Fast & Furious 6, by Chris Morgan. 2013.
can you imagine if twitter existed in the 1800s
abe lincoln tweeting shit like “wow this play sucks just shoot me”
HE WAS SHOT IN 1865
“They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that’s true.”
Vampire Weekend - Hannah Hunt
In a recent interview, Ezra Koenig has said that while he worked on ‘Hannah Hunt’ for about 7 years, he finds that it could not have worked as a track on either of the first two albums. This, if anything, should be some indication of the tone and direction of the New York quartet’s third outing Modern Vampires of the City. The track itself is a mastery of minimalism by Vampire Weekend’s standards. It’s not as ornate with an abundance of influences, but perhaps takes the group’s sound into a place Weekend haven’t necessarily ventured into before. The more restrained bass, percussion, and piano leave room for an instrument that is sometimes too often overlooked: Koenig’s voice. His soft crooning ties all the subtle details of the track together. The lyrics are rich with details and imagery from talk of “crawling vines and weeping willows” to “freezing beaches” that also translate to the beautiful sonic textures that unfold as the track progresses.
The key line that Koenig repeats is one that goes “Though we live on the US dollar / you and me, we got our own sense of time.” It represents the essence of the track, which is ultimately about a relationship that once was. It perfectly captures that feeling you get when you’re with that one person, that significant other. Things feel right in a way that only the two of you understand, and it’s apart from everything and everyone else in the world. But as the song reaches the marvelous piano breakdown and as the vocals intensify, it becomes clear that sometimes things just don’t work out despite your best efforts. In this way, Vampire Weekend have indeed matured and grown up. Not only have they mastered a slower, more minimal arrangement with a wonderful build-up, but they’ve also seen and learned, loved and lost. These lessons come together beautifully and effortlessly in ‘Hannah Hunt,’ being indicative of where they’ve been, where they are, and how they’ve felt along the way.
I love this
Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2 in E-flat Major, Composed by Chopin, Performed by Harald Vetter
i’m learning this on the piano now (~:
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.