My re-introduction to this landscape of my childhood has been a lonely one. But I suppose this is a gift in disguise; a time to contemplate. For one, I don't understand how one can survive in greater California without a car. New York City is a microcosm of self-sufficiency. You feel like you are conquering the world on one small island and its outer regions, thanks to the flawed yet pretty damn impressive magic of the MTA. California is hostile to walkers. No not streetwalkers, but people who travel on foot. Unfortunately, that's the only way I've been able to get my 40 Ozers and cigarettes, plus the occasional bag of popcorn or can of soup. (This is sounding terribly more pathetic than it needs to, but yet, I have felt sorry for myself in the last couple of days.)
That and the room for desolate street spaces bathed only in the light of a streetlamp. I think about serial killers. I think about what lurks in the shadows. I miss people. I miss the activity of a thrush of crowded commuters on a street corner. Either extreme allows someone to live largely in their head: masses of people make me revert to my imagination and emptiness of landscape and personal space makes me worry about what has gone wrong in the world.
I guess I am a more social person than I account for. I guess I forget that places are very different in simple ways but also much the same. I am searching for the sameness, but continue to move. Over and out, above and beyond. About.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
The Depressed Domino Guys and The Peril of the Modern Economy
Everyone has jobs that they hate. I recently have had a slew of them. But what does that even mean? How can we hate something that gives us money to survive? Have you ever met an unemployed person? A homeless person? I mean I sometimes think the main dictum running through humanity's lifeblood on any given day is the tension between those who have and those who do not have, and those who have jobs are inevitably fighting every day to not be on the opposite side of that sword, the "I Don't Have a Job" school. So then our lives are reduced to our job or, as is often the case, JOBS, plural.
I recall writing a premature blog post back in college about my job anxiety:
What is a job to me? [12 May 2005|10:23am]
I scan the headlines of the newspaper obsessively for articles having to do with the unemployment rates. I half-heartedly glance at the classifieds. I skim Craig's List part-time jobs with no intention of applying. I even read the Sunday Times Employment supplement ("Job Market") to get an idea of what industries are on the decline, what aren't and interesting "hole-in-the-wall" type employments that charm people and give them hope.
And yet, my one page, inflated resume had only be distributed to on-campus jobs and a few off-campus internships. I have no intention of going and getting a part time job just yet. But I obsess with this idea of perpetual unemployment. Yes, yes. Mommy never had a stabled job, my father, as I know it, had none, my sisters, save Kate, don't make money doing what they love. My brother seems to enjoy his sporadic bouts of employment. Yet, instilled in me is this idea that money is scarce, employment hard to find, and when found, must be held on to despite its downsides, because of its very rarity.
The class on globalization I took has given me alittle perspective on the decline of real jobs with benefits (something I'd never encountewred before, though apparently before the late 70s and 80s, it was common for many Americans) and the replacement of contractless, fragmented labor. So, my suspicions are not without warrant. We are living in an unstable era, and what is most at stake is our financial security.
Yet, I do have time. I have time to stave off this paranoia. I am not yet graduating from college. I have have time to think and ruminate and mope and hope and smoke dope (if I choose, but do I....?) before I actually have to face the real world. Though, the phrase "facing the real world" really infuriates me because I feel that there is no dividing line between ones various lives. If you live every day anticipating this real world, you will be disappointed when it turns out to be much like your past reality, with a few sharpers edges, a few disconcerting details. Like the smell of fried chicken wafting into your rented room. Or the turning off of your lights and resorting to candles. By "real world" do people mean disappointment and misery? Because you can have that in any world...
JOB. J-O-B. Work. W-O-R-K. Anything can constitute these things. But will they ever make up me and who I am completely? I have yet to find out.
End quote. That was me as a first-year in college. Now I am a first-year in the "real world" and I have something to say about this distance. It has to do with the Depressed Domino Delivery guy and how he pulls at my heart strings and makes me think about my life and his life and their differences and, inevitably, the future.
The Depressed Domino Guy might be retarded I don't know, but his dejection is severe when he comes by weekly to hand off a pizza flyer to me.
I recall writing a premature blog post back in college about my job anxiety:
What is a job to me? [12 May 2005|10:23am]
I scan the headlines of the newspaper obsessively for articles having to do with the unemployment rates. I half-heartedly glance at the classifieds. I skim Craig's List part-time jobs with no intention of applying. I even read the Sunday Times Employment supplement ("Job Market") to get an idea of what industries are on the decline, what aren't and interesting "hole-in-the-wall" type employments that charm people and give them hope.
And yet, my one page, inflated resume had only be distributed to on-campus jobs and a few off-campus internships. I have no intention of going and getting a part time job just yet. But I obsess with this idea of perpetual unemployment. Yes, yes. Mommy never had a stabled job, my father, as I know it, had none, my sisters, save Kate, don't make money doing what they love. My brother seems to enjoy his sporadic bouts of employment. Yet, instilled in me is this idea that money is scarce, employment hard to find, and when found, must be held on to despite its downsides, because of its very rarity.
The class on globalization I took has given me alittle perspective on the decline of real jobs with benefits (something I'd never encountewred before, though apparently before the late 70s and 80s, it was common for many Americans) and the replacement of contractless, fragmented labor. So, my suspicions are not without warrant. We are living in an unstable era, and what is most at stake is our financial security.
Yet, I do have time. I have time to stave off this paranoia. I am not yet graduating from college. I have have time to think and ruminate and mope and hope and smoke dope (if I choose, but do I....?) before I actually have to face the real world. Though, the phrase "facing the real world" really infuriates me because I feel that there is no dividing line between ones various lives. If you live every day anticipating this real world, you will be disappointed when it turns out to be much like your past reality, with a few sharpers edges, a few disconcerting details. Like the smell of fried chicken wafting into your rented room. Or the turning off of your lights and resorting to candles. By "real world" do people mean disappointment and misery? Because you can have that in any world...
JOB. J-O-B. Work. W-O-R-K. Anything can constitute these things. But will they ever make up me and who I am completely? I have yet to find out.
End quote. That was me as a first-year in college. Now I am a first-year in the "real world" and I have something to say about this distance. It has to do with the Depressed Domino Delivery guy and how he pulls at my heart strings and makes me think about my life and his life and their differences and, inevitably, the future.
The Depressed Domino Guy might be retarded I don't know, but his dejection is severe when he comes by weekly to hand off a pizza flyer to me.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
What Happened to My Mom's Email Account When She Died
She didn't use it that often. I don't think she knew quite how, grasping, or even wanting to grasp, the way the Internet works. but when she learned it could get letters places almost instantaneously, she wanted to partake if only because she loved to write and letters especially.
I remember sending her a letter, or maybe it was a phone call, of detailed instructions on how to set up an account and successfully compose and send messages. It read something like this:
1. Open up browser, should be called Internet Explorer or Netscape Navigator, something nautical to 'surf' the web. (This was before the days of Firefox, but now 'Safari' makes more sense.)
2. When it has opened (it might already be open) there will be a blank bar at the top of the page with the words typed in it beginning with "http://". Erase this. (I figured she had knowledge of keyboard commands since she'd used a typewriter most of her life. Though, like me, she preferred longhand.) Then, when erased, type in a new address. In your case it will be http://www.hotmail.com (alas, before the days of gmail).
3. When you arrive at the Hotmail homepage, type in your username and password. Click 'login'. This should take you to your inbox where you can read unread and new messages (and also old ones, for the sentimental and anal among us).
4. To compose a new message there should be a link in the upper left hand corner. Hit that and you will be taken to a new, blank message. Type in the address and subject and then type your letter into the blank box. Hit send when ready.
5. Be sure to log out!
Of course I got a couple calls from her asking me how exactly to do what and not understanding certain commands. Finally, though, it seemed she got the hang of it because emails started arriving in my mailbox with distinctly MHB titles: "Waiting for the shark attack at the bottom of the hill" or "LOVE EACH OTHER". Her emails, like her letters, were long and rambling, often stream-of-conscious treatise veiled as observations towards her daily environment. When she learned the "cc" tool she would send them to all six kids at once and all her adopted children in spirit. Total: usually 8.
I found it hard to read, absorb, and respond to her messages in one sitting, so there would usually be a couple stages until I was ready to respond. I often wouldn't respond to all of them, just as with her paper letters, simply because the volume in which they arrived was overwhelming. In this idiosyncratic way, I just might be turning into my mother.
But no one could write a letter like my mom--one that actually brought you into her world, and then her brain at the same time. It was a heady gift and sometimes more than I could handle. But like her I have become a letter writer, by no means as prolific, or intense, and I prefer to send mine by mail.
Part of me knows exactly what happened to my mom's email account when she died. Perhaps it even happened before she died. Email accounts become inactive and expire if someone doesn't log in for, say, 90 days. I'm sure that my mother hadn't the time to check her email in the months of sickness leading up to her death. But it's possible she checked it just enough to keep it alive. So when she left the earth, breathed her last breath, her email account did not--spam or newsletters were still directed to the account miriamhborkowski@hotmail.com.
There's something so crass about the thought of this though, an illumination of how cold and impersonal technology is. You just use it for a purpose but it has no idea of when you're sad or excited or sick.
Just like a person's MySpace account after they die, which cryptically records their last login--usually the day of death. But technology's vessel-like apathy can be surmounted. MySpace comment walls become de-facto memorials, where people can still post: "Thinking about you. Can't believe it's been a year."
I remember sending her a letter, or maybe it was a phone call, of detailed instructions on how to set up an account and successfully compose and send messages. It read something like this:
1. Open up browser, should be called Internet Explorer or Netscape Navigator, something nautical to 'surf' the web. (This was before the days of Firefox, but now 'Safari' makes more sense.)
2. When it has opened (it might already be open) there will be a blank bar at the top of the page with the words typed in it beginning with "http://". Erase this. (I figured she had knowledge of keyboard commands since she'd used a typewriter most of her life. Though, like me, she preferred longhand.) Then, when erased, type in a new address. In your case it will be http://www.hotmail.com (alas, before the days of gmail).
3. When you arrive at the Hotmail homepage, type in your username and password. Click 'login'. This should take you to your inbox where you can read unread and new messages (and also old ones, for the sentimental and anal among us).
4. To compose a new message there should be a link in the upper left hand corner. Hit that and you will be taken to a new, blank message. Type in the address and subject and then type your letter into the blank box. Hit send when ready.
5. Be sure to log out!
Of course I got a couple calls from her asking me how exactly to do what and not understanding certain commands. Finally, though, it seemed she got the hang of it because emails started arriving in my mailbox with distinctly MHB titles: "Waiting for the shark attack at the bottom of the hill" or "LOVE EACH OTHER". Her emails, like her letters, were long and rambling, often stream-of-conscious treatise veiled as observations towards her daily environment. When she learned the "cc" tool she would send them to all six kids at once and all her adopted children in spirit. Total: usually 8.
I found it hard to read, absorb, and respond to her messages in one sitting, so there would usually be a couple stages until I was ready to respond. I often wouldn't respond to all of them, just as with her paper letters, simply because the volume in which they arrived was overwhelming. In this idiosyncratic way, I just might be turning into my mother.
But no one could write a letter like my mom--one that actually brought you into her world, and then her brain at the same time. It was a heady gift and sometimes more than I could handle. But like her I have become a letter writer, by no means as prolific, or intense, and I prefer to send mine by mail.
Part of me knows exactly what happened to my mom's email account when she died. Perhaps it even happened before she died. Email accounts become inactive and expire if someone doesn't log in for, say, 90 days. I'm sure that my mother hadn't the time to check her email in the months of sickness leading up to her death. But it's possible she checked it just enough to keep it alive. So when she left the earth, breathed her last breath, her email account did not--spam or newsletters were still directed to the account miriamhborkowski@hotmail.com.
There's something so crass about the thought of this though, an illumination of how cold and impersonal technology is. You just use it for a purpose but it has no idea of when you're sad or excited or sick.
Just like a person's MySpace account after they die, which cryptically records their last login--usually the day of death. But technology's vessel-like apathy can be surmounted. MySpace comment walls become de-facto memorials, where people can still post: "Thinking about you. Can't believe it's been a year."
Monday, September 22, 2008
Response to: The Scourge of Youth
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Sunday, September 21, 2008
Facebook, Myspace, and Texting or the Scourge of Youth
Ah, technology. Never have people felt so near and yet so far away, thanks to the advent of the internet and cell phones and their wide availability and relative cheapness to the average consumer. However, there's something wrong with this whole scenario of connection and social networking that bothers me. I'm going to try and put my finger on it.
Maybe starting with a scenario would be good:
1. Text Angst = Waste of Mental Energy
So, I met a guy one St. Patrick's day and we hit it off. What a thrill, right? We exchanged numbers and enjoyed a couple days wandering around the city. After this real life, in-person relationship had expired, the more fruitful texting relationship started. Texting is designed for short attention spans, a quick glance in a meeting or between boarding a bus or subway car. The texts were often one-liners, witty quips and back and forths. A Saturday out on the town would prompt me to text him an innocent, "What are you up to tonight?" While I would do this, fighting off the warnings of my girlfriends to "play it cool" he would take his fine time responding. A text received at 2am saying, "Drankin." would prompt my friends to shake their heads. "Anytime after 2am is a pure booty call." What? Bars close at 4am in this here town, maybe it was just an invite?
More confusing then these unwritten rules of texting, was the cool and delayed responses I would receive from my correspondent. Texts are perhaps the laziest form of communication and if someone who you are supposedly "hanging out with" (the ambiguity of relationship terminology these days is the subject of another post entirely) can't muster a one or two word response, what hope is there for communication? Lastly, the angst these pauses would throw me into were unwarranted for the supposedly rational human being I take myself for. "Why oh why has he not texted me?" I would fret, it's been over a day. I would time the relative intervals of text exchanges. If he wrote 3 hours ago, is it necessary for me to respond, or at this point should I just ignore him until tomorrow.
Texting is illogical, apathetic, and doesn't amount to communication but rather a waste of mental energy. When you could be enjoying yourself out having drinks with friends, instead you flip open that obnoxious cell phone at every possible moment to check for an inevitably ineloquent response in three or four words, badly misspelled and reliably noncommittal.
2. Facebook Stalking = Waste of Time & Get in Line
Ah, when you have yet to exchange a number or even a glance, in the flesh, with your crush, Facebook is a convenient outlet for your romantic restlessness. A quick advanced search with name and location, if you should be so lucky to have these pieces of information, can whittle down the thousand plus search results into your crush him/herself. Then, if you are lucky enough (luck is very big in technology's supposedly staid support of modern stalking) their profile will be public. But if not, it's not the biggest embarrassment to friend them in order to view their profile. After all, people accept friend requests from strangers every day. It's de rigeur in this world where the number of friends you have online amounts to your relative worth as a person.
Once gaining access to their profile, you can learn their age, sex, and location, which you are probably well aware. More appealing is their relationship status, their many albums of drunken evenings and artsy shots taken with their overpriced MacBooks, lastly, you have access to the many inside jokes posted on their "wall" including messages from mom (because now Facebook is open to everyone) and cryptic messages from girls they met at parties ("Remember Me?"). Yuck, you think to yourself, I will never be that desperate person reaching out on Facebook to someone who most likely does NOT remember me. Instead, when you look at the clock, you will realize you've spent the last three hours obsessively paging through his Facebook albums and reassuring yourself that he has a lot more going for himself than the ability to do kegstands for 10 minutes.
Facebook, I will posit, is a classier joint than MySpace. And when it was closed to only college students, whatever you say of the elitism of this, it had a certain security attached to it. But now, Facebook has turned into a great outlet for the stalking lurker, who will sift through pages of inconsequential photos of their significant distraction rather than calling (since most FB profiles list all vital details, down to a person's address) or, shocking of all, interacting with them in real life.
3. MySpace = Ultimate Miscommunication
Last of all there is MySpace, which has to be the most populist platform for social networking, which is a grand euphemism for social disconnection and networking. Myspace is great when you want to listen to that song you've had in your head from days from the as of yet unsigned band you saw in a darkly lit room last night. However, MySpace is consistently one of the bigger blows to successful relationship building on any level due to its atrocious aesthetic and ability to view people's innermost and crudest thoughts.
Case in point, a one night stand prompts one girl to search out her guy on MySpace only to discover that under "Heroes" he's listed "Melanie, the love of my life" and is listed as "married". Is it better to figure out these crucial facts in the darkness of your home office or in person, I will leave that to the reader to decide.
Facebook stalking and MySpace stalking are borne of the same impulse, but MySpace somehow manages to unleash the less appealing sides of a person's nature. Not only will you find out all their sexual exploits and who they admire, you'll also learn that they have been unemployed for five years and one of their top friends is "Oriental Massage".
So, the above are a few examples of how social networking tools are actually tools for distancing and isolating people, in fact social alienating tools. There are many examples, and I encourage others to submit or comment on their own experiences in stunted communication via the supposed sophistication of today's communication tools.
A few more I can think of. The inherent delay and "talking over" each other that occurs in chat conversations.
me: I saw that the other night and though it was....
him: But I order pizza instead.
me: excellent. I mean so important.
him: Then I thought of you and...
me: I also love pizza.
him: I miss you. Do you miss me.
Agh, that doesn't even begin to encapsulate the level of mediocrity and profundity that takes place in a chat. Also the lack of inflection, the ins and outs of wifi connection. Sometimes it's just easier to send a letter because that's a one-sided conversation and the person is forced to "listen". That is if they can read.
Maybe starting with a scenario would be good:
1. Text Angst = Waste of Mental Energy
So, I met a guy one St. Patrick's day and we hit it off. What a thrill, right? We exchanged numbers and enjoyed a couple days wandering around the city. After this real life, in-person relationship had expired, the more fruitful texting relationship started. Texting is designed for short attention spans, a quick glance in a meeting or between boarding a bus or subway car. The texts were often one-liners, witty quips and back and forths. A Saturday out on the town would prompt me to text him an innocent, "What are you up to tonight?" While I would do this, fighting off the warnings of my girlfriends to "play it cool" he would take his fine time responding. A text received at 2am saying, "Drankin." would prompt my friends to shake their heads. "Anytime after 2am is a pure booty call." What? Bars close at 4am in this here town, maybe it was just an invite?
More confusing then these unwritten rules of texting, was the cool and delayed responses I would receive from my correspondent. Texts are perhaps the laziest form of communication and if someone who you are supposedly "hanging out with" (the ambiguity of relationship terminology these days is the subject of another post entirely) can't muster a one or two word response, what hope is there for communication? Lastly, the angst these pauses would throw me into were unwarranted for the supposedly rational human being I take myself for. "Why oh why has he not texted me?" I would fret, it's been over a day. I would time the relative intervals of text exchanges. If he wrote 3 hours ago, is it necessary for me to respond, or at this point should I just ignore him until tomorrow.
Texting is illogical, apathetic, and doesn't amount to communication but rather a waste of mental energy. When you could be enjoying yourself out having drinks with friends, instead you flip open that obnoxious cell phone at every possible moment to check for an inevitably ineloquent response in three or four words, badly misspelled and reliably noncommittal.
2. Facebook Stalking = Waste of Time & Get in Line
Ah, when you have yet to exchange a number or even a glance, in the flesh, with your crush, Facebook is a convenient outlet for your romantic restlessness. A quick advanced search with name and location, if you should be so lucky to have these pieces of information, can whittle down the thousand plus search results into your crush him/herself. Then, if you are lucky enough (luck is very big in technology's supposedly staid support of modern stalking) their profile will be public. But if not, it's not the biggest embarrassment to friend them in order to view their profile. After all, people accept friend requests from strangers every day. It's de rigeur in this world where the number of friends you have online amounts to your relative worth as a person.
Once gaining access to their profile, you can learn their age, sex, and location, which you are probably well aware. More appealing is their relationship status, their many albums of drunken evenings and artsy shots taken with their overpriced MacBooks, lastly, you have access to the many inside jokes posted on their "wall" including messages from mom (because now Facebook is open to everyone) and cryptic messages from girls they met at parties ("Remember Me?"). Yuck, you think to yourself, I will never be that desperate person reaching out on Facebook to someone who most likely does NOT remember me. Instead, when you look at the clock, you will realize you've spent the last three hours obsessively paging through his Facebook albums and reassuring yourself that he has a lot more going for himself than the ability to do kegstands for 10 minutes.
Facebook, I will posit, is a classier joint than MySpace. And when it was closed to only college students, whatever you say of the elitism of this, it had a certain security attached to it. But now, Facebook has turned into a great outlet for the stalking lurker, who will sift through pages of inconsequential photos of their significant distraction rather than calling (since most FB profiles list all vital details, down to a person's address) or, shocking of all, interacting with them in real life.
3. MySpace = Ultimate Miscommunication
Last of all there is MySpace, which has to be the most populist platform for social networking, which is a grand euphemism for social disconnection and networking. Myspace is great when you want to listen to that song you've had in your head from days from the as of yet unsigned band you saw in a darkly lit room last night. However, MySpace is consistently one of the bigger blows to successful relationship building on any level due to its atrocious aesthetic and ability to view people's innermost and crudest thoughts.
Case in point, a one night stand prompts one girl to search out her guy on MySpace only to discover that under "Heroes" he's listed "Melanie, the love of my life" and is listed as "married". Is it better to figure out these crucial facts in the darkness of your home office or in person, I will leave that to the reader to decide.
Facebook stalking and MySpace stalking are borne of the same impulse, but MySpace somehow manages to unleash the less appealing sides of a person's nature. Not only will you find out all their sexual exploits and who they admire, you'll also learn that they have been unemployed for five years and one of their top friends is "Oriental Massage".
So, the above are a few examples of how social networking tools are actually tools for distancing and isolating people, in fact social alienating tools. There are many examples, and I encourage others to submit or comment on their own experiences in stunted communication via the supposed sophistication of today's communication tools.
A few more I can think of. The inherent delay and "talking over" each other that occurs in chat conversations.
me: I saw that the other night and though it was....
him: But I order pizza instead.
me: excellent. I mean so important.
him: Then I thought of you and...
me: I also love pizza.
him: I miss you. Do you miss me.
Agh, that doesn't even begin to encapsulate the level of mediocrity and profundity that takes place in a chat. Also the lack of inflection, the ins and outs of wifi connection. Sometimes it's just easier to send a letter because that's a one-sided conversation and the person is forced to "listen". That is if they can read.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Art of the Mixtape
This subject is dead for a number of reasons. One, tapes are rarely listened to any more. Two, even CDs are near obsolete. And thirdly, aside from the advent of and tyranny of personal mp3 players and compressed bits of music, this subject has been treated with a great amount of writing, from Nick Hornby's High Fidelity to a number of indie-pop enthusiasts own blogs.
However, I am here to hail that the art of the mix has not been lost. And follows is a personal narrative of my own decision to build a compilation for a significant boy far, far away. In doing so, I learned how a mix (in this case on a CD) can be both personal, distant, and, lastly, largely about the person making it moreso than the receiver of the mix. However, these days, it can serve a more genuine emotional purpose than a well written letter.
I. Why
So, the first reason for making a mixtape is because there's someone who you feel deserves a mixtape. In my case, I'd met a sweet boy during my travels and only later discovered he liked me. I then felt it was appropriate for me to transfer all the songs I listened to that made me yearn in some way, to the yearning I felt for a plane ticket to go see him again. Having only an address and no money for a ticket, I set to making a mixtape. Of course, I am one of those people who walks around with an iPod wherever they go. Thus, my music collection is largely digital (though I do boast a nice collection of vinyl, if I do so defend myself). So, I paged through my iTunes and put together 19 songs that I thought were well suited to the mood I was in when I thought of him. Then I arranged them in an order that didn't create any large leaps in mood but rather a gradual crescendo. Before going into the specific song choices, I would like to defend the mixtape/CD as a form of communication superior to others.
One, I should start by saying I am a letter writer. I write letters in LONGHAND and actually mail and send them to people, wherever they may be in the world. It doesn't matter if I have two dollars in my bank account, I will go out of my way to buy a two dollar stamp so that two page letter can get to Caitlin in Taiwan, or Hanna in Berlin. That being said, there are times when a letter doesn't cut it, or calls for a supplement to the words on the page. We all know there are limits to what language can express, and certainly when it comes to emotions, music can fill this void well.
My letters are often accompanied by CDs. I will rarely send a CD without a letter, though I have done this from time to time. But the reason the mix is in there, is because it has a longer lasting purpose than a letter. Sure, someone might walk around with the ideas or stories you wrote in a letter, but a mix of music is expansive. Someone can play it at different times, and in different places. They songs will get caught in their head, and they'll hum to them or perhaps share them with others. Music is personal in that the messages contained in the lyrics usually have somewhat of a relevance to the person you sent it too, but it also has an emotional component that can't be controlled. Anytime someone listens to a song, their interpretation of it will be as unique as they are as an individual. The chords, melody, lyrics, sound of the singer's voice, will all strike them in a way that the sender can't control.
This creates the big risk in sending a mix as well. There's a possibility that the Tom Waits song that saved your life more than once will drive the recipient of the mix crazy. They will always skip this track, and excuse it when it accidentally comes on at parties. That is, if they enjoy your mix enough to play it at a party.
But the positives of making a mix usually outweigh the negative risks. At its best, a mix of music will introduce someone to something new in the context of the thought of you. I am not hiding the fact that all aspects of mixtape making are generally subjective and certainly selfish. Basically, a mix says, here's some music I like, now like me even more.
II. What
My mix CD wasn't that tricky, because I've been listening to a lot of music on repeat this summer. When I got back in touch with said boy, I kind of transferred, as I mentioned, these musical moments of nostalgia to him. That being said, I did pull out a few dead ringers, or code for, I REALLY LIKE YOU.
Below follows my mix list:
Tex Ritter - Cigarettes, Whiskey & Wild, Wild Women
Hurdy Gurdy Man Donovan
Satellite Of Love 3:42 Lou Reed
Chelsea Hotel No. 2 3:07 Leonard Cohen
The Tide That Left And Never Came Back 3:09 The Veils
A Century of Fakers 4:32 Belle & Sebastian
Midnight Cowboy 2:43 Harry Nilsson
Baby, Let Me Follow You Down 2:36 Bob Dylan
Time is on my Side 2:58 The Rolling Stones
America. 3:36 Simon and Garfunkel
Tennessee 4:10 Silver Jews
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out 4:03 The Smiths
Telephone Call From Istanbul 3:12 Tom Waits
You Beat Me to the Punch - Mary Wells
no name #2 3:35 elliot smith
You Love Me 4:02 DeVotchKa
Elephant gun 5:49 Beirut
You Shook Me All Night Long 3:30 AC/DC
All I Want 3:34 Joni Mitchell
Then, I usually proceed to play this mix to myself on repeat for a couple days before sending it.
That being said, just as there are limits to words in a letter, there are limits to making a mix tape. One, you yourself have only been exposed to so much music. You are working within your own collection of tastes, and invariably your mix will reflect said taste. Actually, mixtapes seem to have taken off so well starting in the late 70s because we entered a cultural moment where social interaction became based on what you like rather than who you are. This tradition continues today. Faced with a world where other values, such as religion and social status, have become more fluid, an entire generation of young people have formed their relationships with people who listen to, watch, and consume the same media they do. Just think of myspace or facebook. These are two "social networking" sites that rely on people profiling who they are via the books, TV, movies, and music they like.
Also, pop music ( the main idiom through which mixtapes are built) is overwhelming about love. So, even if you are making a mixtape for a platonic friend or family member, it is unlikely that it won't include a couple of love songs. But that's also the beauty of music, it becomes a metaphor for other things. "I'm just dyin' in your arms tonight" can mean something other than what the literal words mean.
With that thought, I encourage everyone to compile a mix something (tape, CD, whatever) and give it to someone you love or like or whatever. Because words just aren't enough, and they never will be.
However, I am here to hail that the art of the mix has not been lost. And follows is a personal narrative of my own decision to build a compilation for a significant boy far, far away. In doing so, I learned how a mix (in this case on a CD) can be both personal, distant, and, lastly, largely about the person making it moreso than the receiver of the mix. However, these days, it can serve a more genuine emotional purpose than a well written letter.
I. Why
So, the first reason for making a mixtape is because there's someone who you feel deserves a mixtape. In my case, I'd met a sweet boy during my travels and only later discovered he liked me. I then felt it was appropriate for me to transfer all the songs I listened to that made me yearn in some way, to the yearning I felt for a plane ticket to go see him again. Having only an address and no money for a ticket, I set to making a mixtape. Of course, I am one of those people who walks around with an iPod wherever they go. Thus, my music collection is largely digital (though I do boast a nice collection of vinyl, if I do so defend myself). So, I paged through my iTunes and put together 19 songs that I thought were well suited to the mood I was in when I thought of him. Then I arranged them in an order that didn't create any large leaps in mood but rather a gradual crescendo. Before going into the specific song choices, I would like to defend the mixtape/CD as a form of communication superior to others.
One, I should start by saying I am a letter writer. I write letters in LONGHAND and actually mail and send them to people, wherever they may be in the world. It doesn't matter if I have two dollars in my bank account, I will go out of my way to buy a two dollar stamp so that two page letter can get to Caitlin in Taiwan, or Hanna in Berlin. That being said, there are times when a letter doesn't cut it, or calls for a supplement to the words on the page. We all know there are limits to what language can express, and certainly when it comes to emotions, music can fill this void well.
My letters are often accompanied by CDs. I will rarely send a CD without a letter, though I have done this from time to time. But the reason the mix is in there, is because it has a longer lasting purpose than a letter. Sure, someone might walk around with the ideas or stories you wrote in a letter, but a mix of music is expansive. Someone can play it at different times, and in different places. They songs will get caught in their head, and they'll hum to them or perhaps share them with others. Music is personal in that the messages contained in the lyrics usually have somewhat of a relevance to the person you sent it too, but it also has an emotional component that can't be controlled. Anytime someone listens to a song, their interpretation of it will be as unique as they are as an individual. The chords, melody, lyrics, sound of the singer's voice, will all strike them in a way that the sender can't control.
This creates the big risk in sending a mix as well. There's a possibility that the Tom Waits song that saved your life more than once will drive the recipient of the mix crazy. They will always skip this track, and excuse it when it accidentally comes on at parties. That is, if they enjoy your mix enough to play it at a party.
But the positives of making a mix usually outweigh the negative risks. At its best, a mix of music will introduce someone to something new in the context of the thought of you. I am not hiding the fact that all aspects of mixtape making are generally subjective and certainly selfish. Basically, a mix says, here's some music I like, now like me even more.
II. What
My mix CD wasn't that tricky, because I've been listening to a lot of music on repeat this summer. When I got back in touch with said boy, I kind of transferred, as I mentioned, these musical moments of nostalgia to him. That being said, I did pull out a few dead ringers, or code for, I REALLY LIKE YOU.
Below follows my mix list:
Tex Ritter - Cigarettes, Whiskey & Wild, Wild Women
Hurdy Gurdy Man Donovan
Satellite Of Love 3:42 Lou Reed
Chelsea Hotel No. 2 3:07 Leonard Cohen
The Tide That Left And Never Came Back 3:09 The Veils
A Century of Fakers 4:32 Belle & Sebastian
Midnight Cowboy 2:43 Harry Nilsson
Baby, Let Me Follow You Down 2:36 Bob Dylan
Time is on my Side 2:58 The Rolling Stones
America. 3:36 Simon and Garfunkel
Tennessee 4:10 Silver Jews
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out 4:03 The Smiths
Telephone Call From Istanbul 3:12 Tom Waits
You Beat Me to the Punch - Mary Wells
no name #2 3:35 elliot smith
You Love Me 4:02 DeVotchKa
Elephant gun 5:49 Beirut
You Shook Me All Night Long 3:30 AC/DC
All I Want 3:34 Joni Mitchell
Then, I usually proceed to play this mix to myself on repeat for a couple days before sending it.
That being said, just as there are limits to words in a letter, there are limits to making a mix tape. One, you yourself have only been exposed to so much music. You are working within your own collection of tastes, and invariably your mix will reflect said taste. Actually, mixtapes seem to have taken off so well starting in the late 70s because we entered a cultural moment where social interaction became based on what you like rather than who you are. This tradition continues today. Faced with a world where other values, such as religion and social status, have become more fluid, an entire generation of young people have formed their relationships with people who listen to, watch, and consume the same media they do. Just think of myspace or facebook. These are two "social networking" sites that rely on people profiling who they are via the books, TV, movies, and music they like.
Also, pop music ( the main idiom through which mixtapes are built) is overwhelming about love. So, even if you are making a mixtape for a platonic friend or family member, it is unlikely that it won't include a couple of love songs. But that's also the beauty of music, it becomes a metaphor for other things. "I'm just dyin' in your arms tonight" can mean something other than what the literal words mean.
With that thought, I encourage everyone to compile a mix something (tape, CD, whatever) and give it to someone you love or like or whatever. Because words just aren't enough, and they never will be.
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