Clara Venice's Weblog

StrangerSong

Sat, 05 Mar 2005 18:36:44 GMT

bonjour mes amis,

ahhh...this week was SO much fun. i spent 3 long days in the studio, and i'm just so excited about the music that's been going on. of course, it leaves me only 2 days to finish my paper on "the dao of george bush", but it's worth it. it felt sooooooooo good to be writing, recording and playing again!

just thought i'd post a little sample of what iain and i have been working on...this is a little ditty i like to call the StrangerSong. it's not finished (missing iain's solo in the instrumental part) but i think it's pretty neat. as always, your comments are much appreciated.

you can check it out here:

http://radio.weblogs.com/0143326/2005/MP3s/mp3Medium.mp3

hopefully this works...

the dating oscars

Wed, 02 Mar 2005 21:32:32 GMT

hello my pretties,

wow, i'm very sorry it's been so long. life gets in the way, i guess. i've been having computer issues like you wouldn't believe, some of which were my fault and others which were probably my computer-karma for some strange technological sin i'd committed in a past life. the moral of the story is this: if you ever spill tea on your laptop DON'T try to turn it back on, leave it near a radiator overnight to dry and the next morning hug and kiss it for at least 5 minutes. it might feel stupid, but inanimate objects have feelings too.

i've been thinking a lot about relationships and dating, and i'm just so fucking sick of the whole show. cause it really is a huge performance, and everyone's trying to be a star. i should seriously start some sort of "dating oscars" - this city is full of seriously top-notch contenders. the whole thing is actually quite entertaining, but sad because it has so little to do with actual feelings. girls and boys meet, and immediately everyone's doing these strange monologues, rehashing the lines that worked once before (but must have proved to be ultimately inadequate considering they need to be repeated) and so all honest communication is immediately pre-empted. we project these story lines, say what we think the other person wants to hear, try to cover up our own insecurities by playing part and at bottom i think everyone just wants the same thing: to be understood. to find someone who sees through our charade. to get off the fucking stage.

when we're alone we can construct ourselves the way we want to be, we make up our narratives, allow people to fit into our lives in whatever capacity we require, and so every encounter becomes an audition ("oh, he'd make the perfect anti-hero for my story, and good thing, cause i have been looking so long for a male lead"). and when that person reveals him/herself in a way other than the one we've allowed for them (i.e. he was supposed to be a johnny depp but ended up more like (ugh) ben affleck or worse, jack black?) we write them out of the story and that in itself becomes the next plot twist. we look for drama, we look for action, but what we really want is a good old fashioned comedy (meeting, conflict, marriage at the end). but this is the age of irony, after all - and we seldom end up laughing, or at least we can only laugh once enough time has passed that we can be observers to our own performances and see them for what they are - farce.

it seems to me the whole point of love is that it allows you to just be, to not have to be slotted in to one side of yourself. to be creative, unfold your potential, not be tied down to any one role you've created in your head. to allow the other person to take you places you wouldn't otherwise go - to collaborate, to ad-lib, to act as though no one's watching.

all i can say is that it seems like most of us aren't sincerely looking for partners - we want groupies. we don't want relationships, we want fan-mail. we want adoration. we want oscars for our stellar performances. we try again and again for the perfect take, but when we get it we still feel empty. because love is not the performance - it's waking up the next morning out of character, out of costume, out of make-up. love isn't going to bed with gilda, it's waking up with rita hayworth - and being god-damn thankful for that.

i think honesty is the best policy. i wonder why we think the people we meet need to hear certain things in order to be interested in us. when did we decide that love will find us only if we keep on hiding who we really are, so that no one can discover how we really feel. so that we won't have to admit that we're not perfect. so that we can live forever as perfect celluloid images. so that the only face we project is the one we make when we look at ourselves in the mirror. i guess it's hard to accept other people seeing us in ways other than the one's we're comfortable with, other than the ones we'd like them to see.

we just want to be accepted for who we are, and not for a part we play. we want love, not oscars. cause at the end of the day, those little statues are much better suited for being doorstops than bed-mates.

clara

the medium is the message: music and schiller's aesthetic education of man

Thu, 24 Feb 2005 18:15:52 GMT

hello all,

so i just thought i'd post my little paper about schiller and the revolutionary possibilities of aesthetics (especially music). it's dense but i'd welcome any comments or suggestions anyone might have...

http://127.0.0.1:5335/2005/01/Schillermusic.doc?folderView=1

bye for now...

don't hate me cause i'm saucy...[aka secretaries of the world unite!]

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:30:15 GMT

Saucy #1

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:26:42 GMT

Saucy #2

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:25:40 GMT

Saucy #3

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:24:33 GMT

Saucy #4

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:23:23 GMT

Saucy #5

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:19:21 GMT

Saucy #6

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:18:19 GMT

Saucy #7

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:16:58 GMT

Saucy #8

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:15:45 GMT

Saucy #9

Fri, 18 Feb 2005 00:09:56 GMT

bend it like beckett

Tue, 15 Feb 2005 00:52:30 GMT

i'm glad that my post yesterday ruffled a few feathers among you, my drear readers. [that is our aim, here at 'clara venice's radio weblog'.] after re-reading what i wrote last night, and hearing some thought-provoking comments from you, i have to say...i stand by my crossword cross words.

perhaps i did not express myself as well as i could have...so i will let mr. samuel beckett speak for me. the following is further elucidation of what i was trying to get at. this was his last poem.

WHAT IS THE WORD

Samuel Beckett

for Joe Chaikin
folly -
folly for to -
for to -
what is the word -
folly from this -
all this -
folly from all this -
given -
folly given all this -
seeing -
folly seeing all this -
this -
what is the word -
this this -
this this here -
all this this here -
folly given all this -
seeing -
folly seeing all this this here -
for to -
what is the word -
see -
glimpse -
seem to glimpse -
need to seem to glimpse -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse -
what -
what is the word -
and where -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse what where -
where -
what is the word -
there -
over there -
away over there -
afar -
afar away over there -
afaint -
afaint afar away over there what -
what -
what is the word -
seeing all this -
all this this -
all this this here -
folly for to see what -
glimpse -
seem to glimpse -
need to seem to glimpse -
afaint afar away over there what -
folly for to need to seem to glimpse afaint afar away over there what -
what -
what is the word -

what is the word

[from: Grand Street, Vol. 9, No. 2, Winter 1990, pp.17-18, N.Y., ISSN 0734-5496]

[p.s. i've decided to post once a week from here on in...every sunday i will have a new thought to share with you, and by request i'll post some recipes as well. from time to time i'll post during the week as well, so stay tuned -]

cross words ?

Mon, 14 Feb 2005 05:12:59 GMT

hello my petits poulets,

well, reading week is here, and thank god for some time off. yes, i should be spending this week actually reading the avalanche of books threatning to consume my entire existence, but honestly, all i wanna do is get back to my music. especially after the events of the past week, which have all sorta culminated in a strange melancholy i can't quite explain. but i'll let you in on my conclusion:

the entire linguistic universe is as futile as a crossword puzzle.

you see, i have spent the past 2 weeks agonizing over a paper i was writing about friedrich schiller's "letters on the aesthetic education of man" and how his whole project was intrinsically high-jacked by his hidden allegiances to Reason and her domination over the senses. to argue this point, i tried to elucidate the tension running through the "Letters" stemming from his ubiquitous use of musical analogies on the one hand and on the other, the fact he explicitly denies music any real function in his system. [for anyone crazy enough to be interested, i'll post the essay once i learn how. to post. files.]

anyway, the prof of the class is one of my heroes, so i had serious performance anxiety and i still don't know whether or not the thing was any good, but i finished it this afternoon and dropped it off at her place. then i went to a concert where one of my favourite violinists, Lynn Kwo, was performing with a quartet (piano, clarinet and cello). the concert was so real it was unreal. it was incredibly good.

they performed a piece by kelly-marie murphy called 'give me phoenix wings to fly' which was amazing, then a beverly grigsby trio which was also very good. halfway through the 'waltz' movement of the piece, i started crying and didn't know why. then i realized that it was because for some reason it attuned me to how useless my entire effort at writing my schiller paper had been. i'm not in philosophy for the marks (nor for the money, duh) and so all i get out of it is the satisfaction that i have communicated something worthwhile, or that my work could possibly help someone else or give them an idea or something. but at the moment i started crying, none of it mattered - all that mattered was the music, it was unbelievably beautiful, it was real. it was love. it gave me love. i know i can't explain this very well, but that's the problem i'm trying to get at...it wasn't love for myself or for the musicians, or maybe it was love for myself and the musicians, i don't know. but i do know that after the concert when beverly grigsby herself told me what the waltz was actually "about" it didn't mean nearly as much to me as hearing the piece for myself.

the final piece the group played was called "Quartet for the End of Time" by oliver messiaen. it's an hour long piece inspired by the book of revelation, written by mr. messiaen in a p.o.w. camp during WWII. i could never in a million billion years do justice to either the piece or the performance i had the unbelievable opportunity to witness tonight by trying to put it into words. 'nuff said.

anyway, on my way home i was dazed and couldn't talk. i was in a total fog, unable to accept the movement of time and my harsh return to the hustle-bustle of the streets (which is saying a lot seeing as it's sunday night and the streets were pretty much empty.) and as i sat on the streetcar finishing my ny times sunday crossword, i realized that a) crosswords are useless as hell, and b) like i said, the entire linguistic universe is ultimately just as useless.

all i'm trying to say is basically this: if anything in the world could make me believe in god, if anything could make me believe in love, if anything could make me believe in humanity, if anything could make me believe in the world itself, it is music. no matter how many words i write, they will never be enough to explain to you why or how that is.

so on that note, i will leave you all with this melancholy post...but i'll be back next week with some more words, hopefully happier ones. and though my words will inevitably leave something unsaid, i hope they are at least sufficient for you to get the picture...or tune...or whatever.

clucky ;>

stupid Dasein

Sun, 06 Feb 2005 03:52:42 GMT

hallo alle...

sorry i haven't posted for a few days - it was just one thing after another, whoa-man vs. "nature" - or, me fending for myself against the (contingent) elements. in other words - my kitchen pipes froze leaving me unable to cook, wash dishes, or wipe counters. and, most sadly of all, forcing me to postpone a much-anticipated meal of venison chops with a cherry-port demiglace and an architectural side dish involving mushrooms, chestnuts and polenta, though i'm not sure in what order.

then i managed to get the flu, which turned into a really awful sinusitis for which i had to go on 3 different kinds of medication. all this while i was supposed to be writing a paper on the sociological benefits of a phenomenal approach to aesthetics and not one but 2 german tests within 2 days of each other.

then, on top of all of that, my blog software crashed and THEN I LOST MY INTERNET which was really very isolating. my only comfort during my regress to savagery (or what i'll refer to as my "luddite-period" of 2005) was that it gave me the opportunity to think. a lot. notably about how right heidegger is when he talks about how we only really realize how dependent we are on our 'falling' existence qua Dasein when things break down. i believe he refers to this as things going from 'ready to hand' (how we usually encounter things - as tools which we use to build up our happy little worlds) to 'out of hand', when we finally see them for what they really are - things. that are just, like, there. and when this happens we realize how incredibly dependent we are on things we usually take for granted. which in turn leads us to the realization that our happy little worlds aren't really that happy...and nor are they worlds. in fact, they don't exist. yes, my friends, all that exists is...

nothing.

but don't let that get you down, cause if nothing is the new everything, just imagine the possibilities! if no-thing is, then every-thing is possible...within "reason", that is. because as angst-ridden and projected into nothing as we are, we unfortunately remain subject to history, and thus must make do with the circumstances into which we've been thrown. sorry, folks.

ironically, i was also 'broken down' at the time - the flu left me incapacitated so that i also experienced my "self" as out of order. and as my body became a mere lump of bones and flesh, "i" became more aware both of my mortality (stupid Dasein) and even more problematically, more unsure as to the nature of the connection between my body and whatever the hell was thinking about the connection [between my body and whatever the hell was thinking about the connection (between my...er, you get the idea)]

but for the record, despite my little foray into 'radical doubt' in regards to the mind/body thing - i don't really believe in any distinction between mind and body. that said, however, i admit that the actual stragegics remain somewhat, er, shady. but that's an issue for a whole other post.

so my petits poulets, the moral of the story is: when it gets warmer the pipes thaw. and after hurling enough profanities at bell-canada's pre-recorded robot operator named emily who's supposedly there to "serve you better" (fyi: emily is a cold, heartless bitch. and she's stupid. after talking to her, i no longer worry about robots ever ruling the world.) you can actually manage to get a human to help you fix your internet! and once your antibiotics kick in, you start feeling more like getting out of bed. and then life goes back to normal, you rejoin your 'happy little world' and forget all about the nothing until the dreaded Angst comes for you to remind you yet again of your finitude.

but as precarious as Dasein is, just remember -

at least you're not a zombie.

[checkmate]

out with the new [a.k,a the ikea syndrome: part 1]

Sun, 06 Feb 2005 03:29:31 GMT

okay, so as i mentionned in my last post, i've been having serious blog-crashing issues the past week, which have stopped me from posting in regards to a certain article which appeared in the 'toronto star' newspaper last sunday, january 16th. but i figure my belated response to said article is in keeping with the theme of what i wanted to write about - that is, mark kingwell's 'ode to newness', which was, predictably, stale. if not downright rotten.

call me blasphemous, but it must be said - mark kingwell is simply not a philosopher. of course, he may be many things (which i won't list here on the grounds i do not wish to incriminate myself); but 'philosopher' has no place among them. i write these words as a former student of his, having undergone many experiences which i feel justify my claim. but i won't go into these personal reasons (which involve such intrigues as platonic forms and faulty over-head projection devices). all that needs to be said is the following: philosophy means 'love of learning'. not 'love of hearing one's own voice.' not 'love of always being right'. not 'love of shameless self-promotion and photoshoots in lectures'. not 'love of assigning 30 pages of heidegger to ones' second year aesthetics class and then lecturing about a completely unrelated matter which is only of interest/relevence to oneself'. not 'love of not preparing for one's lectures cause you're only talking to a bunch of kids who won't know the difference anyway.' (this is a bit too much fun, so i think i'd better stop.) but basically, learning implies openness, respect for your interlocutor and the willingness to suspend one's own preconceptions as much as one can in order to place oneself in the Other's place in order to understand their point of view. this requires accepting that your point of view is not automatically 'right' by virtue of it being 'yours'. this requires 'strangification' and generosity- extending yourself to the Other and reinforcing the bond which connects you as human Beings.

and it's not like i'm some bratty little kid with an ax to grind for a shitty mark - i got an a in mr. kingwell's class, (but not one comment on my final paper!). and maybe i just have high standards, but if so it's only because of my wonderful learning experiences at u of t (with rebecca comay, dean penny, vincent shen, gad horowitz, larry richards, etc.)

[i only hope i don't offend these latter professors by juxtaposing their names with my previous rant. i can assure you they in no way condone my tirade against mark kingwell. i just chose to include them because if you're at u of t or plan to be, ANY class taught by ANY of these profs might change your life in a productive and stimulating way. then again, taking a class with mark kingwell may also stimulate you to write silly rants about him a year later and post them on your blog. the choice is yours...]

but all this aside, i did have a point regarding mr. kingwell's "new" things article.

(to access the article, http://www.thestar.com/NASApp/cs/ContentServer?pagename=thestar/Layout/Article_Type1&;;;call_pageid=971358637177&c=Article&cid=1105614487483)

how ironic, i thought upon finishing it, that the entire article was about 'newness' yet it contained nary a one 'new' idea.* in fact, i heard him lecture on most of it over a year ago (when he should've been elucidating what the hell heidegger meant by 'art's ability to disclose the Be-ing of the Being of beings'.) furthermore, it seems that the entire article actually focused on the 'novel' element of our modern conception of 'new' whereas that's really not very interesting at all. rather, what's interesting about the 'new' the way it appears to us now is it's element of disposability. novelty is passe. we don't want things cause they're new. "disposable is the new novel". we are a nation, a continent of people who love to throw things away.

that is, it's not even the having which is the event anymore - it's the replacing, the upgrade, the act of 'out with the old' and the "new" is just a placeholder. the whole thing reminds me of a friend of mine who was living in portland (arguably the trendiest city in north america) and ended up on the verge of a nervous breakdown since the only way you'd ever be able to sustain your 'coolness' there for longer than 5 minutes would be to kill yourself the second before you achieved it.

my point is that it is this element of disposablity which is truly 'novel' - and it reveals much more in regards to our psychology than a marxist critique of conspicuous possession ("OMG, like, sooooooo last semester!?!") we are throwing out the past on a daily basis - and with it go our connections to history, to time, to ancestry, even to our own personal identities. what does it mean to throw yourself out, to deny who you were last week, last year, the year before that? where is the continuity, the stability, the sense of forgiveness which allows us to accept our mistakes without reverting to their complete disposal? what does it mean to reject who we have been? and where does that leave us now, knowing that our present self will soon enough be sitting on the curb, gnawed by raccoons and waiting for the landfill of last season's selves?

i call this the 'ikea syndrome'. i will elaborate on it in an upcoming post, so stay tuned.

[incidentally, i expect that my little disposability idea is surely not 'new' either. it's just an idea i've been toying with, and which mark kingwell's piece made me think of in that it deals with an aspect of the new which i feel is a deeper problem for us at this point than novelty. i would welcome any comments, suggestions, amendments, or sources for further reading which might help me better formulate this concept. thank you.]

i feel that's enough for tonight.

before i go, let me just say that i congratulate mark kingwell for all his success, and to be fair, i have heard many fellow students say very complimentary things about him. i'm sure he is a very nice person, does not harm small animals, and would offer his seat to a senior citizen.

(but he's not a philosopher. )

*equally ironic, for me, was the fact that while i was in mr. kingwell's aesthetics class i asked him whether for my final paper ('what is art' in 8-10 pages) i might attempt to propose my own aesthetic theory as opposed to regurgitating the ones we'd studied in class. he looked at me blankly, then narrowed his eyes and replied "as if you're capable of a new idea?" 'nuff said.

** this post is dedicated to marcela, a superlative be-ing who made me tea and inspired me to write this.

some links and southern grammar

Fri, 14 Jan 2005 22:05:45 GMT

a couple links for y'all y'all [a little known fact about southern grammar i picked up in nashville: "y'all" = you (singular). "y'all y'all" = you (plural). now you have no excuse for mixing up your accusative pronouns!]

www.theyrule.net

this is an incredibly well-designed site, dealing with the appalling inbred-ness of those who are in the business of creating our reality. well worth a look.

www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/elegant/program.html

this one's for anyone who wants to learn more about how we might actually be living in 10 or 11 dimensions and not in the brandscape most of us call home. superstring theory is not as scary as it sounds -

gotta go practice some tunes...