teurer rilke
Blogchain from kidchamp!
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
Mine is Rilke's short novel Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge—and no, I am not being pretentious, it was a gift from J.F. to help me learn German and it really was the nearest book sitting on my desk. The sentence in question is "Ich sitze hier in meiner kleinen Stube, ich, Brigge, der achtundzwanzig Jahre alt geworden ist und von dem niemand weiß." After I pause to look up Stube, this translates to "I sit here in my little room, I, Brigge, who is twenty-eight years old and of whom nobody knows." Ouch.
Last night's show was just fine. I guess the Rabbit Hole is a sort of venerable folkie place; like Elliott Smith used to play it back in the day. They had a mural of him on the wall, anwyay. The audience liked our stuff, and then when Al Green came on the jukebox a middle-aged dame who had previously gotten drunk at the David Bowie concert made me dance with her. "Do something funny," she said. So I did one of my funny dance moves, which I have many of. Then she asked what I did for a living, and I said I was writing a book, and she asked what about, and I said "Guatemala," which people respond to much better than "cancer," I must say. But the evening's real find was CART!, the act who followed us: loud as hell and much more interesting than your average local outfit. Sadly their microphones kept shorting out, but even as an instrumental ensemble they worked out well. A Sonic Youth comparison is inevitable, as they have a lady on bass and a couple of singer/guitarists into dissonant, tritone-heavy harmonies and noisy effects—but they're not derivative. It fits. Not even returning home to discover that the cat had vomited copiously on my bed could dampen my spirits.
In a month we have a show at Devil's Point; in the meantime they're playing my CD in the bar, promo-wise. Get that log a-rollin.
