Free Music! Dig.

Copyright Spencer Higgs 2013

Death and Taxes... and Music

Not everyone loves music. I know, right. Weirdoes. But those who do, do. They get it. It gets to them. Music, incidentally, is like people: some being likeable, some deplorable; the distinction intrinsic to whomever is the listener. My girlfriend, Hailey, (who, apropos to nothing, is beautiful and lovely and a wild dancing fool-angel of cool, and best not forget it) once harangued me for referring to pop songs on the radio as "shit music". She argued no music is shit music; it means something to someone. Indeed, she's right, and I haven't used the term since... in her company.  

Further personifying tunes, good songs become good friends. And unless you are a frat boy (and if you are, it's cool, dude-bro, I'm not hatin'), you probably don't like paying for friends. (Okay, I'm hatin' a little bit.) The point is, everyone loves free music. And while musicians are by each passing day facing the day when welfare and food stamps will soon be the near-norm for even the fleeting few popular acts, the Internet Age has opened listeners' doors to vast exposure and vast access. And the cool part is, so much of it is free these days--legally! 

Here's a few free-music websites to help expand your milieux.

Paradocks and Matrices and Middlegroundlandia

When the fine line between adolescence and adulthood widens, blaze forth down the middle. Sirah and beer, Easy Mac and smoked clams.

Now, at twenty-five (25) years (yrs) old (opposite of young), I find myself torn, stuck, lodged – and also dislodged – confined, and nakedly exposed to middle-middle age. Car insurance didn't go down like I thought it would, sparking a tremorous fear that I'll be parsimoniously dissuaded from buying a Corvette during the incipient onset of my future mid-life crisis. 

(I'll probably end up purchasing a 2037 Prius – good God!) 

When I was younger, I despised the effects of ostentatious existence, indeed, of wealth itself. Then: money, money, money, baby! Now, I'm cloud-lofting back to, if not a simpler existence, a simpler mindset. Pure ideology. Pura Vida. 

(Which reminds me, I'm due to go rogue in Costa Rica sometime soon.)

I have two jobs: I'm a dock master at a small marina, where I wear flip-flops to work (not as cool as it sounds... really...); I'm an intern researching computer programming, coding, and designing at an advertising company, where I wear slacks and a custom-fitted collared shirt (cooler than it sounds... kinda). I'm making a matrix, and, in doing so, learning that The Matrix is far more accessible and enjoyable than developing a real one.

Life is a paradox.

With a beer in one hand, a Shiraz (Syrah) in the other, a box of Easy Mac, a shell of smoked Cajun clam, I am a contradiction. I am the middle of the road.

I like it like that.

Happiness Is

Just now, awaiting the arrival of my dear friend Alyson to come pull me from the throes of lonesomeness and uncertainty (that's a WHOLE other metaphorical monster awaiting disclosure! But she's a soon-to-be-psychiatrist, so maybe she'll lend a hand there), I was peeling away the skin of some very ripe mangos. You see, we're going to confine all these mango chunks into a blender, flick the ON switch of the wheeling, jagged, sordid machine and mini-machety the saccharine fruit into juice. We'll add rum, of course. We'll sit by the pool and muse and laugh and chat and reminisce.

As I was peeling away the skin of one hunk of mango, a flashback backslapped me with a memory of climbing the (Haitian) mango tree behind St. Andrew's School. And then of being a fearless, bridle-less, invincible island boy: salt on my sunburned skin, sand imbedded in my sun-bleached hair. Sucking the seed of the mango I thought of two things: a few days ago, preparing a fruit bowel, my boss proclaimed "Why do mango's have such large seeds!" It was not a question; it was consternation. "So ya can suck da seed!" I explained, a distant Bahamian dialect inconspicuously following my words off the tip of my tongue. She didn't get it. She doesn't get much.

It secondly reminded me of my father, his voice, his view of life as an invariably beautiful thing. (In the endless wake of his passing, I find this distraughtingly ironic.) He would have said--and every soul out there who knew him, would know for sure, and could hear his voice--smiling, hunched over the sink with an over-flow of mango juice spilling down his chin: "Happiness is!"

Ironic, too, is that my mother--just yesterday--discovered a previously non-existant allergy to mangos. What luck. How sucky to not get to suck a mango seed!

None of this has much relevance to anything in the world, except that isn't it nice that biting into fruit can unearth the pleasantry that is fond memories.

Writer's Blockade

Hebetude - what a bitch. The lazy state a mind can fall into without the slightest notice or instigation. So little can provoke it, it's not just not-even-funny, it's scary. Mental hebetude, indeed, is the source of creative lacklustre: the source of writer's block, for us writers.

Combating hebetude is challenging endeavour, challenging, because it requires force drawn from within. In a blog post on Refraction Magazine, Allison Lloyd (writer, editor, web designer, S. Florida sunchild) manifests the secrets to re-igniting creative verve. One of her tips is exercise, the movement of blood and physical exertion being components to clearing your head and opening your mind to mental flow.

Jack London suggested going at creativity with a club. 

Simons (pronounced Simmons ("I'm a rare one-m Simons"), the enigmatic and precocious protagonist of Padgett Powell's novel  Edisto approaches prose by waking at four in the morning, brewing a cup of coffee and letting the oneiric pre-dawn stoke his creativity.

Acclaimed director, producer, writer of the iniquitous, Peter Kosminsky (White Oleander, The Promise, No Child of Mine), once expressed in the Rolling Stone, "Can't make the scene without caffeine").

I have to say, I employ all four. I like to wake on my own in the relative earliness (not quite the pre-dawn hours of Simons' way), brew a cup of coffee (black, no cream, no sugar. Strong.), and write something. Anything really, just so long as it helps the brewing of words and gets them nicely onto paper. If a creative streak catches, I'm writing for hours and hours on end. If not. A page, two, maybe. 

But I also make sure to do cool, creative, different things, making sure I don't get stuck in a predictable routine. Like painting. I'm not good, but I give it a go. And that helps me look at things in new ways. I try to exercise or exert body as much as possible, which has benefits beyond those of creative kindling. Though, I have to say, I'm currently in a rut: why this blog hasn't been updated since my spontaneous fucking-off to New York City. I've got a job I hate, and I'm stuck somewhere uninspiring for writing. I'm uninspired, but spurring myself to break it. It's happened before, it will happen again. It won't last long.

Fiction is coming...

New York, New York: An Ode, A Recount, An Excuse

In case you (all four of my devoted readers!) were wondering why I haven't posted anything recently, here's an elaborate, extensive, poetic explanation why:

            We left months ago, when you think about it—not actually, physically departing on a northbound jet, but the fascinating idea was conceived way back then. Then, just a dreamy lovers’ dream, a pretty thought of a flower only half-likely to blossom. Then, a newer then—two Sunday’s past—we were packing our things, calling friends, checking flights, planning a spontaneous trip that all started with my girlfriend’s question: “Do you want to go to New York today?”

            The pilot banks left, we gaze, left and down, down at the Downtown financial district of Manhattan, pulling bad-memories close, banking left around banks of rivers and banks left in the shadows of towering steel scrappers, banking on being down there soon with little left in the bank.

            Bussing through Queens, we pass various scenes we feel we’ve seen before on movies and sitcoms and talk show intros. Bus under the El Train tracks to the subway, Express train to central Greenwich Village. Patronize a few pop-fame pubs; local musicians strummin’, singin’, pluckin’, playin’, hummin’, beatin’, and one dude blowin’ bass notes with an old whisky jug. Local ales and pale ales and artichoke pizza that tastes like a warm east breeze, despite the fact it’s two degrees (C), see. See, not a bad first day and night in New York City.

            An indeterminate amount of time’s worth of clothes are not-neatly packed into two backpacks between the two of us; layers of the rest of our clothes covering us, us snuggled close on a blow-up mattress on a friend’s kitchen/dining/living room floor, snuggled close even though we have closed the window. It’s a small blow-up, but pads are small in that part of the city. Snuggled close, cause how else would you snuggle with someone with whom you’re close and it’s cold.

            We walk. We walk everywhere. First, we walk to a local joint for tea, en route to the Downtown district we flew over fifteen hours ago. At the half point, we have a ham-n-sausage-n-egg-on-everything-bagel breakfast made by a nice guy in a street-side bagel stand, and before we know it we’re down there staring up at behemoth buildings. We walk, we walk.

            Our feet aren’t yet sore as we frequent different streets and bars and bookstores, just casually taking in the city. The city! “Babe, we’re in the city!”

            And the city’s different districts are distinctively cool—the micro districts, too, good like the local micro brews, the ones we’re sipping now at an Irish pub in China town. We’re seeking out a late lunch, or an early dinner, depending on how big the portions are. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of chicken chow mein.” Loaded on hot tea to keep us warm, we wander north through Little Italy before a long nap before a late night out on the town.

            Eugene, (good friend, good director, good on him for making it (this far) in New York) has dragged us out, not by any means kicking and screaming, to show us around. Another good pub. Another good local beer, then a round on the house. “Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to be rude?” The best falafel—for $2.50! Fat Cat for some three-dollar jazz. “C’mon, guys, let’s go.” “A what?” A fairly cool Show Tunes bar with fairies singing in damn good tune to show songs on song cards handed out by some show-stoppin’ big momma behind a piano with a bigger voice and wit no Brit could top. Sing-a-longs (I don’t sing along, cause I don’t know the songs) and no one’s at the bar—they bar-lean on the piano and most everyone is drunk and happy and gay (in both the new and the happy way), save for the burly dude with a girly tone, meanly saying, “Can we please use our inside voices,” just so everyone can hear his part of his and his partners’ duet. Lame-ass. Strange looks. “Hailey, please hold my hand.”

            It’s 4:00. More pizza. Yes, more food. What can I say? We’re here for the food.

                       

 

            Hailey looks hot in her boots. By ‘hot’ I mean pretty, though it’s warm today, walking around Uptown. A MOMA walk-through, then back-to-back plays. Musicals. On and Off Broadway musicals; not that I’m complaining, but after this, I’m good with show tunes for quite a bit. Time Square in the day, Time Square at night. The people. The lights. Conan O’Brian’s big head on a big screen. Coke. Bud Light. Wicked. Micky-D’s. Bank of America. Bank left. Subway. A subway south, back to Euge’s flat. Tonight’s a brief night out. Falafel again; it’s a good thing, I’m not complaining.

            Thursday. Another warm day. Walking. Walking North. A walk in the park. Central Park. The whole park, almost. It’s a lovely park, for the most part. The Met, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Now our feet are hurting. The balls of Hailey’s feet’s bottoms and the large arches on my feet’s peaks, and behind my left knee. Time for a nice lunch and a beer or three (one was free; New Yorkers are actually really nice, save for the old lady who made Hailey and me let go our held hands so she could walk between us: “You have to let go sooner or later!” “No we don’t!” Old hag. Should have Red-Rover blocked her. Bitch.).

            Tonight we’re too tired to go out. We’re beer-ed out. I didn’t think, or know, that was possible. Too tired to do much more than check flights. Most flights are full; we’re flying standby, by the way—both ways. Our only shot is tomorrow, Friday, late morning.

            “Good night, babe.”

            “Goodnight, babe.”

            Early to bed, early to rise. Another tube-ride bagel-shop breakfast. Walking. Walking west. Where the West Side Story was, but we’re here for a walk in the park. High Line Park. A new park built on old El Train tracks, elevated, vegetated, sun seats and rails and some seats move along the rails the landscape architects left by design. It’s certainly a neat place. And what a way to end the trip.

            Subway to the bus stop. Retracing our first few steps. Back through the only part of Queens we got to see. We saw Manhattan inside and out, and now I’ll be more attentive watching sitcoms and talk show intros. We sit on the left side of the plane; the plane banks left. A departing view of the Big Apple. Hailey sleeps and I read almost the whole way back to Florida. South. And jealous friends and family ask: “What did you do? Did you elevate up the Empire State Building? Did you go to Yankee Stadium? Did you ferry to Ellis Island and climb Lady Liberty? Ice skate in Time Square? Stand outside the Today Show and scream?”

            “No.”

I would like to extend a very special thanks to Eugene Ma, a friend I've known since boarding school days, who allowed Hailey and I to crash at his pad, who showed us around the city, and is greatly much responsible for making our amazing, maiden trip to New York possible. Euge, on behalf of Hailey and myself, thanks a million.

Well, Because; That's Why

It's a peculiar curiosity. It's such a simple word, though it can carry a lot of weight. It's the easiest question to ask (and probably earliest). It's certainly the most frequently asked. I asked it to myself today, with reference to my humble existence in the blogosphere.

Why?

I decided to actually transcribe my answer, my "because", as though answering a question asked on a test, a survey--or by a psychiatrist. It's a true exercise in introspection.

Q: Why does anyone care what I have to say? In the rapid-fire Information Age, where Facebook is quickly becoming the lead source of information and "google" is a dictionary verb (seriously, it is. I'd encourage you all to look it up, but most of you don't have a print-copy dictionary; a faction of you don't remember how to use one, anyway), what is compelling about my own ideas and opinions? Who cares, and why should they?

A: In short, there is no concrete answer, none that is right, anyway. Few people actually care what I (or you) have to say, and an equally diminutive minority can be bothered to divulge themselves in my opinions (or yours). This is largely--in my opinion--due to the "modernistic" lifestyle that patronises our culture. "We're modern," we boast, "look at the advances we've made and make. Look at what we have learned. Look how fashionable we are, how capable, intuitive, progressive, healthy, and sympathetic."But culturally, we are not. We ignore our cultural dogmas so much that we only think we are modern, advanced, learned, fashionable, capable, intuitive, progressive, healthy, sympathetic. Of course, I'm generalising. But the fact of the matter is, most people out there would rather watch half an hour of Family Guy than spend half an hour with their family. Good for them, if that is truly fulfilling--better for Seth Rogen.

Society as it is now thrives almost entirely on the Internet, so that our physical surroundings are a more hypotheical reality; our real social interaction is through social media. What could be more provocative to the Western modern psyche than a matrimony of the words "social" and "media"? That's like hearing the word "sex" at your high school prom: "Who said that? I want in." It's as sad as it is abstruse. Alas, hope: I'm, yet again, generalising.

Those who care about my (and your) ideas and opinions care because they harbour and value their own real, bursting, passionate ideas and opinions. Who cares is who still enjoys engaging ideas, literature, and lifestyles; they care because of a similar invested interests, and similar values. They don't see my approach (i.e. using the internet/social media) as hypocritical, but necessary. They are not ostensibly cultured, but cultured enough as to be unorthodox within "modern" culture.

Bit by bit, this blog builds itself. That's an unorthodox approach, like blind-shooting friendly-fire. This post has aided the construction, just a bit; I have somewhat more of a bearing, a direction for this blog to follow. But this is all one massive experiment: can an intangible, impersonal, inorganic creation grow and mature and become valid? Why not.

Truly Almost Bahamian

A lot has changed in all of our lives, the norms and traditions and even our human condition. Nothing is surprising. Nothing is safe. Little is sacred. Sex, music, education. Nothing is not entertainment.

How's this for change? Drug plane at Highbourne Cay, 1983 and 2011.
Top photo: Stolen from someone's Facebook ages ago; Anna Murry, dis look familiar?
Bottom photo: Spencer C. Higgs

But it's all rather poignant when I come back, and wonders I if it's the same for all: Bahamians abroad and those who lie low at home. (Though, this proverbial change of tide has proven that Bahamians do little that constitutes lying low. Indeed, this sweeping change in local paradigm is less apposite as a 'changing tide' metaphor, but more one of a 'rising sea level'.)

Nassau, What Happened? is certainly an interesting insight to a few Bahamians' view of this change. How have we aged? Us, our country? I personally cannot say with any estimated honesty that it's been all for good. You there, reading this (yes, all four of you...) what Bahamian traditions do you uphold? We actually have quite an extensive history, and an interesting one, too. Do you know it?

photo admittedly tiefed from: www.playle.com

I have to thank Vanessa, Shelagh, and Robert Pritchard for having me aboard to watch some sculling races hosted by Sands Beer. Watching people propel themselves across the shallows of Montagu Bay foreshore with the just the figure eight movement of an oar snug on the stern of a open, wooden dingy was something I hadn't experienced before, except on technicoloured, converted-slides of old VHS tapes. As I looked around, sloops were racing in the distance, a fleet of Lasers was racing out of the harbour, and there were boats just hanging about in idle float at Montegu since the days of the Fort Montagu Beach Hotel (for this reference, I have to again thank Robert Pritchard). It was, as the Sands slogan painted on the stern of each sculling dingy read, truly Bahamian. But the smiles on the faces of the skippers portrayed nothing other than nostalgic joy for doing something which, by loss of necessity, they had not done for the plus part of two decades. And I wonder, will what we now consider a usual Bahamian past time be left and forgotten in the succeeding ages and eras? What are the current usual Bahamian past times? Those not almost completely influenced by Americanisation? How many people would say KFC is their favourite Bahamian food? Not many, I hope. Mine certainly is conch salad (though a nice boil fish or sheep tongue souse is equally delectable).

Nostalgia effect; new photo made to look old. Photo: Spencer C. Higgs

I'm drawn now to the idyllic lyric of Jimmy Buffett's island ode, One Particular Harbour, in particular the chanting Tahitian outro: Ua pau te maitai no te fenua/Re zai noa ra te era o te mitie
Which, translated, sings: Bounty of the land is exhausted/But there's still abundance on the sea

(I'd like to thank the expansive wisdom of Wikipedia for that translation.) And while my inner pessimist loudly argues that the sea is likewise as exhausted as the land, maybe it's not. Not now, at least. I can still get my conch salad. I don't mean to end with such a banal sentiment, but change is inexorable, it's the surrendering of the good stuff that must be avoided. Basically, bey, dunn take 'way ma boil fish, ma conch salad, or I ga have ya tongue in sauce tonight!

This is new

What the... What's this? ... How does this thing work? ... What, you just press this button here? ... Type right here? ... What do I type? ... You're kidding me... anything? ... The whole world? ... Seriously? The whole world can read this? ... Well, that's just absurd, most people in the world aren't even literate, let alone in English... Well, what would you say? ... Oh, that's just crass, I won't say that! ... Because, it's inappropriate. Give me another idea... Entirely up to me? Total autonomy! ... The guidelines of whom? ... SOPA and PIPA? Who the hell are they? ... So, near-autonomy... Well, may I quote? ... Agreed, quotes are nice, and a great way to start off... Actually, I was thinking something all-encompassing, not too verbose, specific yet ambiguous... Or, perhaps, lines from the abstract poetics of Stephen Crane in his opium-clouded senescent days of life... right, right, from A Man Said to the Universe... Yes, I'm ready now, are you? ... Okay, here goes... "Sir, I exist."