My top songs of 2008

Once again, it's time for my review of the year in music. Admittedly, my list of music favorites each year is terribly lopsided and self-interested, since it's based on my experience of music over the past 12 months, and not necessarily the hottest releases from the hottest bands. Look elsewhere for the Super-Definitive List of the Greatest New Music of 2008 (Paste has a pretty good list – though I think they have a weird ability to consistently miss the #1 album of the year).

5. "Sex on Fire" – Kings of Leon. Weirdest title of the year; most satisfying straight-up rock delivery. (Listen for the fill at 2:23 and make rock fingers.) I love the fact this song seemed to be written in a key that is slightly higher than the vocalist can comfortably handle; listening to him reach is glorious.

4. "Blue Ridge Mountains" – Fleet Foxes. Like everyone out there with a pair of fully functional ears and an affection for three-part harmony, I loved the entire Fleet Foxes album. Part of what makes this group of musicians so exciting is their youth (the members ages are 22, 22, 27, 31, and 27). When I listen to them, I hear years of beautiful future songs glimmering off in the distance. Fleet Foxes managed to shoplift everything I like about My Morning Jacket (shimmering harmonies, transparent arrangements) and left behind all the stuff I don't like (the occasional hairband screechiness). I hope these guys stay together for a long time.

3. "Ramblin' (Wo)Man" – Cat Power. I always feel like a cornball including a cover on my list of the year's top songs, but I think Cat Power belongs on this list. Cat Power's Jukebox confirmed Chan Marshall's special ability to add her own beautiful character to a song. Her aching vocals coupled with the echo-chamber production made this a huge favorite for me.

2. "Little Person" – written by Jon Brion, as performed by Deanna Storey. Hated the movie (Synecdoche, N.Y.). Adored the soundtrack. Jon Brion does diminished chords better than anyone writing music today. This song is classic Brion soundtrack gorgeousness. A simple vocal, a gentle piano accompaniment, a lyric about longing and loneliness. It doesn't get much better than this.

1. "A Change Is Gonna Come" – Sam Cooke. This is the first time I've included a song from the 1960s in my year's top discoveries. In some ways, it is an odd one to include in the top spot. Of course, I knew this song before 2008. But this year, I heard this song in a totally different way. The morning after Barack Obama won the presidential election, I turned this song up to a good volume, sat down and took a few deep breaths. I've never cared about a presidential election the way I cared about the election this past fall. I am thrilled with Obama's victory and with the way that he has captured the imagination of so many people in this country and around the world. I think 2008 was Obama's year. (2009 and 2010 may be his years, as well.) I can't wait for him to become president of my country.

Honorable Mentions:
"Days Like This" and "Greatest Story" – Kim Taylor
"Goodnight, California" – Kathleen Edwards
"I Will Possess Your Heart" – Death Cab for Cutie. Those drums! That bass! That piano! It goes on and on! I love it!
"Burn You Up, Burn You Down" – Peter Gabriel, Billy Cobham, et al. (from the Big Blue Ball collection)
"For Emma" – Bon Iver
"Lost Coastlines" – Okkervil River. This became my "11-pm-and-still-working-and-got-3-more-hours-of-work-to-do" failproof fire-me-up song.
"Oh No" – KaiserCartel. Discovered on the utterly fantastic Chirp mix, which you should probably know about.

Talk back to me! What were your favorite songs of the year?

cities of 2008

Over the years, I've seen lists like this done on websites here and there: a list of cities you visited that year. "Cities visited" in this case means a city in which you spent at least one night. Here's my list for 2008:

White Springs, Florida
Harlan, Kentucky
Morristown, Tennessee
Pennington Gap, Virginia
Camden, Maine
Asheville, North Carolina

Quite a few modest destinations on the list—Harlan, Kentucky certainly isn't a tourist spot. I traveled to some hardscrabble cities this year for a work project, and that trip turned out to be one of the neatest parts of the year. Exploring the world is one of those things I'd do a lot more frequently if I had my druthers.

Dear FutureMe

Today was an unexpected treat. I received an email I had written to myself back in May through the website FutureMe. I'd forgotten about sending this email to myself, so it was neat to read it today.

Here's the email I wrote to myself:

Dear FutureMe,

This is just a note to say, you're doing fine. Don't sweat the money when things slow down (they inevitably will). Right now, it's Saturday afternoon, May 31. You are busting a hump to try to get a project completed for Matt. Close on the heels are additional projects for Alan, Cooper, John, etc. It's a very busy season and you're billing well.

This is just to say, when you get to December, feel free to SLOW DOWN. Check out some books from the library. Get a massage. Go for a quiet drive. Take naps without feeling a stitch of guilt. Don't sweat it if business is slow. You've worked very hard, and you've stayed very focused, and you've earned a break.

You rock, girl.

love,
me

- - - - - - - - - -

If you've never checked out FutureMe, give it a look. It's a very simple concept -- write an email to yourself now and designate some future delivery date. (I think it's good to push the delivery off several months, far enough into the future that you forget all about it for a while.)

What advice would you give to your future self? What permission or encouragement would you give your future self? The exercise is surprisingly challenging and really pretty fun once you get into it. Give it a try.

an open letter to Charlie Kaufman

Dear Charlie Kaufman,

Your movie sucked.

Listen, I appreciate complex, layered, modern films. I've watched, re-watched, mused over and enjoyed many of David Lynch's movies. I clapped in delight when frogs began falling from the sky in Magnolia. I am not afraid of ambiguity, absurdity, or complexity.

So I was really looking forward to seeing your most recent film, Synecdoche, New York. In fact, I was practically shivering with anticipation as I entered the theatre on Saturday night. My friend Shannan was with me. She is working on a Ph.D., and she teaches film theory at Emory University. (You would like her. She is very smart.)

The theatre darkened. The movie started. The details unfolded, one after another. With such care I noted them. The calendars on the wall, the dates on the newspaper. I am watching! I am feeling! I am caring! But there was no reason to care. The movie fell apart so quickly. Yet it it died very slowly. It was extremely painful to watch.

I saw a blimp flying through a warehouse, a child walking down the street in Halloween garb, a house perpetually engulfed in flames. What I did not find was a compelling story, a heart, a reason to keep watching.

As the closing credits rolled, I looked over at Shannan with a pained expression. I half-figured she would say, "How interesting! I really enjoyed that. The metaphor of the burning house was so rich!"

Instead, she just said, "That was awful."

We went back to her house and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, just to rinse away the terrible taste of Synecdoche. Charlie, when Eternal Sunshine is the pink cupcake served at the end of a long, difficult meal, you have truly dined at a bitter table.

I wanted to see this movie because I wanted to be reminded of what I enjoy about movies -- your movies in particular. I love how they feel both huge and deeply intimate. I love their complexity. I love how they are bleak and hopeful and funny and tragic all at the same time. I wanted to see the piece I had read about in Manohla Dargis' review of Synecdoche, New York: a film "about the struggle to make your mark in a world filled with people who are more gifted, beautiful, glamorous and desirable than the rest of us." Charlie, that's a theme I can connect with. But I'm still waiting for you to make that movie. This was not it. This was a movie about headwounds, depression, pustules, fire, suicide, and an extremely uncomfortable striptease by a daughter for her father.

Do better next time! Please!
Romanlily

p.s. For real. If I really needed to see that many shots of poop sinking to the bottom of filthy toilets, I'm sure there are underground internet groups that cater to that kind of thing.

Late bloomers

I've been thinking a lot over the past few weeks about an article from Malcolm Gladwell that appeared in the New Yorker last month. "Late Bloomers" is the title of the article.

I've liked Gladwell for a while, but this article raised my appreciation for his writing to new level. I'm very thankful for this article.

In the article, he compares "child prodigies" to "late bloomers." He illuminates the difference between Picasso (who began producing powerful work in his 20s) and Cezanne (who plugged away for decades and produced his best work at the end of his life).

Naturally, I'm reading something of my own situation into this article. Because I've been panicking just a little lately. I'm in my mid-30s! I should have accomplished more by now! I'm sunk! It's all downhill from here! (Et cetera, ad nauseam.)

One of the bits from the article that I appreciated most was this quote from economist David Galenson, discussing the "slow burn" approach to creativity from the Cezannes of the world:

The imprecision of their goals means that these artists rarely feel they have succeeded, and their careers are consequently often dominated by the pursuit of a single objective. These artists repeat themselves, painting the same subject many times, and gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trial and error. Each work leads to the next, and none is generally privileged over others, so experimental painters rarely make specific preparatory sketches or plans for a painting. They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods. These artists are perfectionists and are typically plagued by frustration at their inability to achieve their goal.

Boy, does that resonate. The quote talks about frustration, but I was so heartened to read it: Maybe there's hope for me! Maybe there are still good photos in my future! Maybe it's OK that I feel stalked, haunted, hunted by work still begging to be made.

I have begun seeing my therapist again with some regularity. She helped me through my divorce, and after that, I gradually tapered off my visits. But lately it seems like it's time to get back into a conversation. Last time I saw her, we started talking about photography again, for the thousandth time, about how frequently I dream about photography, about how I "don't know what I'm doing with it," but how I feel deeply compelled to keep working at it. Every time I choose not to follow it or engage with it, it feels like a self-inflicted wound. It feels like a big old lie.

She said, "I'm glad you're bringing this up now. I think you should bring some of your work in with you next time, and we'll talk about it." She is an artist herself, and someone I admire hugely. This feels like it could be an interesting conversation.

So, here I am, Saturday afternoon, ordering some prints for our session coming up this week. I have no idea what will come of these sessions, but it feels so good to open up the conversation about photography in a place that is totally safe. I'm taking prints of Amy with me (above). The photos I most recently shot were of her (see also this photo and this pairing). She is an inspiration and a favorite model. These photos feel like a good place to start.

why I find corporate America so annoying

Though I am mostly out on my own lately, I still freelance occasionally for a major corporate client. It's good money, and it helps fill in the gaps in my freelance work flow. So I'm grateful. Of course, that one bit of corporate freelancing still comes with a lot of stupidity. Here's the first sentence I came across in my inbox this morning:

"We talked last week about the importance of actively engaging around the Value Campaigns that are being rolled out in our local market, and providing impactful "on-the-ground" support to both our GEP's and our local Campaign Champions in ensuring that we are successfully executing against both identified and logical additions to the target lists."

With language like that, it's no wonder I wanted to leave an environment like this...

I am thinking about prayer

Tonight I am thinking about prayer. I miss it. I want it back.

I somehow gave prayer up around the time of my divorce in 2005. (My friend Amy wrote a perfectly wonderful first sentence in a short story years ago. It says something like, "I quit praying a few years ago, around the same time I quit smoking, and for the same reasons." I've botched the line dreadfully, but I can't find a record of the real thing.)

When I quit praying, back in 2005, it was hard at first. I kept reaching for it, like Amy's cigarette. I felt frustrated by my own spiritual confusion. I wanted desperately to have everything figured out. I believed prayer would work best if I had broad, open lines between me and the Deity, whatever his/her name was. It would be best if I knew my place and worked forward from there. But I didn't know what to call God. I got hung up from the get-go. Praying is tough when you literally can't get past the first word.

Last week I came across this bit of a Rumi poem. I feel like it was written for me:

If you cannot pray sincerely, offer your dry, hypocritical,
agnostic prayer; for God in His mercy accepts bad coin.

It doesn't matter if we have it all figured out, or if we're totally confused. It still counts.

My mother asked me nervously last week, after the election was over, after my father was out of earshot, if I considered myself a Republican or a Democrat. I didn't give her a straight answer; I wasn't in the mood to break her heart with my liberal politics. Later I realized her question was probably about my faith — she wanted to know if her daughter is still Christian, if her daughter still shares her values, if her daughter still believes in God.

I still don't know what I believe. I'm really not interested in studying different understandings of the divine and figuring out resonates most with me.

But I think prayer is a worthy pursuit. I think finding a way to feel connected to something larger than ourselves is a worthy pursuit.

People need prayer. They deserve prayer. Maybe prayer is one of the best gifts I have to offer people who are in a lot of pain. So tonight I am praying for my friend S. who is working hard to get her life back after suffering from depression for years. I'm praying for J.'s mother, who is in the hospital again with an unexplained illness. I'm praying for D., a woman I've never met, whose young son died unexpectedly this week. I'm praying for J., who is stretched thin with the demands of motherhood, who needs a really good night of sleep.

Ultimately this is about connection with a greater, older, deeper wisdom. Mary Oliver says it better than I ever could:

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.