On the first Monday of every March, Illinois schools and offices alike shut their doors to commemorate the life of Revolutionary War hero Casimir Pulaski, but banjo twanger Sufjan Stevens tells a much different story in his song named after the state holiday. "Casimir Pulaski Day" is an intimate, short-winded narrative about a faithed man in the throes of losing his cancer-stricken friend, trying in vain to grasp the very crux of life. Adhering to the framework of a classic narrative, Stevens' sequential lyrics recount an entire story: from the time he "found out [his friend] had cancer of the bone, "almost touched [her] blouse, to the crushing instant where Stevens "thought [he] saw [her] breathing". Moreover, the song's title is poetically misleading, as "Casimir Pulaski Day" is in no way an ode to the Polish-born hero at the Battle of Brandywine. Sufjan instead mentions the Illinois-wide sabbatical metonymically to refer more specifically to his late winter loss, which took place "on the first of march, on the holiday". Sufjan sneakily slips symbolism into a song driven by plot when the climax's "cardinal hits the window", representing his beloved's death: the unexpected end to an life by an unseen yet ever-present force. And it is this force of fate that Sufjan questions at "Casimir Pulaski Day"'s conclusion, upon losing someone whom he loved deeply. "The complications when [he] sees His face" alludes to his Christian faith he toils with, as the effortlessly existential Stevens evokes a piercing sense of pathos. His feelings of frustration and angst can be felt by anyone whose lives have been beset by tragedy, regardless of status or religion. In Sufjan's case, he is pitting his Bible Belt upbringing against the ineffable pain and confusion of an unfair existence. "He takes, and He takes, and He takes" Sufjan bemoans with blue-collared sincerity, in a poem that blurs the lines between heartbreaking and beautiful.
If need be, skip work, and mull this song over. And if your boss asks where you were the next day, it's okay. Just tell him it was Casimir Pulaski Day.
Goldenrod and the 4-H stone
The things I brought you when I found out
You had cancer of the bone
Your father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car into the navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry
In the morning, through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I could see what you were reading
All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth
Tuesday night at the Bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens
I remember at Michael's house
In the living room when you kissed my neck
And I almost touched your blouse
In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared
All the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you
Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I found the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of your mother
On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom
In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window
In the morning, in the winter shade
On the first of March, on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing
Oh the glory, that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning, in the window
All the glory when He took out place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face
And He takes and He takes and He takes
Monday, April 18, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Rob and Suze
Blanketed in silence, Suze labored to regain a dreg of composure. The built-up frustration from the day's fruitlessness had manifested itself in her bedroom, minutes before bedtime. She gazed listlessly at the muted television, laying beside a total stranger.
"You still don't remember anything?"she blurted out. The timbre of Suze's crestfallen question coaxed Robert to lay down his newsprinted shield. She repeated, "Anything?"
"No," he stated flatly, "You've been asking me all day, and the answer is still-"
"I took you to Ray's BBQ! Christine, your favorite waitress, served you your favorite meal. I had to sit through the Godfather for the thousandth time and it didn't spark anything?"
Robert chewed on the question, along with the rest of the day's events. On the muted television, a commercial for perfume featured two jovial lovers, bounding across a moonlit cityscape. After mulling it over, Robert silently shook his head. "The doctors said it wouldn't be this easy. It could take months, years. Susan, It might not even-"
Suze spat, "I know what they said. I know what happened to you," Then her tone lowered into a delicate drawl, "But we were married for fourteen years. We were Rob and Suze In Two's! You even introduced us to your business partners with that stupid nickname."
"Really?" Robert quietly mused to himself. He feigned an expression of recollection, but it soon faded into deadpan, "Why on earth would I do that, Susan?"
"Stop calling me Susan. For as long as we've been married you've called me Suze." Her face was rouged with frustration. She bemoaned, "You are my husband. No, you were my husband."
Robert sequestered himself in his newspaper once again. Susan, defeated, wiped her soupy tears on the comforter and rolled over to the fringe of the queen-sized bed. The muted television still splashed novas of color into the room, but neither of them paid any attention to it.
The loud rustling of low-grade paper snuck into Suze's earshot, and she sat up. Robert's hold on the newspaper was no longer steady, as he shook and tussled with the World News section. He was misty-eyed.
"I'm reading this article about Japan," he whimpered. "Hundreds of people are dead, and thousands are homeless. There are huge pictures of toppled buildings, refugees and flooded cities. But no matter how big the headlines are, or how many times it's explained to me, I will never know what it's truly like to be in their place. To me, it's just black and white." Using his index finger, Robert carved intricate valleys and mountains into the plushness of the comforter. "No matter how hard I try, Suze," he lamented.
Sharing nothing but their bewilderment for each other, their thoughts ebbed from their cramped quarters, and silence flooded the room.
"You still don't remember anything?"she blurted out. The timbre of Suze's crestfallen question coaxed Robert to lay down his newsprinted shield. She repeated, "Anything?"
"No," he stated flatly, "You've been asking me all day, and the answer is still-"
"I took you to Ray's BBQ! Christine, your favorite waitress, served you your favorite meal. I had to sit through the Godfather for the thousandth time and it didn't spark anything?"
Robert chewed on the question, along with the rest of the day's events. On the muted television, a commercial for perfume featured two jovial lovers, bounding across a moonlit cityscape. After mulling it over, Robert silently shook his head. "The doctors said it wouldn't be this easy. It could take months, years. Susan, It might not even-"
Suze spat, "I know what they said. I know what happened to you," Then her tone lowered into a delicate drawl, "But we were married for fourteen years. We were Rob and Suze In Two's! You even introduced us to your business partners with that stupid nickname."
"Really?" Robert quietly mused to himself. He feigned an expression of recollection, but it soon faded into deadpan, "Why on earth would I do that, Susan?"
"Stop calling me Susan. For as long as we've been married you've called me Suze." Her face was rouged with frustration. She bemoaned, "You are my husband. No, you were my husband."
Robert sequestered himself in his newspaper once again. Susan, defeated, wiped her soupy tears on the comforter and rolled over to the fringe of the queen-sized bed. The muted television still splashed novas of color into the room, but neither of them paid any attention to it.
The loud rustling of low-grade paper snuck into Suze's earshot, and she sat up. Robert's hold on the newspaper was no longer steady, as he shook and tussled with the World News section. He was misty-eyed.
"I'm reading this article about Japan," he whimpered. "Hundreds of people are dead, and thousands are homeless. There are huge pictures of toppled buildings, refugees and flooded cities. But no matter how big the headlines are, or how many times it's explained to me, I will never know what it's truly like to be in their place. To me, it's just black and white." Using his index finger, Robert carved intricate valleys and mountains into the plushness of the comforter. "No matter how hard I try, Suze," he lamented.
Sharing nothing but their bewilderment for each other, their thoughts ebbed from their cramped quarters, and silence flooded the room.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Princess Margaret's Regal Calm
If one were to zero in on any streetside newsstand, close their eyes and choose one version of the day's tidings, what would they find? Chances are the front cover would include a bold-printed call to arms, whose headline is so distressing that it goads the reader to disgustedly throw his or her arms in the air, and curse the harrowing conditions of Canadian society. No visceral topic is safe from the hate-mongering newsmakers, whether it be the environment, the government or most recently, the perils deep within the recesses of a typical high school.
Often spearheading this most current anti-bullying movement is an undoubtedly tragic story of a student, whose experience as a high school outcast drove them take fatal measures. Nearly every media outlet pitch in their two-cents on the issue of teen bullying by blowing the original story out of proportion, and unloading the blame onto any facet of the high school experience. Some urge that the teachers aren't doing enough. Others say that the administration's at fault, or that the schools are too cramped. Heck, it won't be long until the schools' color schemes receive some flak. In the midst of the scare tacticians' ploy to inflame the helicopter parent's ire for $3.29 per issue, is there at least one school that triumphantly shakes off the notion that all Canadian high schools are god-forsaken grottoes riddled with heavy-handed grunts?
Meanwhile, in sleepy Penticton, British Columbia, a grey-bricked building of modest size opens its doors for the upcoming day. The Okanagan sun pierces through both panes of the westerly windows, blanketing the quaint common area with an ethereal glow, much akin to the sanguine atmosphere that the school already posesses. Granted, Princess Margaret Secondary School isn't perfect. Its sport teams aren't the best in the area, certain wings of the aging building are certainly due for some sprucing up, and with approximately 750 students, it isn't an institution of high prestige. However, this high school is unique because of its sense of community. Even though Maggie caters to any budding athlete, scholar, thespian or artist, it is largely bereft of social cliques and hostility.
Bullying and school violence is seldom at the forefront of students' minds here. A smaller population allows for a more lax social atmosphere and burgeoning school spirit, both of which make Princess Margaret more inclusive. A supportive counselling center coupled with two dedicated, action-ready pricipals make up the one-two punch against potential rabble-rousers. Even when student discipline becomes an issue,the staff at Princess Margaret refuse to hurl mea culpas at one another, simply because it is inefficient and irresponsible. Frankly, this finely-tuned balance of staff involvement and student leadership seems to be working, as Maggie's community is as tightly-knit as Grandma's woolen socks.
Often spearheading this most current anti-bullying movement is an undoubtedly tragic story of a student, whose experience as a high school outcast drove them take fatal measures. Nearly every media outlet pitch in their two-cents on the issue of teen bullying by blowing the original story out of proportion, and unloading the blame onto any facet of the high school experience. Some urge that the teachers aren't doing enough. Others say that the administration's at fault, or that the schools are too cramped. Heck, it won't be long until the schools' color schemes receive some flak. In the midst of the scare tacticians' ploy to inflame the helicopter parent's ire for $3.29 per issue, is there at least one school that triumphantly shakes off the notion that all Canadian high schools are god-forsaken grottoes riddled with heavy-handed grunts?
Meanwhile, in sleepy Penticton, British Columbia, a grey-bricked building of modest size opens its doors for the upcoming day. The Okanagan sun pierces through both panes of the westerly windows, blanketing the quaint common area with an ethereal glow, much akin to the sanguine atmosphere that the school already posesses. Granted, Princess Margaret Secondary School isn't perfect. Its sport teams aren't the best in the area, certain wings of the aging building are certainly due for some sprucing up, and with approximately 750 students, it isn't an institution of high prestige. However, this high school is unique because of its sense of community. Even though Maggie caters to any budding athlete, scholar, thespian or artist, it is largely bereft of social cliques and hostility.
Bullying and school violence is seldom at the forefront of students' minds here. A smaller population allows for a more lax social atmosphere and burgeoning school spirit, both of which make Princess Margaret more inclusive. A supportive counselling center coupled with two dedicated, action-ready pricipals make up the one-two punch against potential rabble-rousers. Even when student discipline becomes an issue,the staff at Princess Margaret refuse to hurl mea culpas at one another, simply because it is inefficient and irresponsible. Frankly, this finely-tuned balance of staff involvement and student leadership seems to be working, as Maggie's community is as tightly-knit as Grandma's woolen socks.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Application: Accepted!
I'd like to extend a hearty congratulations to you, University of Van Camp, because after a tedious and painstaking evaluation of every learning instisution this side of Ursa Major, you have been accepted to house the burgeoning polymath that is Matthew R. Gomez. You should be truly honored.
Traditionally, His Faultlessness would deliver the newly-admitted school, using his spit-polished pennyfarthing, a 16-volume historical odyssey that details the past accolades of yours truly. However, in lieu of reading the greatest epic this side of 0 A.D. , I can instead give you a crash-course lesson on past accomlishments, and what you can expect from me whilst studying at UVC. Time is scarce until my forthcoming arrival, so succinct I must be!
Well, long story short, I single-handedly proved that the alchemy movement was not in vain, and stumbled across cold fusion shortly afterwards. Long story short, King Arthur stole my junior high metalwork project, Excalibur. Long story short, bullying Genghis Khan in elementary school was a bad idea. Long story short, the Neanderthal's wheel was modeled after my belly button. I created funk. I am a prolific speaker of Gobbledygook. And greatest of all, phrem saskto qazaqa mon wez wez!
I look forward to hearing back from the University of Van Camp. After your fee has been securely wired into my account, it'd be my pleasure to attend this fall. In preparation of my residence, the following must be taken into account: All of my professors must be of royal blood (Norwegian monarchy, of course). I'm not the fondest of creamed corn, but I don't mind it either. I require a wadrobe composed entirely of the Mahatma's finest robes, and I like my eggs faberge'd. That is all, and once again, congratulations!
"Pursue lunacy, think whimsically, go hard."
Matthew R. Gomez
Traditionally, His Faultlessness would deliver the newly-admitted school, using his spit-polished pennyfarthing, a 16-volume historical odyssey that details the past accolades of yours truly. However, in lieu of reading the greatest epic this side of 0 A.D. , I can instead give you a crash-course lesson on past accomlishments, and what you can expect from me whilst studying at UVC. Time is scarce until my forthcoming arrival, so succinct I must be!
Well, long story short, I single-handedly proved that the alchemy movement was not in vain, and stumbled across cold fusion shortly afterwards. Long story short, King Arthur stole my junior high metalwork project, Excalibur. Long story short, bullying Genghis Khan in elementary school was a bad idea. Long story short, the Neanderthal's wheel was modeled after my belly button. I created funk. I am a prolific speaker of Gobbledygook. And greatest of all, phrem saskto qazaqa mon wez wez!
I look forward to hearing back from the University of Van Camp. After your fee has been securely wired into my account, it'd be my pleasure to attend this fall. In preparation of my residence, the following must be taken into account: All of my professors must be of royal blood (Norwegian monarchy, of course). I'm not the fondest of creamed corn, but I don't mind it either. I require a wadrobe composed entirely of the Mahatma's finest robes, and I like my eggs faberge'd. That is all, and once again, congratulations!
"Pursue lunacy, think whimsically, go hard."
Matthew R. Gomez
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Hallway Culture
After spending 88 serene minutes ensconced in my dearest schoolwork, the bell rings and for the next eleven minutes, I am engrossed in the experience I call hallway culture. While I try to meekly abscond to my next lesson, I'm met with the many different members of the corridors' hierarchy, almost all of whom contribute to the hallway's chaotic ambience. A seemingly short walk is lengthened many-fold by circle-groups, "walk-and text"ers, and conversing pairs. Their ostensible social prowess somehow warrants them the right to impede anguished souls such as myself. Nevertheless, my most unpleasant, re-occuring hallway ritual is the "one-on-one shimmy showdown". An almost daily occurence for me, this stand-off takes place as I make my way down an empty hall, except for one other oncoming person. As I try to avoid the head-on collision, I step to one side, only to find out that my counterpart has done the same. Presumably a defensive linebacker in another life, my opposite blocks my path once again, when I try the other direction. For a few excruciating seconds, we repeat the routine, wobbling side-to-side like two awkward dancers caught in suspended animation. The cycle can only be broken when I admit defeat and stand motionless, allowing my now-rival to scowl at my indecisiveness as he storms by me. Like a misprinted shampoo bottle, my survival in hallway culture can be attributed to three simple steps: waver, wince and repeat.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Album Review: Julian Casablancas- Phrazes For the Young
For four agonizing years, The Strokes were driven into exile. Not by fiery protests and broken pharmacy windows, rather by the emerging ideas of today's dim music scene. The five men from Manhattan did not want to be part of such a bland concept, so they dispersed from the public's eye to regroup and revitalize their ideas. The band members-turned-brothers seperated, almost all of which pursuing side careers, except for one Mr. Casablancas: the mind, voice and soul behind The Strokes' near domination of the music world in 2001. And as of November 2, 2009, Julian Casablancas has returned blasting to the forefront of the musical outersphere with Phrazes For The Young.
At eight songs in length, this solo album appears as just a footnote between larger projects, but it surprises us with incredible diversity and explores twenty songs' worth of ideas, rhythms, and effects. We'd expect nothing less from Casablancas, the musical perfectionist. The cavalcade of synthesizers, muted guitars and multi-faceted drum tracks, paired with his soulful, piercing voice is a voyage across the cityscapes of Casablancas' mind. For fourty minutes, you become encased in his lyrics that are filled with regret, pain, euphoric pleasure and the demise of the Native American tribes of modern-day New York City. And after the fourtieth minute ticks away, you are left feeling the reverberations of Julian's sublime song-writing.
I believe that Julian's surname is rather fitting to his career, because Casablancas' brainchild, Phrazes For The Young, is enshrined in a rhythmic institution of the purest white. You can see how distinguished the musical face of the album is: flawless structure, unblemished exterior, and a slight but charming overbite of sadness. How did I cope being in this era sans The Strokes? I do not know, and that is a question I no longer have to think about.
At eight songs in length, this solo album appears as just a footnote between larger projects, but it surprises us with incredible diversity and explores twenty songs' worth of ideas, rhythms, and effects. We'd expect nothing less from Casablancas, the musical perfectionist. The cavalcade of synthesizers, muted guitars and multi-faceted drum tracks, paired with his soulful, piercing voice is a voyage across the cityscapes of Casablancas' mind. For fourty minutes, you become encased in his lyrics that are filled with regret, pain, euphoric pleasure and the demise of the Native American tribes of modern-day New York City. And after the fourtieth minute ticks away, you are left feeling the reverberations of Julian's sublime song-writing.
I believe that Julian's surname is rather fitting to his career, because Casablancas' brainchild, Phrazes For The Young, is enshrined in a rhythmic institution of the purest white. You can see how distinguished the musical face of the album is: flawless structure, unblemished exterior, and a slight but charming overbite of sadness. How did I cope being in this era sans The Strokes? I do not know, and that is a question I no longer have to think about.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
All Fro One, One Fro All: The Matt Gomez Chronicles, Volume 1 of 16
Winner of the Nobel Prize in the category of keeping it real (judged by the ever-pleasant Snoop Dogg), the first installment of the greatest epic this side of 0 A.D. is a parable of the ages. It is filled with unrelenting joy, obliterated dreams and PG-13 rated fight sequences, and they are mixed to the point where one cannot tell one from the other. As the readers delve into the tumultuous beginnings of our meek hero, they learn of the different stages of his life: the blonde Tarzan toddlerhood, the childhood-consuming leopard fixation, the 'Leche/Pudgy Harry Potter' period, the armed robbery debacle and simply... Fromez. These seemingly unrelated events would be precursors to Gomez's rise to glory and the immortality of his influence upon the Earth. This book leads the reader to society's almighty question...Snoop Dogg can read?
"This story saved our marriage!" -Jon and Kate Gosselin
"Matt Gomez read my poker face... :(" -Lady Gaga
"What do you think I think like to read while I'm eating the presidential corn flakes, The New York Times? **** that, I read The Matt Gomez Chronicles!" -Barack Obama
"This story saved our marriage!" -Jon and Kate Gosselin
"Matt Gomez read my poker face... :(" -Lady Gaga
"What do you think I think like to read while I'm eating the presidential corn flakes, The New York Times? **** that, I read The Matt Gomez Chronicles!" -Barack Obama
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