debbie f.

She is a high school cheerleader we never knew.

She is tweed jackets in New York City.

She is lead on stage.

She is a smile from here to here.

She is stacks of good vinyl  with no shame in cassette.

She is Ruby Tuesday, sans all the Rolling Stone.

She is Saturation Before Using.

She is Tumbleweed Connection.

She is The White.

She is pallets on the living room floor.

She is stacking us three high.

She is green vegetables.

She is climbing for all of us; 

 balancing five flags,

reminding me of everything.

I have her eyes,

blinking feels good.

why i write…

Hannah Carman, 2011

As a child, I changed my future occupation aspirations daily.  I wanted to be a University of Kentucky basketball player (men’s team), a Postal Worker (rural carrier:  they drove like the British.), a Marine Biologist (my friend Tez said it would be cool), X-Ray Technician (this one blows the adult version of me away)…to name a few. From my freshman year to the beginning of my sophomore year in college my major changed from Photojournalism to Broadcasting to Interior Design to Anthropology (where I found myself a home).  

I knew I wanted to be a writer with one particular first day of school.  Rigby, my English 203 (Creative Writing) professor at Western Kentucky University, made a flash judgment that prompted me to rethink my entire future.  The second day of class (I missed the first because I was in Belize), I walked into Rigby’s class with a fresh summer tan and newly sun-kissed highlights.  Rigby said something like “nice of you to join us, Miss Carman,” and I said something like “huh, thanks”.  I turned in my first piece, a one pager about a man in Belize who picks the Bermuda grass from the Island’s golf course turf with his bare hands.  The next day in class, Rigby gave us a flipped over piece of paper and said “I owe someone an apology; she waltzed in here tan and blonde and I didn’t think she would write worth a crap.”  I flipped the page over to see my little brevity about the Belizean gardener and he said “this is a must read”.

Something in me bloomed.  I believe for the very first time, something I did was on display.  I don’t think anyone ever forgets this moment in their lives. It wasn’t my aversion to judgment (or my professor’s blatant equation of good writing to hair color) that lead me there but the way it felt for someone to love my words like I did.  I was no longer the girl who sat in the back of class anymore, scribbling inventive doodles into the margin of her notes.  I became a girl who wanted something to say.  I wasn’t someone who pulled out my nine iron and shined it with my tiny towel, ignoring the green gardener, and stepping up to the tee to take a swing.  I was the girl who missed her putt because she was watching said gardener’s hands squeezed into a cup, plucking blades from turf, wondering why. 

Writing requires me to also be something else.  Sometimes a collection of somethings.  Sometimes for a short period of time and sometimes for what seems like ages.  I have to go kind-of crazy and the rest pours out in words; sweet, slow, necessary.

I tacked on Writing as a double major to my Anthropology; melding my two loves of people and their stories.   My writing became less about being on display and more about experimenting with the vast amount of voices running through my life.  The watermelon salesman who sits outside of the flea market across from the fruit stand I worked.  A young black girl coloring with the “flesh” crayon.  A notorious amateur wrestler named Cheeseburger. A young man obsessed with vacuum cleaners.  Suddenly, I could become anybody.  I was able to explore all the idiosyncrasies that left me wondering about the real-life characters I encountered.  I was also able to explore and embellish quirks of my own.   It was the same as my childhood occupation aspirations: half curious, half playful.

I am a wonderer.  People are a mystery to me that I want solved.  People are the best part.   There are so many people in the world whose stories are never, ever told.  I am a writer partly because I want to write them. I want to wonder and write.  Write and wonder.

I have never felt small, even when my body was.  There has always been something hidden inside my lankiness, scratching against the surface to get out. In recent years, I discovered that hidden bit has always been my voice.  Not the voice that I let flow from my mouth in measured beats.  Not the voice, ever the middle child, harmonizing. In the written word, voice is a very different monster.  My voice became the narrative which filled in the blanks of all my wonderings.  And that, along the way, became very necessary. 

I release this bit of background with purpose.  This re-telling of a relatively happy, unchallenged, childhood and adolescence plays a specific role in my fingers to the keys.  Who you are as a child never really fades, even as you become increasingly less innocent.  However, this innocence reveals itself within the vulnerability of the writing process.  My voice needs constant attention. My voice needs information.  My voice needs experience to build upon.  My voice needs an audience in giggles.  I became a writer when I decided to give my voice what it really wants. To initiate the drama inside me that doesn’t come out in my reactions to real-life characters.  It’s the characters I exaggerate or create who see this side of me.  It’s on them I spend all my drama.

It may have been academia which inspired me to write but it was life afterward which ushered in all the guilt of a writer, inactive.  Only to a writer is a blank page an invitation.  Only to a writer is a blank page also a curse.  When I released myself into the “real-world”, navigating the economy of the jobless, my voice became angry.  Something it has never, ever, been.

The inactive voice is relative to a ticking bomb for a writer.  You find yourself repeating the phrase, “I also write,” after your current job description; since that is the first question a stranger ever asks.    It became the portal to justification of working outside my content area, outside of my desired income range, for a boss I literally hated.

I wrote horribly then. I poured myself into excerpts of Friday nights, recorded hilarious and drunken quotes from friends, and rehearsed versions of my letter of resignation.  The biggest stabs at prose I took in those years were playful two-stanza poems I swapped with co-workers to kill the time in my cubicle.  I knew this was not the kind of writing I dreamed about from Rigby’s class.  I noticed that the dream morphed a bit, as dreams often do.  My writing became something that kept me afloat during an eight hour day. It helped me record moments that made me laugh better than any picture I could have taken. 

I find many people in my life asking me to be serious.  Settle down into something.  Stop day dreaming for once and be serious about something.  No scratch that, be serious about everything.  Sometimes I feel like a Nerf girl.  I get attention without breaking through.  I have been making a soft and muted sound, non-threatening, perhaps just for fun.  No matter how I feel toward a job, a relationship, or people I am fused together with; I seek the funny parts.  It is often an evasive task.   I am an Anthropologist of amusement with an acute attention to detail.  During the portion of time that my writing was almost completely inactive, I sopped up details highlighted by my often monotonous day.  I would watch my boss ranting about sales numbers of a product that no longer mattered in its own marketplace.  I zeroed in on his moving mustache and became an expert of muting all the words streaming out of it.  I created my own storyline and it was hilarious. 

I am a collection of somethings.  I have always been someone who learns the hard way and by fitting into foreign forms.  I observe the world with an internal eye and I believe no one sees it quite the same.  I have an undeniable desire to express that world in words; to bring to life the hidden messages my eye doesn’t see.  It is the one area of my life I seek to be so much more than raw. 

Houdini loved to vaporize and so do I.  It’s reappearing that is the real act.  To write is to resurface with something to say.  I have no desire to leave the story of the vanished untold.  I have no use for that mystery. 

In other news:  I no longer bother with the blonde highlights. :/

29 things…

Today is one month before my 30th birthday and here are 29 things I have learned so far:

1.       I can’t really remember what it feels like to be 18.

2.       Bourbon is good with Coke.

3.       The grocery store is an outing.

4.       It’s okay to dance alone, in your bathroom, in your socks, sometimes naked, and act like you’re just showering.

5.       Nobody is perfect.

6.       The most important dream is to laugh so often your face wrinkles like parentheses to your teeth.

7.       I am not magnificent.

8.       Sleeping in is a gift.

9.       If you are fortunate enough to have kids in your life, try and see yourself like they do.

10.   Music applies to almost every moment.

11.   Live with someone. It is way more hilarious.

12.   If dogs don’t like you, you are not to be trusted.

13.   Nail polish is the ultimate accessory.

14.   Sometimes things can be TOO beautiful. 

15.   Little brothers will never stop being little brothers.

16.   Nerf basketball is the perfect sporting event to get drunk for.

17.   My parents were right.

18.   Burgundy is the wrong color.  Always.  So is mauve, girrrrrl.

19.   The Top 25 Most Played Playlist on your iTunes explains everything you are at that exact moment.

20.    Every meal must involve spice.

21.   I exceed the most when I’m not expected to.

22.   Money will never stop being a problem to be solved. 

23.   I am not really who I thought I might be.

24.   People who speak the most aggressively in judgment are those you should fear most.

25.   The grass is sooooooooooooo greeeeeeeeeeeen.

26.   Never carry a full ceramic flower pot, in the rain, in 3-year-old Old Navy flip flops, at 9-o-clock on Kentucky Derby Weekend.

27.   Read Charles Bukowksi and Nicholas Sparks to see just where the fuck you find yourself in between.

28.   Spite is just someone proving how many things they can name.

29.   It’s boring to have everything figured. 

….more to follow.

radio killed the music snob

Track 1: Nicki Minaj-“Super Bass”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JipHEz53sU&ob=av2e

He seems completely normal at first.  He can hold a pleasant conversation and begin to unravel the parts of your smile you keep hidden.  He is all too often conducting himself with wit and a quirkiness that seems to just fit.  You might find him interesting; with the ability to code switch into multiple conversation toast points.  Hands down, this will never cease to excite you.  That is until the lights in the restaurant dim in its day-to-night evolution.  A song by Nicki Minaj triggers your head to a bob and no doubt, he notices this.  His smile falters.   With just thirty seconds of “Super Bass” and the undeniable smile on your face that it has inspired, all the common ground you have established over the past hour seems to fade to black.  His face freezes over and you can’t believe it’s happening again.  With just a furrow of his eyebrows, he is revealed.  You are in the presence of a music snob.

“I don’t listen to the radio,” he might say with an air of annoyance.  As if to say, “obviously you do and that is a major problem”.  He then tells you he only subscribes to “real music” or that “you haven’t really heard this song until you’ve heard it on vinyl”.  The music snob is a person of refined musical taste who feels employed to enlighten everyone else in the world of all that is good and decent in the wide world of music.  Don’t even question them, for they know far more than you.  They know what artists are perfect and they know those who don’t deserve a fair shake.  The music snob is an expert at identifying a “sell out” artist and takes these musical successes as an insult to mankind. 

You, however, find Nicki Minaj enchanting.  You dance in the mirror to her infectious, rapid-fire rhymes.  You might admit you have missed a couple of turns on the way to work because you were so lost in the her recycled beats, made fresh by the inventive personas she raps through.  Nicki makes you feel light in a world with too much heaviness.  She makes your head bob organically and makes it impossible to keep your toes still.  You believe this is quite something.

Track 2:  Bon Iver-“Holocene”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWcyIpul8OE

Music makes our lives better and wiggles itself alongside our present emotions.   This is the power of the stuff; it can make us feel warm, angry, lonely or invigorated.  It punctuates our days by filling it with sound.  Music freezes our memories in time and makes soundtracks of our age.  We pack artists in ice inside our brain and with one note of reappearance; a song can melt the past.  Therefore, the subjective question of “is this good?’ becomes obsolete.  The question of “do I love this?” becomes far more imperative.  Music snobs combine the two, “I love this because it’s good.”  This statement leaves out the organic reaction to a song, a beat, or lyric.  Because it makes so many holes in the enjoyment of music, music snobbery must stop. 

In icy subjectivity with statements such as “this is manufactured bullshit”, the music snob shrouds themselves in mysterious judgment.  It leaves one to wonder, “When did you begin to hate the power of music?” 

Since his freshman album “Emma, Forever Ago” in 2007, Bon Iver has been a hero of indie-rock music.  Born Justin Vernon, Bon Iver recorded much of his first album alone in a cabin in the woods of Northwestern Wisconsin.  His very own Waldon Pond experience led him to produce a beautiful and raw collection of songs that illustrated his current heartbreak.  This is a story I have heard from many a music snob; as if it were a fable to be passed on to other generations.  I believe that Bon Iver didn’t intend for this story to define his musical genius.  It is his haunting falsetto voice in ground-breaking harmonies and complicated guitar and piano rifts that set him apart from others making music.  I personally believe that he is a unicorn of the music world, especially after his release of his self-titled sophomore album in spring of 2011.  However, it wasn’t his pilgrimage to the cabin in the woods that hooked me to his sound.    It was the beauty of his music, inviting me along

 Track 3:  Foster the People-“Waste”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbEVzpdOlVg

Music snobs get caught up in the “coolness” of things.  To them, other people’s opinions on musical taste are useless.  They erase these opinions from any perceptions they might make on their own.  Therefore, the music snob certifies himself as a musical Psychologist.  They make prescriptions to the “general population music listener” so they perhaps can become cured of their ignorance.  One such prescription might be presented as follows:

“So, you like Nicki Minaj?  Maybe try Santigold.  She has worked with Karen O. of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs , Mark Ronson, the Strokes, and MIA.  She’s a legit female hip hop act, fused with electronic elements.”

Or

“Drake?  No, no, no.  You need to try Das Racist; they are an urgent new voice of rap.  They are the real deal.  Drake is the manufactured stuff.”

The music snob rarely takes into consideration your possible knowledge of the remedies he prescribes.  He will probably not ask you if Santigold’s first album “Santogold” was a permanent staple on your iPod for months.  Or that Das Racist’ 2011 album, “Relax” has been on full spin from your “New Digs” playlist.  You are to simply nod with the reply, “yeah, I’ll check her/them out.”  The non-conformist attitude they have in relation to anything popular on the radio automatically replaces one artist with another.  Leaving the regular ole’ music lover to wonder, “Why can’t I love them both?” 

One element of music that makes it relatable is that it is purposely presented with a specific audience in mind. The music snob wastes the idea of a perfectly chosen audience for an artist.  By whittling down “great music” to nubs in their irrelevant critiques they are wasting all the purpose the artist infused the music with. 

Night clubs need Nicki Minaj, Drake, Kanye West, Beyonce and Jay Z.  Hipster bars need The Smiths, Tom Waits, and Neutral Milk Hotel. It is possible that the general music lover needs all of them to complete an appropriate and well-rounded road-trip playlist.   

Track 4: Radiohead-“Little by Little (Caribou Remix)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fnbcLT1wojs

Without knowing, music snobs are actually doing their beloved bands a disservice.  With such a narrow analysis of what great music is, the music snob kills an artist’s natural evolutionary process.  Just like our taste buds, our ear buds change too.  While someone who loves music may decide that a new album from a favorite artist isn’t up to par; the music snob crosses the artist off the cool list. 

Especially now, with music coming at us in more accessible ways than ever, it is hard for an artist to keep making valuable music.  The music snob doesn’t take this in stride.  To them, the evolution of an artist looks much like this:

                                                                                                                                                                                                              Therefore, Therefore, they categorize their love of an artist as “phases”.  If indie-based artists somehow hit mainstream success, they immediately become a sell-out.  Popular examples of this are Coldplay, Kings of Leon, Gwyn Stephani, and The Black Eyed Peas.  The explanation given to any past interest in a sell-out artist is “I like their old stuff” or “I went through a real ________ phase in college, I’m over them now.” 

In my opinion, opening up a band to the mainstream audience is good for all music lovers and the artists as well.  They may not be starving artists who created their first albums with the vigor of a musician begging for mercy but they transform into learning the expanse of audiences they can reach.  How is this a bad thing, Mr./Mrs. Music Snob?  More people are allowed to latch onto an artist’s vision and share this experience with those around them, continuing the spread. 

One common loophole to the music snob’s mainstream artist aversion is one band…Radiohead.  Though the band has had mainstream hits such as “Creep” and “High and Dry”, the music snob remains a tried and true fan. This is a somewhat redeeming quality of the music snob for me.  They can’t ignore truly amazing music with a wave of the hand.  Some bands, like Radiohead, know their general audience but don’t attempt to be mainstream or underground either one.  They simply make music which is accessible to multiple audiences and transform themselves with each album, without erasing the natural qualities which make them who they are as a band. 

Track 5: Ryan Adams-“Oh My God, Whatever, etc./Everybody Knows”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzoSvqxgQyA

To reiterate, I believe what makes music important is not the question of “is this good?” but “do I love this?”  The power of a song to bring a day from dim to light is not to be ignored, oh ye Music Snob.  Your good isn’t necessarily my own.  Therefore, both of our opinions rarely matter.  What is truly important about experiencing music is to be open to its transformative properties.  I believe music has the ability to change a listener, to make a wallflower dance, to put spring into steps, to inspire an infectious mood.

I have a recurring fantasy each time a new music snob enters my life.  I imagine them driving the interstate and their iPod dying from a discharge. All that remains for their on-going two-hour trip is pop-radio.  Lady Gaga or Justin Timberlake or Kelly Clarkson or a compilation from a soundtrack of Glee comes on the radio (these interchange seamlessly).  The music snob resists at first and seconds into the track, it remains well-snubbed. Then, for one reason or another, (an introduction of the bridge, a piercing lyric which rings true, or a particularly infectious beat) the head of the music snob begins to nod.  The nod, so slight that the fly on the wall misses it completely, still transforms the music snob into a “real music lover”.  For that tiny second, he/she gives into the experience of music to an open mind.  Even though the nod will mostly likely be catalogued to a long, secret, list entitled, “guilty pleasures”.  The fantasized nod is enough to satiate me so I whisper, “your secret is safe with me”.