November 10, 2004

AND THEN OUR LOVE PASSED OUT ON THE COUCH

The war is making me lonely. At the same time, I can barely stand people or conversation.

Really, we must give props to the triumvitae of unholy super-fucked that this November has wrought so far... It's a true pummel fuck to luxuriate in the Fallujah offensive, Four More Years and the sun now going down about 3 hours after it rises.

It could be much much worse. I could of been one of the 1100 injured soldiers at Walter Reed VA hospital that Bush visited today and congratulated on having " the courage to.. to.. to... become rehabilitated. " How do you go into a room where people are missing limbs and say that outloud? It's really saying something that after a deep awareness of what a cro-mag cock Bush is, that he's still surprising us at every turn. I hope Ashcroft pulls a Nina Simone and takes a piss on Bush's desk on the way out.

Finished itemizing all 856 itemizations for my taxes c. 4:40 am, and my mind was alive with displeasure and the kind of ideas that seem really profound and life-changing in the blank hour before dawn. I always think "write this down, you will not remember it in your sleep, fool." But I always think back -- "No, this is big, no way i can forget!" and say the idea in my head four times for memorization, and it never works. Meanwhile, I turned on the radio to go to sleep, to get an update on how Bush's war is going. At 4:40, before there is too much news to report, and it's all just goodnights from the BBC, they do the weather every 10 minutes. It gave me something exciting to ponder til I passed out, with Ann Garrells chirping about un-casual casualties and hospital bombings all the while...

"Tomorrow the high is 53."

Tonight, the agenda was culture. Tinariwen , from Mali, free at the Chicago Cultural Center. Before they played, there was a documentary about a music festival some frogs put on in the middle of the desert outside Timbuktu. Highlights: Footage of Ali Farka Toure - giddy, charming, melt-the-world with the joy of his music good. And Oumou Sangre who I heard for the first time about two weeks ago, and was nursing obsession with, but now, now that I know she's a tough azz feminist and also the most beautiful woman I have ever seen - I'm going to have to start work on a devotional alter or get a picture of her screened onto my pillowcases.
Lowlights of the documentary: Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes Robert Plant you're on. After the previous 30 minutes of people who drove their camels to the festival to play, or formed in exile in Libya during the revolt, or formed in refugee camps -- R.P. up there in some desertized sweat pant going "Bay-bayh ba-ai-ai-be-e-e, chile... you gotta go-o-o" and makinga knob-twisting fluttery with one hand and mock rubbing his crotch with the other... there is nothing I could say that could trump the stellar job he does of elucidating just what a chooch he is.

Anyhow, the movie played, then the band played. Tinariwen were great, great and had lots of sharp chapping on the breaks. Four-five singers, four gtrs, one guy playing a djembe drum. The woman had a high reedy voice and long flowing hair. It was heavenly.

In the movie, most of the bands talked about how the purpose of their band was to help heal people and communities and their culture, all of which were impacted - shredded - by years of civil war and drought. Being in their bands is about being alive. Which I think should be the only reason anyone should start a band, but, really it never is these days.

Posted by Jessica at November 10, 2004 12:20 AM | TrackBack