ROPES

ROPES
Like a spider I zoom in on your words
A piglet goes to dirt
Windows I’d like to gaze upon
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
the first question he asked you)

Could you feel the weight was being lifted
As my attention drifted
Felt the shrinking it was all right
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
my running around in circles
while trying to break some paper)

Been unsuccessful up to now
But you know some paths they bend just like a bow
And you know I’ll kick myself if I’m the cow
And you know has anyone ever spoken to you about very much resembling
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! And that singer turns me on
Oh! Of her I'm very fond

Like a ball I’ve been bouncing on your floor
Won’t be asking for more
Until you lay me on the table
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
my making small advances
while asking an alarm to call)

Been unsuccessful up to now
But you know some paths they bend just like a bow
And you know I’ll kick myself if I’m the cow
And you know has anyone ever spoken to you about very much resembling
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! And that singer turns me on
Oh! Of her I'm very fond

Written by Spencer MacEachern
© 2009 Nosebleed Noise (SOCAN)

CHAPTER ONE: YOU ARE WORTH YOUR WEIGHT IN GOLD

On the evening of April 29th, accompanied by a few good friends and even more acquaintances, I went to go see Elvis Perkins in Dearland at the Horseshoe. Up until the day of the event, even though I'd seen him a few years ago and was blown away then, I was a little skeptical about this show. I was slightly less enthused over Dearland (the album) than I was about Ash Wednesday, which is an album I hold very close to my heart.

But as mentioned I got really stinking into the record that day. I listened to it until I discovered every nuance, every kept secret, all the little creases filled with blood and spilt liquor. And I fucking loved it! Now I can't remember why I was unsure about Perkins putting on a good show, I can't remember a cent.

Wearing some paisley shirt under a suit-jacket and a bright orange toque, I scoped him out during the opening band's set: he was talking to the merchandise guy, seeing if he had some extra cash for a drink. So I asked what he wanted and bought him some whiskey. (After the set he would come up to me and offer me a drink, though it wasn't as nice as the one I bought for him-- understandably.)

The set was glorious! He seemed to be in good spirits, even though he's somewhat hard to read, and his band was having a lot of fun. He played alternate versions of most of the Dearland record and only two or three from his first record. And apposed to having twelve-string acoustic-string-- what he toured with before-- he was armed with a string of five electric/hollow-bodied guitars, most notably a Fender Starcaster! What a bizarre guitar... upon seeing it I realized why exactly they decided to stop making it back in the early '80s. The lack of material from Ash Wednesday along with the no-acoustic instruments upset a few of the people I had gone to see the show with, but they enjoyed what they got. I think by the end of the show they understood that Perkins is the type of person who wants to keep you guessing as he goes along. That's one of my favourite things about him!

I think by the end of the night I was pretty famously drunk, which was cool by me. It was a very inspirational set.

PUSHING MOUNTAIN COUCH POTATO BLUES

Fuck I've got so much to tell you, it's ridiculous. Life-changing events, dreams, moments, stories. I need to sit you down in my backyard over a cup of green tea and just go, but there's not enough time. I have decided that this is the summer of Spencer. Before you judge that sentence as being conceded and self-centered, wait until I explain myself. A vague re-cap, to be deconstructed and explained in full:

// Perkins in Dearland at the horseshoe.
// the song I wrote the next day while watching Will & Jeff paint a house.
// the keg party that started it all, and forgetting my hat/ring.
// obtaining all Talking Heads LPs on vinyl from the new store in Markham.
// 'high hills' ep release party at the Horseshoe.
// my 23rd birthday presents: new microphone, new camera, and a pair of underwear.
// getting drunk with Harrison & Simon, holy fuck/jesus christ tears.
// "change my hair-style so many times now."
// David Byrne.
// the rest is noise & arboretum (thank you Eunice!)
// NINE (9) new Woodward Company songs, including untitled three-part suite/sweet.
// fake blood at wrongbar for nxne, that night, etc.
// making signs, fabulous yawn solo show, the release of 'this machine...'
// falling in love and saying hello, falling out and saying goodbye.

I'm in Chicago right now: big open eyes taking it all in. What my memory won't retain my camera will, thankfully. Hopefully today I will find the Chicago Music Exchange (as referred by Graham) and get my ukulele re-strung by a professional. Then songs might start coming!

Here are some lyrics to an old song that I recently re-visited and added to, the title of which is at the top of this entry:

Pushing a rock all the way to the top
My palms are bleeding from the blistering rough
And agreed are my feet it’s no easy feat
Keeping me company on this journey
The couch absorbs the sound of you getting back to me
I do not see it until the morning
I was in the kitchen honey cleaning up the sink
My blood and all your breadcrumbs
My cart’s broken wheel lies abandoned in the field
Couldn’t leave it a land-mark made sure it was concealed
And my horse well he tried he stomped until he died
So it’s me only me up on high
The sound of passing cars is what you need to fall asleep
Not for some country mouse like me
I was in the backyard honey burying my head
Curse words muttered at the worms
I caught a rattlesnake sneaking on by
It’s highly improbable but try as you might
To that I just grinned don’t expect to win
But I’m never simply never going home again
When my brother I told him and the clothes I was folding
He smiled cheek-to-cheek saw the devil’s weight I’m holding
Nearly fucked it all when mum wept bet dad doesn’t know yet
Now it’s me only me until the end
The kettle whistles out I cannot hear what you just said
Something about the steps I’ve lead
I was in the high hills one time tripping over you
When I stray far from my house I’m bound to lose
I caught a grizzly bear roaring about you
It’s going to rip her heart out it’s true
Well I kept up my chin she isn’t an option
I’m never simply never going home again
by spencer maceachern
© 2009 nosebleed noise (SOCAN)


Here's a Richard Swift video that sums up exactly how I'm feeling. We'll talk again soon, and that's a promise.

FUCK YOU, I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING TO MY HAIR (THERE'S ALWAYS TIME)

Yesterday I was at work: miserable, exhausted, lonely, confused. I was running on about two hours of sleep. The night before I'd obtained about an hour and a half's worth on some foreign futon in the back-lands of Richmond Hill and another forty-five minutes back in my own bed-- with, of course, an hour and a half of commuting on the bus in-between these jaunts of sleep. So even after chugging a cup of hour-old coffee and a three-minute shower at home, being to work at nine-thirty that morning was brutal. And then I realized I'd forgotten my cigarettes in the breast-pocket of my shirt (in my room, on the floor). FUCK! My brother was a decent enough person to drive them down to my work. Although I'm sure he knew he'd end up being in for a nice, tasty beverage, the only incentive my brother needs to help me out is knowing he's helping me out. Bless him, bless him!

That didn't put me in any better a mood... that was just insurance that I wouldn't need to run across the street during my break and buy another pack. But yeah okay it put me in a better mood, for that reason alone. I knew it was going to be a rough day. My co-workers kept asking if I was alright, which isn't anything unusual because I have tremendously violent mood-swings all the time-- seriously, I jump like two hyper eight year-old's on a seesaw-- but even they knew I wasn't really there. I need my sleep, it seems, and I just can't garner the enthusiasm required for any daily tasks when I'm not well-rested.

And boom: a turn for the worse. Who seemed like just another customer in line ended up being the health inspector. She flashes her card to me, comes behind the bar and starts snooping around, and I start convulsing in my head and my heart. She starts her inspection while myself and the girl I'm working with start doing all that we can to make the floor look as presentable and "healthy" as can be. She asks me some questions and tells me to perform some routine duties to ensure that me, and presumably the other managers at my store, know what the fuck we're doing and how we're supposed to be doing it. At the end of her check-up, she firmly places the proverbial stethoscope around her neck and begins typing up a report on her laptop. She asks me to sign on the screen, and I do, happy to be seeing her nearing the end of her stay.

Then she pulls me into the back-room and tells me about something she didn't bother putting into the report. She tells me she'll just give me a verbal warning, rather than issuing a $50 ticket. And so it goes:

Inspector: You need to be concealing your hair.
Spencer: Uh, sure? Okay.
Inspector: Does *company name* supply you with hats to wear? They should be.
Spencer: Uh, sure? Yeah, they do. I look absolutely ridiculous wearing it, so I don't bother.
Inspector: Okay, but you need to be concealing your hair. If you hair was shorter, I wouldn't be saying this. If you were a girl with longer hair and you had it tied-up, I wouldn't be saying this. But your job involves serving food to the public, and you need to be concealing your hair.
Spencer: Okay, I get that. Fine. Just for inquiries' sake, what is it about my hair that makes you say this?
Inspector: (pause)
Spencer: (awkwardly smiles, while shitting his pants)
Inspector: You need to conceal your hair. Don't make me say this to you again.

What the fuck? I've worked this job for going on five years and this has never happened to me. I'm speculating that since she didn't have anything negative to say about our store, she probably needed to say something. But what the fuck? I'm a pleasant person, everybody who comes in to purchase beverages or foods or any goods from us whatsoever can see that. And they can probably tell that my hair is, if you'll allow me to say, an extension of my free-falling personality. So how the fuck did I get the short end of the stick? I can't pull off the hat, I end up looking like some greasy tow-truck driver. And I can't pull off putting pins in my hair, I end up looking like some conflicted white-boy who craves life in Woodbridge (and all that entails). How come I got fucked?

If you're reading this, Joan, take care. Continue enjoying your job, protecting the public from contaminated foods and ensuring that every restaurant in the Markham area is chock-block ready to go. But, and I mean this respectfully, fuck you for kicking me while I was down and ruining my day. And please, don't make me say this to you again.

And now, Quasi!

I Never Want To See You Again - Quasi

GREETINGS FROM MATTHEW FRIEDBERGER

This morning, still recovering from the bug I mentioned in my last post, I received a very exciting e-mail in my inbox from Matthew Friedberger of the Fiery Furnaces.

Hi Spencer,
How have you been?
We have a record coming out in July, I'm going away. It's relatively short and simple. We're going to play in Toronto at the beginning of August--we think?
What are you up to?
Best,
Matt

I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend an hour or so today writing him and Eleanor a letter, I figure they'll appreciate reading that more than an e-mail. What an excellent way to start a day I otherwise feel like shit on!

THE COUCH ABSORBS THE SOUND OF YOU GETTING BACK TO ME

I had to call in sick for my shift today because of a terrible fever. After being horizontal for about 95% of the last 24 hours I feel much better, although still a little stuffy. It's amazing how much moaning and groaning I am capable of when I feel sick, and further, how much better it makes me feel to do so.

Springtime is officially here, and so are the ants that come with it. They have found their way into my house already, there's one looking into the headphone jack of my computer as we speak. I'm really not bothered by them at all, what bothers me is how the heck they get in here in the first place. I must admit this little guy's persistence is inspiring. I've flicked him in various directions about five times now, made him violently hit the posters that line my wall, but he just keeps getting back up. My hat goes off to him.

My buddy Mitten exposed me to this ridiculous e-find called 'Codex Seraphinianus'. During the seventies, this fellow Luigi Serafini spent thirty months creating this visual encyclopedia documenting some fictional world (much like our own, admittedly). The most fascinating thing about it is the fact that it's written in a made-up language which, to this day, still hasn't been cracked. The entire thing is available for download here, I really suggest you take a look at it. The artwork is stunning, the ideas are hilarious... my favourite are the trees swimming and reproducing...

I'm potentially moving downtown this September, finally. Really the idea has just been talked about, but the rent is dirt cheap, and it's a full-house in Kensington Market on Nassau Street. The three people I'd be living with have pretty much secured some hold on the property, and are going to go down and take a look at it soon. Isn't that exciting, for me? C'mon. Spencer MacEachern, moving out of Markham, living in Kensington Market, trying to fit in with Kensington hipsters, etc. I just salivated onto my keyboard and nearly electrocuted myself. The hilarious ingredient to this recipe is that these three people I'd be living with are all girls. Would I want to kill myself by the end of our lease, or would it be good for me? Surely it's better than living with three other guys, I should think. I could help bring balance, act as a referee during any moments of estrogen-infused cattiness (mind you, knowing me, I'd just swim in it). Plus all of them are musicians-- well, Kate used to play violin and doesn't really anymore, but I'd change that. Excited!

TAKING A MOMENT IN NEUTRAL (OR, THE PAUSE BEFORE THE EVACUATION)

I've been sitting on this far longer than I ever should've. Putting it off until next time, waiting for the perfect moment to come into view & fall into my lap. I am a shameful dog of hypocrisy, with my lying mouth hanging open and my tail between my legs. It isn't going to come so gracefully-- it could be anything but easy, and the results irreparable. Procrastinating day after day, letting the minutes pass and the dust settle for longer & longer. Most nights in my effort to sleep, I find myself shaking tiny spiders off my arms wildly. Why do I do this to myself? The man is my friend, I have known him for many years, and regardless of whether or not I am flawless, he should be privy to the way I am feeling.

But still I continue on this way, hiding...