ode to meds

look, a psychiatrist! oh yeah, seeing a psychiatrist pays off.

meds will give you solace
meds will give you strength
meds will fill the gap when you are kept at arm's length
meds will keep you sheltered
meds will keep you fed
meds will tuck you in when it's time to go to bed
there's no need to cry when it's time to go to bed
for meds will keep you steady
focused yet aloof
meds will never let your demons break out through the roof
lullabyes and battle songs
warm and pretty sweaters
books and tea and friends
dead wise old men of letters
whatsoever they can do, meds can do it better

chang

i've cleaned my room thoroughly. i broke the cycle of imagined impediments and just went for it. yet i feel strangely unrewarded. but i digress. point: i shunned the chinese water torture of the music i've been wallowing in for months in favour of some sailor moon s episodes. i let them delight my peripheral vision as the japanese language softly penetrated my subconscious. after a few hours of pretty soldier ranting and shrieking, i had to face it: winamp won. but i wasn't about to play jethro tull again.

how about... vanessa carlton. i'd dubbed her unenticingly corny years ago, still i kept her be not nobody in my library, should the occasion [of me craving corny?] arise. and tonight i put it to good use. yes, drenched in gallons of undeniable corniness and plagued by annoying vocals, but streaked with a quaint sense of individuality and oozing melody. classical piano meets poppy swagger meets a natural inclination toward hooks that perpetuated the sailor moon vibe i didn't really want to lose, that something in the air i could probably locate within a musical spectrum if i knew my stuff. but that would kill it. refreshing. dreamy.

pop is indispensable to life on earth. corny is comfort. corny, corny, corny, corny, corny, corny, corny...

i'll tell it as i best know how, and that's the way it was told to me: two little boys, brothers, allegedly but doubtfully chinese. the cherished firstborn was called tiki-tiki-tembo-nosarembo-chari-bari-ruchi-pip-peri-pembo. the insignificant younger one was called chang. one day, chang fell into a well. tiki-tiki-[...] ran home and yelled: "chang fell into the well!". a swift and successful rescue ensued. the next day, tiki-tiki-[...] fell into the well. chang ran home and yelled: "tiki-tiki-tembo-nosarembo-chari-bari-ruchi-pip-peri-pembo... *gasp for air* fell into the well!". a not-so-swift and not-so-successful rescue ensued. hence, chinese names today are all short.

i spend half my time running from cliché, calling my affections a rabbit made of rags, my sexuality a dog ripping the meat from a bone, my thoughts fetuses in formalin jars, my fear a pharisaic crucifix, my sorrow the untreadable wake of a wretched blitzkrieg. i spend the other half hanging around the well just in case. in this day and age and place, we all mistake poetry for efficient self-expression. poetize this: cliché makes the world go round. for in this day and age and place, it is to cliché that we have reduced our very human nature, our instincts and pursuits.

heck. pretty baby, don't you leave me, i have been saving smiles for you; pretty baby, why can't you see, you're the one that i belong to... ^.^ pop-song no naka nara ieru... [see second line]

jewish gentlemen's club

jesus christ
for being the raddest hippie, voicing the soundest judgments ever to get misinterpreted, making me see that good doesn't rule out smart as much as the devil would like it to, teaching me kindness, and engaging my soul in the longest, most exciting game of hide and seek.
albert einstein
for showing the world that the physical how of science and the philosophical how of god can coexist peacefully in the mind of a genius; and for emanating the sweet kind of wisdom i constantly, desperately need to be reminded exists.
franz kafka
for being the one writer whom i have read in tears [not years], and more importantly, for showing me i'm not alone in the nightmare of my inability to grasp the agenda of the powers that be [he wrote nothing about the university of bucharest, but still].
charlie chaplin
for providing me with an answer to those pesky favourite actor/director questions, and for having the divine spark of common sense, in a world where common sense is of little or no use other than to be channelled into exquisite and heartbreaking tragicomedy.
kurt vonnegut jr.
for being such an entertaining read, so legible yet [therefore?] so damn misunderstood i want to exhume and cuddle his remains. for helping me find salvation in his escapist philosophies, only to discover i was a moron to think he meant them as such, and be forever cured of my nihilism.

all the above: for being consumed by fierce grief in the face of human stupidity at its most absurd, yet staying charmingly witty. and so very quotable.

in the words of another very quotable, not-so-jewish but what-a-gentleman, sting:
takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile
be yourself, no matter what they say

dear mr. anderson

[open letter to ian anderson of jethro tull]

if you should ever read this letter i will be a bit embarrassed, but it will mean i got somewhere.
i love summer. quite a random and commonplace thought to share, but bear with me. the realm of summer is one of terrifying unhingement from routine that forces me into all manner of epiphanies. so it is that i have been overflowing with hopeful and ardent creativity lately. i've felt my brain expand into accepting the idea that i can come to read musical notes and wield the classical guitar to places uncharted.
i called my boyfriend the other day, to speak of my numberless new ideas, of how i want to write a song structured like a catholic psalm, of how i'd like to play with classical pieces even though jethro tull's done it before. he let out a chuckle that conveyed matter-of-fact amusemet at a recollection he seemed to take for granted. at your 2007 sibiu gig, he told me, you referred to those works as porno jazz. yay, funny. since i've made a vow to keep the levels of drama-queening and self-deprecation down for this blog, i'll just say at the time, by my own bloody hand, i was pining away penniless, pressed, and without serotonin, in the desolate arms of my life's very worst summer ever. and thus missed said gig. the memory, or lack thereof, since i wasn't there, hit me so hard i cried. especially as i realized that back then i wasn't even fully aware of your music's boundless gracefulness, complexity, effervescence... nah, bleedin' coolness best describes it, i believe.
so here i am, searching my musical soul and finding that if i had to choose one and only one musician in this world i'd want to be like, it would be you, mr. anderson.
please swear to me you will stay in shape, stick with the band and come back to romania so i can attend your gig, meet you and perform with you. [yeah, swear to me!]

thank you for your time.
your schizophrenic disciple,
leechu

academia blues

i've finally, finally, finally put together a number of songs i'll start recording soon, if that bitch self-love gives me some of that good ol' you-can-do-it. i might even make a self-released first record that will one day become a sought-after fan item - kitchenware instrumentation, hand painted cardboard sleeves, you know the drill. and for the heck of it, i've made a small folkish intro song to the bunch, called folktales.

which playfully disclaims the truth value of my songs in relation to my experience. whence i developed a theory. god, i miss school so much. i miss forcing myself to read a required minimum of literature and then teeming with ideas for essays i'll never write. i miss my theories. my kooky, rewarding, way-too-beautiful-to-be-disproved theories. my literary, linguistic, cultural revelations. i miss being radiant from the light of them. asking questions and giving answers in class. i kick and curse at the thought of you, but academia - we're not done, so sweetly not done. ok, that's not the theory.

theory: songwriting as the eventual printing of folktales - stories of past experience, orally transmitted from one former self to the next and thus altered inestimably before they're recorded. [woot, schizophrenia!]

no problem, you can write a song right in the middle of the life-changing hangover, fight, sex, epiphany, whatnot. but where i come from, that'll be a bad song.

i must show gratitude beyond my beloved words to mr. [not that] james brown the teacher, coolest foreign man ever to call romania home, for the course on english and scottish ballads that has:

• opened my eyes to folklore [of other countries and my own];
• narrowed down the meaning of folk;
  
• bettered my understanding of song;
• acquainted me with inspiring stories only rivalled by the bible and shakespeare;
• thus strengthened my belief in metaphor [and showed me the metaphoric potential of a narrative];
  
• expanded the horizons of my songwriting, creativity and intellect altogether;
• made sense [a rare commodity in undergrad education];
  
• been lots of fun.
  

hey, where was i when they were filling in those evaluation sheets?!

oh, academia...

three friends

i've come to realize my own idea of my musical, lyrical and vocal influences is somewhat distorted. sure, there are things i want to influence me because i think they're cool. and then there are those that just do. today i finished writing a song that, for the first time in a while, satisfies me in all the above respects. and have been reacquainted to these guys in the process:

the blues
once upon a jolly good time i wanted to be jack bruce. i used to feel the bluesiness propagate through my entire body like a warm quiver when i sang. then i got on my high horse of exquisite poetry and never again came up with a tune i'd wanna sing. i thought deep lyrics just didn't go with the blues. that's only correct to an extent that amounts to nothing in my pursuit of a voice all my own. and hell, look at jethro tull. no. look at jimi effin' hendrix.

the bible
i ain't no christian rocker chick. more like the catholic goody two-shoes turned porn star. but i ain't no crucifix defiling tori amos either. i just always find myself making analogies with the bible. if i do think it the book of books, it's because it has so many brilliant metaphors and parables. for me to use in songs. like such as go in peace [on saviours gone to pieces], blame it on the snake [my very own twist on genesis], rengashi [japanese for renga poets, which is a sort of brueghel's icarus to a landscape of jesus talk]. and somewhere in there, like duh, the absolutely irresistible pillar-of-salt thing. [i promise these songs exist.]

the buckley
i totally forgot. and that's what true influence is all about. it permeates your very artistic core and stays with you long after you've stopped obsessing about that particular songster. years after you last had them in your playlist at all. good lord, yes. today, those bluesy and theological vibes brought him back to me: jeff buckley, he whom i emulate unwittingly in my every croon and wail. the regina spektors and thom yorkes i added later are really just shadows on his water.

ani difranco

i found it.

it was a dreamy summer's day in 2006, the lush greenness of which i haven't known since. in googling my then obsession regina spektor, i came across one ani difranco. this clip is what smote me, the alpha and omega of my ani difranco. it was on youtube. bitches removed it soon after - to my fidgeting, cussing and forever unappeased dread, as the album versions don't hold a candle to these. last night a failed embedding of it sent my precious sidebar briefly but distressfully amiss - my most gleeful, warmest thanks to vidivodo regardless.

around 21 i realized three things. one: i'll never play guitar that well - therefore will never be that prolific - and that's good. two: i can no longer stand making my lyrics so damn obvious it's embarrassing - and why, when there is metaphor *mind-shattering orgasm* - and that's also good. always is. [note: i do not compromise my poetry. they were just embarrassing.] three: so much of ani, from the do-it-yourself mojo to being bi to being so american, just isn't in me - so maybe she's not it - and that's... that.

but she was once my god of all songs [see, i've a thing for deification]. the one who really got me - not my method, my fucking feelings. not my neurotic hairsplitter feelings [for which i already had fiona apple], my human being feelings. all of life's facets and the more there is to it. quite possibly the most balanced ratio of intellectual, perceptive and poetic vs. heartfelt, intimate and direct; so too, of big words vs. fucks and shits.

oh, and ani:

i just write about what i should have done
i just sing what i wish i could say
and hope somewhere some woman hears my music
and it helps her through her day

nicely put. and don't we all. and yes it does.

be a woman

i used to think joanna newsom was god's way of showing me how elevated and intellectually accomplished i'll never be.

1. i used to call her "eloquent elf". then i came across this interview. she had me at: i have trouble articulating feelings [...]. but i've found [...] that there's a sort of magical ability that the particular ideas i tend to fixate on have to fit within the form of a song. but outside of making songs, it's hard for me to put my ideas together sometimes. this and the dumb gaze. it made her human and worth believing, like there was more to her agenda than belittling every lyricist alive. it sent her rushing into my open heart.

2. i used to take mean comfort in her bad singing and rudimentary hooks. then she evolved with a vengeance. vocally [to where it's an enjoyable listen], lyrically [less hermetic yet more subtle], musically [melodic and rhythmic structures like whoa], and in terms of attitude [less of an elf, more elfish]. [play full songs for a better understanding.]

the horror:

the coolness:

1 and 2 combined, she skyrocketed from ear-shredding fling to larger-than-life influence, goddess of songcraft, big sister. she made me treat song as a friend rather than a slave. songwriting as a pleasant pastime rather than a draining exorcism. therapy still - but not as much by merely voicing feelings, as by making something nice out of them, for my aesthetic enjoyment. now i know. her love is my love and my love is her love - and it connects us through a cosmic wire, together with all the people who love words like we do.

and then i saw 20 too many photos. takes a lot of clicking, so just trust me: there is some smugness and sluttiness in there worthy of britney's circus. seasoned with corny i-want-to-marry-her and scary i-want-to-fuck-her type shouts. it's not the sexiness. that's part of being a woman, being a woman. and i'm not no common folk to condemn it. i condone it, as shown in the hall of infamy. and hell, i'd be in a beauty magazine if i could. it's the classless i-wanna-take-a-ride-on-your-disco-stick and/or you-ain't-got-shit-on-me look on her face.

this isn't really going to change how i feel about her, but the sweet eden of i have everything to learn from joanna newsom is a bit harder to conjure up now.

it's my blog and i bitch if i want to, bitch if i want to, bitch if i want to.

the ghost story

it was 4:30 a.m. this morning and my attempts to stay up through the following hours were failing miserably. as i gave in to sleep and my limbs grew numb, the thought of inertia creeps suddenly popped up. and along with it, a hunger for massive attack i hadn't felt in years.

though i'm reluctant to put them in the hall of infamy for one record i couldn't get enough of at 18, it's time to reacknowledge it: "mezzanine" provided the oldest relevant brick in the foundation of what my songwriting is today. and by grace of liz fraser, i may have had my first glimpse into celtic coolness. the coolness. indeed, i owe these guys more than i'd have thought in my female-vocalists-and-seventies-prog bubble, had it not hit me unexpectedly. that something i call electro-spleen; that phlegmatic yet groovy, cynical yet mystical tone. while today i turn to the likes of radiohead or bjork for guidance in deliberating and fashioning said tone, massive attack made it feel natural - like it was in my blood and voice. that is, before i'd begun constructing my blood and voice. back when music to me was my parents' cassettes and cds from high school buddy tudor. back when music to me was a gift i didn't take for granted. back when music to me was sound, not trend awareness.

there's a feeling of being the younger kid who believes the ghost story and shudders under the covers, rather than the elder kid who makes it up and makes it believable. a feeling i laid in lavender once i started taking my songwriting as a battle plan. a feeling that waned as it started taking more and more to challenge me as a listener. to reach the high "mezzanine" used to give me, i now need the most insanely intricate havoc yezda urfa can wreak. the awe is gone. but there is gratitude still.