Futile Horn

07.16.2003 - 7:08 am (baby I love you the insects)

I’ve begun reading The Leopard on the recommendation of a history teacher from my junior year of high school, however many years ago that was. I generally don’t touch non-English novels because my apprehension over what I might be losing in translation has caused me to do crazy things in the past such as learning ancient Greek, but so far it has been an entirely rewarding experience. It’s one of those posthumously published novels by a writer who probably never imagined their work would make it to print, which is very exciting for reasons I don’t properly understand.

I think part of the appeal of the book for me is that I often think of myself as a member of a disenfranchised old nobility, which is inexplicable considering my family history, but I suppose the basis of subconscious notions needn’t always be apparent.

When I think about it, some specter of Bourdieu and social economics floats about my head. Up-and-comers speak certain ways to sound professional and intelligent. But I’ve nothing to prove to myself; I am intelligent. Even with my insecurities, I feel I can talk however I want. If I say stupid things, on purpose or otherwise, I am still smarter than most people. I can do things most people can’t, and I can probably get certain things done in ways no one else can. That’s a fact. It’s also a fact that I’m currently drifting and underemployed.

That and I secretly believe I am spontaneous autochthonous generation, although I’ve no idea how the Bronx could give birth to me any more than my parents (unless I came to being on the side of a volcano and no one told me), but sometimes the myth makes more sense than the reality if for no other reason than it couldn’t possibly be true.

My parents just got a new refrigerator. It’s absolutely mammoth despite the fact no one can remember the last time it had a significant stock of food in it. My mother is convinced that it turns on far more often than necessary so every time I go up there I find her with a sheet of paper and a watch making notes about how often it goes and for how long.

I’m putting the new song on the backburner for a bit (with the other new song: a stove has two backburners, yes?) because although I think I’ve got the words and the melody and the chords, I’ve not too confident with the tempo or the rhythm. I’m going to run away from the acoustic for a bit and at least try to think electrically and do a fun sorta paranoid schizoid hero-worship song, some kind of lustful violent fantasy. I haven’t got it all in my head yet, but I think it will work. Sure.

In addition to the White Stripes’ Elephant, I also got the live album from ’75 that Dylan released recently. I generally try not to listen to him when I am trying to write my own songs because he is so good at traditional forms as well as things I’m not sure I’ve heard anyone try to do except in imitation of him. It makes me insecure and you know what I am going to stop thinking about it.

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn