Garbage Men and The Trash They Keep

This evening there was another rave held at Diva's nightclub. I didn't attend. Instead I went to a short story/poetry reading. There were one or two pretty good speakers out of the bunch. The two social gathers, the reading and the rave, are very different but I would say that the latter is far more exhausting. We listen, we feel, we dance, we understand, and we dance some more.


This is the recording setup I had in my room over Spring Break. Somehow I was able to set everything up to the preamp (even the record player) without crossing audio and electrical cables. If these two kinds of wires cross it results in some sort of static interference. The songs that we got out of the session are just sitting on my computer waiting to be spliced, reverberated and mixed. Sometimes I like to distance myself from projects so that I can come back later with new eyes.

Speak easy,
Neil

Raise The Ground, Don't Lower The Bar

My teacher described the book we are currently reading, which happens to be The Belly of the Atlantic by Fatou Diome, as a piece of Transnational "Post-Colonial" Auto-Fiction. This means that the book is a semi-autobiographic work of fiction that was written after the European/American colonial era and is set across several countries and continents. If, and when, I do get around to writing whatever large project I am compelled to write, it would definitely be labeled the same as Diome's novel.


Art is kind of a strange thing. You get this idea in your head and you want to execute it but you put it off and put it off. It takes a shape in your head, it is so clear and defined and detailed. Most of that stuff in my head never comes to fruition. Almost like there are things in your head and then there are things that you create and usually they are mutually exclusive. Part of it has to do with letting yourself down. If you never complete something, it will always hold some great possibilities. You imbibe the treasured notion of perfection and anything short of that beauty is a disappointment. The things I do finish are just a result of a careless whim. A one night stand with a guitar or a notebook. I suppose it is sometimes best to have no expectations.



The pictures in today's blog are some more rave pictures that I came across. I think they exemplify the atmosphere of the situation fairly well.

Speak easy,
Neil

Snowflakes and Spinart

Tonight I went to a rave in North Hampton. It is a pretty interesting experience. The music is loud (sizzling), most of the people are in an altered state ("Rollin" or Drunk), and the lights scatter like snowflakes and spinart. To the best of my knowledge, going to a rave is probably something reserved for those in their late-teens, early 20's. When you enter, you either get a wristband (to show that you are 21 and old enough to order drinks at the bar) or "X"s drawn in sharpie on either hand (to show that you are not). Most of the people with "X"s on their hands are drunk anyway because they pre-game (or drink alcohol beforehand) or just sneak drinks into the club. Girls that are under 21 usually get drinks anyway by propositioning men with wristbands some beer so that they can replace some of their blood for alcohol. When alcohol replaces blood in the your bloodstream you tend to act stupid. It's science.


The dancing itself will often involve moving the arms, legs, and body in a rhythmic fashion until exhaustion. Even cold sober, the abundance of people, the lights, and the sounds can easily discombobulate one into a confused/drunken state of mind. You don't try to dance, you just do. The only people who really stand out are the ones not dancing, or the ones who take their shirts off.

The rave was held at Diva's, known for being NoHo's premier gay bar. Once in a while UMass will throw a student run event there (not specifically aimed at homosexuals). The only part of the rave that I find specifically uncomfortable is the restroom situation. In these bars there is always some guy looming in the bathroom waiting for someone to make a subtle pass at him.


This is Michaela (some girl who went to High School with Lev), Lev (my roommate), and me. Somehow the flash makes me looks specifically pale.

Speak easy,
Neil