watching the clouds from my tower in the sky
I'm currently at my desk, listening to the discography of Elliot Smith from the very start. I'm on the latter half of Roman Candle right now. He's one of those artists that I know the hits from, and a few deeper cuts by virtue of recommendations or lucky finds, but I've never truly sat through everything he's put out. This album fascination of mine has had an unexpected but very welcome side effect: I barely use streaming for music at home anymore. I've rediscovered the joys of listening to records, and thank my 16-year-old self every night for blowing my library paychecks in high school on albums of all kinds. Here are some records that I'm listening to lately at home:
- Blowout Comb by Digable Planets (jazz hip-hop/rap, 90s Brooklyn)
- How Sad, How Lovely by Connie Converse (pure singer-songwriter folk, 50s New York)
- Butterfly by Kimiko Kasai and Herbie Hancock (Disco disco disco.)
- Um Violao em Primeiro Plano By Rosinha Valencia (Bossa, 70s Rio de Janeiro)
- Ever since I started seriously collecting records in 2019-2020, my absolute number one want was this album. Every record store I've ever walked into, the first spot I've darted to is the Brazilian, and every time until 2 weeks ago, I have walked away disappointed. There's been a few finds throughout my collecting career that have made my knees buckle (Hosono House by Haruomi Hosono and Next Time Might Be Your Time by Blue Gene Tyranny are highlights), but none have stunned me quite like this one. Seriously, picture it. Flipping through, feeling like a gambler always one visit away from jackpot, just to land on a white album with that sweet, sweet caps helvetica.
It was mildly muggy on my walk to the train this morning, and I was reminded by my father to bring an umbrella. I have a habit of bringing umbrellas when I don't need them at all, and forgetting them when it's pouring a river. The weather in this city is so unpredictable that even the weather apps struggle to guess the forecast right.
From 9 till lunch, the strip of windows across from me have grown greyer and greyer. Just this morning, I could see all the way across the lake to the next few cities. Now, all I can see is the faintest lines of the buildings around me, and streaks of rain slashing across the panes. If I wasn't planning to walk to the market during my lunch to hunt for olives, I'd be much happier watching the clouds engulf my office. Umbrellas can't restrain the misery of rushing through the wet of summer rain.
I've lived a very architecture-less life lately, a mildly less artful life lately. I can only blame it on the suffocation of working hours for so long before I confront the imbalance between my gathering of inspiration and my dispelling of it, that being: spending time with my friends, family, and becoming a hermit for the sake of creating. The two cannot coexist no matter how much I try. All this to say, for anyone that I've slated plans with only to disappear, it's not you, it's me trying to kick myself back into gear!
I mentioned this to someone who is slipping my mind now, but I have learned that if I talk about anything that I'm going to do before it's completely done and out into the world, it's simply not going to get done. It's a lesson I've really been trying to hammer into myself because it's simply fun to theorize and plot, but lofty words do not an action make. So that's the last of my lamenting, start of my doing. Hopefully that's not saying too much already. What an endless loop.