what the very first milliseconds of a part ii look like.
that moment when you get exactly what you’ve always wanted and wished for, when you finally finish strong and first and win and celebrate, when you realize that what you’ve won isn’t what you’re proud to say you worked so hard for, when you suddenly see things so clearly — how far away you are from what you really want, what you were supposed to want all along but were too damn afraid to stick your neck out for, what is actually quite scary and farfetched and much more probable to fail than succeed.
that is a moment that cannot be ignored. it’s not apathy or boredom or ungratefulness; it’s all that pride finally stepping back and letting confidence fill that place that’s been housing way too many insecurities. it can’t be unseen, unheard, unfulfilled now. it will continue to disrupt sleep with wondrous what-if’s and spit discontentment on all subsequent successes.
in other words, it’s confusing, annoying, persistent and determined, and it won’t ever shut up until you give it what it ask for.
sound familiar?
are you listening?!
sobriety requires cutting back and moving forward.
Amidst an unremarkable job hunt and a discouraging self-score on a GRE practice test, I searched for editorial encouragement in my past writings, my pieces submitted as final projects in college. The ones covered in positive comments from my professors and stamped with the first letter of the alphabet on the last page of the draft.
And either teachers are taught how to lie through their teeth or they’re just naturally the nicest people on the planet, because I just reread my final article for my media writing workshop—all twenty pages of it—and it’s a load of crap. My eyes hurt from reading over so many cliche phrases (and rolling in reaction to them too), my ears sting from listening to an all-too-familiar “holier-than-thou” tone, my jaw hurts from dropping every time I thought I knew how to properly use an em dash. I can’t believe I thought I was ready back then…and I can’t believe how far I haven’t come since I proudly turned in that paper.
The way I read Ernest Hemingway’s words “Write drunk; edit sober” is both literally and metaphorically: spill absolutely everything you have in you on the page as if you’re completely wasted in a bar and talking your friend’s ear off with deep-rooted confessions and threads of your imagination. Then, after stepping away from it with a good night’s rest, a nutritious meal and a strong swallow of electrolytes, come back and edit with fresh eyes, usually accompanied with a heart of regret from revealing so much and shoulders that feel lighter because, against your normal judgment and due to your inebriated state of mind, you did so.
And I feel as if I’ve been drunk for so many years now, telling everyone I know about how I want to be a writer and tell the stories of those who cannot share them themselves. But I haven’t even been able to tell mine properly; I know how to spot AP style mistakes and I can edit essays with ease, but it’s the actual act of coming back to a piece for a second that’s my trouble. The decision to reinvest time and effort into my own piece of unfinished work is the brick wall I could not—or cannot—break past.
Because to do so might take more work than I’m ready for, more time than I anticipated, more money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime, with no guarantee that the end result is worth national publication or any kind of paycheck. Is it worth it, then? Is it worth the endless loan payments and the possibility of joining the 99%?
I don’t know, I won’t know until it’s over if it was worth it, but it’s up to me to get there and make it so, instead of letting fear and laziness stop me from trying. Here’s to hoping that it all works out in the end, whether on a masthead, in a cubicle or in front of a classroom…as long as I’m not indefinitely on the fence.
And as for that article, it’s a load of crap because its ending is inauthentic, sloppily slapped together minutes before its deadline. I’ll write up the rest of it once I’m done playing out this plot line; I guess it isn’t over just yet.
artist ambition check: artist? ambition? check.
JR: How can I fix the world, I am just an artist.
Prize Director: No, no. You don’t need to FIX the world. You just need to CHANGE it.
“It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard…is what makes it great.”
- Jimmy Dugan, A League of Their Own (1992)
let all of that discouragement become the motivation to conquer yet another voice who said you couldn’t do it. because you’re too weak, you’re too afraid, you’re not worthy of what lies in the valley beyond the mountain that you’re trying to climb with baby steps. prove them wrong. prove even yourself wrong by investing in yourself and earning for yourself what you deserve. what is yours. what the world is actually celebrating once it’s finally in your hands and all those who loudly doubted finally learn how to shut the fxck up.
…especially when that voice is your own.
Some people are lucky enough to stumble across the right path straight away; most of us only discover what the right one is by going down the wrong one first.
Dropping Acid
Jazz music in San Diego is alive and well…and occasionally a big acidic!
Occasionally, innovative improvisation seizes the stage of the music industry, breaking the boring and predictable rhythm of monotony with something refreshing and new. Decades ago, DJ Gilles Peterson dug through crates of vinyl to sample ‘70s jazz, soul and funk grooves at a British nightclub, sparking a new subgenre: acid jazz, loosely defined as jazz mixed with funk, soul, hip hop, electronic and disco, with beats and bass at the forefront.
“Jazz has seen many transformations over the years: bebop, hard-bop, traditional, smooth, soul, swing, free, funk, fusion, and, yes, acid,” says Chad Fox, radio host for KSDS Jazz 88.3. “It’s not in what some people may call its traditional form, but that’s the beauty of jazz – it doesn’t have to be.”
Throughout the late ‘80s and into the ‘90s, DJs and musicians collaborated live, putting bands like The Brand New Heavies and Jamiroquai in demand and on rotation. Percussionists imitated the beats of mixmasters and paired it with jazz chords, soul grooves and funk bass lines. To this day, this fusion music plays loud throughout Europe, but the “acid jazz movement” isn’t exactly interrupting Top 40 playlists.
“Acid jazz is a past term,” says Karl Denson. “It was recognized in the media when it was new and fresh, but its time is now over.” Denson, the vocalist, saxophonist and founding member of jazz prodigy ensembles Greyboy Allstars and Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe, calls his sound “deliciously funky soul” and infuses some tracks with Afro-beats, sitar strums and surreal psychedelic production touches. Though Denson has met success – playing saxophone alongside Lenny Kravitz, recording multiple albums and booking a national tour (including two nights in LA later this month), today’s opportunity for acid jazz artists to find fame beyond niche audiences is rare.
“Most genres of music had their spotlight in the time period they were constructed,” adds Fox. “Acid jazz kind of falls into that underground category; most people just prefer what’s hot and happening today.”
Well, acid jazz may be underground, but it’s hot. And happening. Today. If you look for it. Here’s who to watch out for and how to witness their mind-tripping music the way it was meant to be: live.
Read the rest of “Dropping Acid” in the latest issue of 944 Magazine, available around San Diego and online!
—-
that’s the first page of april’s “Dropping Acid”, a profile on the local acid jazz scene. my other article, “For Music Junkies” lent space to Sezio and T.U.K. Shoes, and it was a pleasure to feature Owl and Bear, The Sleeping Giant Music Blog, and Friends with Both Arms as the mag’s favorite local music blogs…and then to have the shoutout featured on these blogs as well!
i just came back from 944’s april issue release party at analog, celebrating everyone’s hard work on an issue that features so much talent from all of SD neighborhoods and musical genres. i spent the evening meeting the people I’ve been emailing back and forth before a tight deadline, while catching up with fellow writers and the amazing senior managing editor who brings it all together: issue after issue after issue.
amidst a heavy load at school, a demanding schedule at work and a shockingly silent postgraduate job market, the conversations i had tonight sealed my fate: this is the career i want to further explore, pursue, even chase, if necessary. even as a child, i’ve always been more than content when playing around with these twenty-six letters, and nothing felt better than consuming creative combinations from the pages of monthly magazines. i want to be a writer and editor because, honestly, i don’t know what would happen if i didn’t become one.
i’m pretty much posting this for myself, to reread when i get discouraged while drowning in job applications over the next few weeks. but if you’re reading this, thank you for your support - and please, wish me luck!
five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
so thankful for inner voices and outer limits; for friends & family who stand beside you regardless of what’s in front of you and what’s behind you; for second chances, nine lives, twenty-one choices and endless opportunities; for grace that puts hope back into faith and love.
a few bad days shall not redefine a good life: 2010 felt like the longest year, but it is over. that just automatically makes my 2011 great…andddd it’s only been an hour!
abcdfacbdfdbcafdbfca pnppnpwiwiwnppwip
so I finally checked my grades for the fall quarter: evaluations from three writing classes based entirely on quality of work…right?
and class participation.
and workshop critiques.
and tardiness.
and attendance.
and god knows what else actually matters.
honestly, im not sure why i even bothered to check. because at the end of the day, i know that i can write. the goals of my college education are not automatically met when my GPA reaches a certain decimal point value or when the diploma is finally mailed to my home - all of that could happen before any graduate actually knows what the heck they’re doing with all this “knowledge”. these days, the twenty-something is both the most idealistic individual in progressive thinking and the most devolved generation in traditional work ethic, and it’s gonna take a lot more than a degree and a test score to make a difference in this world. does anyone ever remember what the third lecture of any class was about?!
with another birthday already only a week away, i’m approaching that age where I could actually become what I wanted to be when I “grew up”. and when i was little, I actually dreamed of being a writer. i flipped religiously through the pages of ym magazine and felt more understood by a pack of paper every month than i ever did by any of my classmates. i let my imagination run wild as i wrote stories about my stuffed animals’ adventures on faraway planets. and as I spent these past weeks wrapping up two amazing editorial internships, reading my first page-long personal profile in regional ink, editing a friend’s article for her school newspaper, compiling a letter of rec for another friend’s business program, and proofreading another friend’s personal statement for graduate school apps, i realized that my childhood dream to write for print magazines is worth fighting for. and i will not let a handful of letters and signs on some transcript define me or my abilities or my creativity or my future! i know that what i do with all twenty-six letters of this alphabet is the true sign of my potential to contribute something substantial to this world as a writer.
clearly, i’m not at the level where I want to be at quite yet, but I know where I want to be - eventually. im gonna continue to try my best and study hard, but grades aren’t my goal, grades aren’t who i am, grades aren’t everything. and whether in class or otherwise, I hope I never stop learning, never stop improving, never stop working towards my dream.
p.s. for the record, i didn’t get my grade in lower division poetry because i can’t write sonnets and villanelles. it’s because my morning (mandatory) discussion section was all the way across campus, and because i maintain a lifelong love affair with the snooze button on my alarm clock.
work hard. play hard. live hard. love hard.
theres are reasons why the summer olympics only occur every four years:
contenders must train
physically
mentally
emotionally
for the games they’re to TRY to partake in.
only a few are given a slim opportunity
a chance to prove themselves worthy of an honor
to be seen as a winner
a champion
yet after determined as potential, there is still
strategy
hard work
intensive care
and just plain luck
each necessary in order to determine a single winner
once
every
FOUR
years.
maybe it wouldn’t be as special if it happened more often.
maybe it’s something worth waiting for, worth working for, and worth celebrating, worth broadcasting worldwide once it’s
truly
deserved.
until then, let them train.
let them sweat and cry and dream and wish and pray and work to win.
it will make the victory taste sweeter
and all will be found most satisfied.
third poetry assignment: metaphor.
timelines tried. and tried. and tried.
how many minutes must pass after eating to swim in the ocean waves?
how many hours can soak in regret of mistakes made in vain?
how many months after breaking a heart can love be offered again?
how many times can blame be placed on incidents from back then?
when excuses grow tired and speeches gone null,
the phone won’t stop ringing and voicemail is full,
and all that surrounds are turned backs and cold shoulders,
I will be right here without blame or boulders.
I will be around to collect your tears,
I will be the sounding board for your fears,
I will forgive every single regret,
i swear you deserve every chance that you get.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
…don’t forget.
you are okay.
you are gonna be okay.
you are gonna be better than okay.
…remember?
that’s okay, I don’t mind reminding you.
and I’ll continue to tell you,
every single day.
from,
the greatest Man of your life.
a creative writer typing from LA & SD.
