compelled to heed the summons of a bunch of old nord guys on top of a mountain. Sure, there was the weird thing with the dragon, but I'm not sure he much cares.

That's another draw in the format of Elder Scrolls games. You always start as a prisoner, and there could be any number of reasons you decide for this. Or you could not care.

But that pacifist khajiit? Probably picked up for theft in a case of racial profiling. My high-elf? I think he was thrown in chains by the Thalmor because he killed a few too many people.

Then there's the lore. After what twenty years? There's enough of it there that the writers hardly have to try. I think they do though. The series is old enough they don't have to justify having elves in their games, which I think is either starting to be a thing or will be soon.

Speaking of elves, I would like to stop and note out elf tropes are subverted in these games. The Thalmor are imperialist pigs. Wood elves are cannibals. And honestly these guys aren't pretty. They're strange looking. The faces are stretched. The eyes are too big and too oddly shaped. And with the game advances that have been made I daresay it's not just bad graphics anymore. Elves are sort of subtly hideous by design, I think. I know few people play high elves. With their arrogance it's easier to develop racist thoughts against their golden skin, impossibly high foreheads, and magical prowess. No one wants to be that. They'd rather be social pariah oddballs like the cat-like khajiit.

Can wr also talk about how orcs and dwarves are, by their high names, implicitly forms of elf? Like the falmer are? That's a lot of elf variation.

That's not getting into the daedra and their realms, the vascillations in the pantheon, or any number of tiny things that fill in the lore. It's a rich world, and for the most part Bethesda just lets you run around wrecking it.

I don't think I need to tell you anything else to demonstrate why these games are so widely appealing despite their many flaws. For myself, I think the game is almost improved by failures on the part of the creators when they open the game to modifications that include virtually anything people can imagine.

Because it gets you thinking "this could have been better. I could have done this better.

"I will do this better.

"Once I finish this quest."

Heroic Apology and Virol vs Doctor part 2

Well this post is at some point going to contain an embedding of the video I have on my phone but can't figure out how to post from mobile. So while I'm waiting on that I figure I'll do that other thing I said I would do.
First, a text version of the apology:
It came out late and wasn't even done
My next apology should use a pun

Edit: here's the video

Now. When I left off Virol and the Doctor were both established as being very old and very clever. Smart fogeys. They also both happen to appear young. Or at least not nearly as old as they really are.
This could look bad, but there are several reasons no one is going to make a stink about it.
The first reason is that it is highly unlikely than Virol will ever be a character known to more than one hundred people and so there will be no exposure. The second, tiny reason is that I came up with him long before I had ever encountered Doctor Who.
That second ties into the third reason, which is the one I'm aiming this week's blog for. Most people are aware that two people can think of one creative idea separately and without influencing each other. It's a fairly common occurrence as coincidences go. This is because of archetypes, symbols embedded in our cultural makeup. The Doctor is himself made up of a few archetypes sort of spliced together.
One of these is the wise elder. There's a reason that one exists. Old people have seen more than you have, and it's good stuff to know about (not always pleasant mind you). There are some characters that take this archetype straighter than Virol or the Doctor. Gandalf and Merlin are prime examples. These elders are both wise and powerful, and just a little eccentric.
What the Doctor adds to this is the old-as-dirt pipe dream of eternal youth. Of course in his early incarnations he appeared as an old man, but in this day and age he's young and active. There's also a bit of rebirth thematics to it since he gets a new face every time he regenerates from death/near-death. These are key features of his character but don't get quite as much play as the central tenets (almost wrote Tennants there) I introduced him with.
Virol also plays into the ideas of the wise elder and eternal. Like the Doctor, he also has a jocular facade covering a much darker center. However, Virol never changes his face, and he has to live in cycles of youth and decrepit old age, prolonged over centuries.
It might also be good to note that Virol, like the Doctor, is close to the last of his kind. The difference there is he knows there are more out there somewhere, where the Doctor believes there are none. It is also pretty explicitly not much of a hang-up for Virol. He has lived most of his millennium-long life in this state. The Doctor, in the New series, recently cam into his bereavement. He hides it well considering, but you know.
One of the larger differences between the characters is that the Doctor is from science fiction, and Virol is entrenched deeply in fantasy. He's closer to a snarky well-dressed Merlin than to the Doctor.
The other important difference is that Virol is no time traveler. His power doesn't come from a space ship. It's just him for the most part. And the stuff he knows.
At this point it's pretty easy to see how different the characters are, but without the full context it looks a little sketch. But maybe it shouldn't. The Eternally Young but Ancient Wiseguy serves a certain purpose. The idea fascinates people. Of course the Doctor is the more well known and better executed, but I made Virol because I thought it would be interesting to see him interact with the rest of the world my cousin and I created.
I think that's enough for now. Talk to you on Monday with something else.

Virol and the Doctor part 1

So for my first(ish) post back  I wanted to talk about character archetypes. I had an idea in mind and it was just waiting for me to write it. Then I spent the weekend visiting family because my niece was born and Monday I squandered in typical first world internetian behavior. So. There's gonna be a poetry video. Also, I might post a more truncated post before Monday officially ends if I can.

So about character archetypes, I am going to be talking about two circumstantially similar characters. This may be an exercise I have performed before but it's happening nevertheless.

The more recognizable character is of course the Doctor of Doctor Who.   The other is a man called Virol, my own creation whose public existence only perpetuates in my self-published novella Ashes of Silver.

For those people who aren't familiar with the Doctor (and they do exist) there are two basic aspects of his character you need to know about him. One, that he is very clever. Two, that he is very old. It gets more complicated than that obviously, but that is a boiling down of things that make the Doctor the Doctor, more so than his face for sure.

Just so happens these are the two same important things to know about Virol. That he is both brilliant and ancient.

Now that I've established that I have to go. Next half goes up tomorrow or else very soon.

Pax.

A Restart But Not a Hard Boot.

I am never going to post on this blog again if I don't re-establish some parameters. I can't even blog about why I'm not blogging, it seems.

So first things first, an update schedule, and a fitting punishment. I am going to tentatively claim that Monday will be blog day, starting next week. If I don't post on Monday I must share a video of myself apologizing in iambic pentameter by the end of the week. A heroic couplet. If I don't post it the line requirement doubles. And so on.

Now that that's out of the way, I can ramble a bit and you can ignore me or hang on my every word or somewhere along that continuum while I do so.

I have entered a funk, which happens to me a lot. I moved in the middle of spring and I haven't been in any positive sort of groove ever since.

This is because I feel like I need to be home to be comfortable. In typical male fashion, I think this entails essentially space over which I have dominion. Maybe it's not so oppressive as that, but I certainly don't feel like I am in an environment where I can expect any level of control over my sensory input. Wearing headphones to block out tv noise is not, in my estimation, a legitimate form of control.

Part of it also includes responsibility. If a space is "mine," then I feel it is my responsibility to care for it. And I don't feel that where I am. Thus I cannot get comfortable and my focus levels are at an all time low.

Couple this with drastically different waking hours than I am accustomed to and you have a formula for anti-productivity.

Even that attempt at personal analysis feels like an excuse. Everything feels like an excuse.

I am also frustrated by the circumstances keeping me in this position. Originally Rachael and I were going to find a place to live within the first month or so of living in Ann Arbor, but we discovered that we wouldn't get the hours we had been before moving and so the funds weren't there. It doesn't help that Ann Arbor is a pretty expensive region to live in. We keep waiting for a change, keep poking at possibilities, but nothing seems to be panning out and it's taking its toll on both of us.

Part of the reason we're locked into this region is because I want to go to school here and it doesn't make sense to sign a lease somewhere else only to get in. So bottom line is we're in A2 until March at the earliest when I find out the results of my second round of applications.

I have to learn to overcome my discontent or nothing is going to change. Thus this blog post. Because just ramming my will against my emotions because I think it'll be good for me will be nowhere near as effective as setting some concrete goals. Like updating my blog consistently again. And putting real effort into my writing. All while keeping up with my poetry and short story assignments which have the perk of colleagues to whom I am beholden.

Obviously this a step, but as humans we tend to break everything down into processes to understand them. The next step is setting aside a solid time and place for my work.

And prayer. God knows I need to be doing far more of that than I am.

I can think of a dozen different segues into other posts I have thought about making but for now I am going to end this here. It's good to be back, such as this is. If you read this all the way through, I want you to bug me about this. Hold me to my schedule. To my iambic sorries. And pray for me.

I'm not sick. I am not in trouble. But I need to be better than I am, because right now I'm not what I could be. And I want to live up to my potential.

Not just for me. For you. For God. For everything.