the 100th song and predictive truth

Remember that interview I was cramming for that other weekend? Well, I signed onto the team this morning. I knew I was going to write this post the day I signed for it. Despite no guarantee of success in the ensuing four interview rounds, I knew that it would set forth both a new routine and a new city.

I won't let you in on every past double intent, because then I'd be too easy, but by the third "day" (or 2017.09.14 in Gregorian, per this 22nd "day" summary), a pattern had emerged in entry frequency. It was also on that third "day," that I heard James Maloney's Gaslight for the first time and finished my very last job interview (for the time being, at least). The unfolding pattern was too strong to resist, and so I followed it, con brio, until the 21st "day" -- the last of yesterday's five hasty 23-line entries.

Which brings us to today's revelation, that a Gaslight track would be track no. 100 on the 22nd "day."



But I don't think things are meta enough yet. Later on that third "day," I also knew "Blink" would be the 100th song. Apparently, it didn't take me long since the first "day" (or 2017.09.05 in Gregorian) to determine that. But humans, we're just sophisticated machines. Three Gregorian days before the third "day," I had been inspired by a commercial event and the rapidly deteriorating glass camera of my trusty Android camera lens to finally convert to a dusty iPhone I'd received as a holiday gift in 2016.

And as goes tradition, any change of device would compel a new custom, subtly-selected ringtone.

If you've guessed correctly, there's very little force in #voodooisms. I don't try to predict the future, nor do I really "summarize" the past. There are songs on the list that have been in heavy rotation and songs that stuck after a single play. But every title, lyric, or musical motif triggers a vivid memory...

My ringtones, the conditioned triggers that they are, always make it into #voodooisms. (Sometimes lyrics distract.) Overall, I'm pretty happy with the overhead metaphor "Blink" provides and the piano melodies foreshadowed by my very personal track no. 25 / "day" 20 yet also reminiscent of Dario Marianelli's string-based "Attraversiamo" (sorry, James). And overall, I'm pretty happy with how this month and my documentation of #voodooisms turned out, if the writing was a tad rushed and sloppy.

With every double intent, it's the most brutally honest I've been on a page. I trust you to understand, no matter how hurt or accusatory a passage feels, it's strictly a documentation of the past without any present intent of blame. If it still doesn't make much sense, thank god, because then I'd be too easy.

Here's easy: September was fun. I wrote 21 poems (if you will). I acted on camera for a professional filmmaker for the first time (music video to come). I landed four jobs (in four hilariously different fields). I chose one (direction to grow in now). And I reconnected with friends (whom I hadn't seen in years).

If you ever wonder why your days become increasingly short as you age, it's because they are relative.



... and if everyone is looking west at wildcat peak, but you already know what that looks like, look east.

the 100th song and personal learning

I knew I was going to write this post the entire time I was cramming for an interview this weekend, but once my schedule cleared, I didn't know how I wanted to start. I'm used to getting caught in the lede, knowing a good lede will get you far. And I'm afraid I didn't start with a good lede during my interview. But getting caught in the lede also suggests a desire to be heard. Makes sense for the interview, but maybe less so here. Here, I am ultimately writing for myself. To document what I feel like documenting at any given moment. Albeit publicly, to save my written words from my compulsion to get rid of them.

I can start on August 13th or on August 31st, but ultimately, I am making public the same information.

So in keeping to plan and further reinforcing that I've yet to learn how to count (read: live linearly), let's start on the 31st. It's Thursday morning, I've woken up to some positive news and have an afternoon appointment to keep. In between, I post a #Latergram and decide, a month and some after the fact, to add this Kanye West cover by Alexander Lewis and Brasstracks to a playlist titled #voodooisms.

#voodooisms is the longest continuous documentation I've kept of... well, anything. It is what it sounds like: a collection of songs that mirror my life as I've lived it, though retrospectively. And retrospectively, I never intended to appropriate any religious practice besides mine of music. Presenting track no. 99 --

🎺🔥✨ #sfbay #tbt: "goes to burning man fundraisers but not burning man" ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ @campquestionmark feat. @_alexanderlewis

A post shared by Joanna Rui Jiang (@thevibegirl) on Aug 31, 2017 at 9:14am PDT

Let's roam back to track no. 98 and the lead photo. Only three artists repeat in #voodooisms and, being the fake hipster I am, they are Yeezy, Bon Iver, and Lorde. But Lorde holds the distinction of being repeated as the main artist of a track both times. (The other two only got in via feature or remix.) I'm a certain commitment-phobe, but I let Ms. Yelich-O'Connor slide here, for reasons to be explained.

On August 13th, I caved to expectations by attending San Francisco's annual Outside Lands festival for the first time. Despite having lived in the Bay for four years, this occasion was the result of being back in town as a tourist (the fact that I left only 12 days prior is a minor but notable detail for your amusement). I figured I might as well tour and see Maggie Rogers after getting sucked into Now That the Light Is Fading based on Vallis Alps' good words for "Alaska" during my interview with them late last year.

Meanwhile, "Green Light" grew on me like a leech, despite my resistance both to its too-upbeat-for-Ella chorus and to adding a second Lorde song to #voodooisms after "Tennis Court" made the list in 2013 by characterizing my high school modern European history class and the decision to enroll at Cal for my undergraduate degree that year. I caved here too, likely due to convenient symmetry and lyrical themes.

Little did I know, August 13th would become immensely personal wherein, after an undisclosed number of brunch mimosas and framing my post-academia year with "Alaska" and "Green Light," I found myself clearheaded after being emotionally shredded by stellar live renditions of both songs. It was a cathartic release more substantial than I'd ever felt before, which brings me now to my selection of track no. 100.

If you've guessed correctly, there's very little force in #voodooisms. I don't try to predict the future, nor do I really "summarize" the past. There are songs on the list that have been in heavy rotation and songs that stuck after a single play. But every title, lyric, or musical motif triggers a vivid memory that was then.

It's morning on the 31st when I'm realizing again -- this year's dog days are over, and it just so happens that, like every one of my other great fortunes, the 100th #voodooism will come at an appropriate juncture of my personal history. Find me, as I await my day-to-day to fall back into a predictable routine, for my feet to fall into a new city, and for my newly-graduated-and-living-at-home self to fall into a new song:

Lately, I've been learning about machine learning, and humans are just sophisticated machines, right?

in passing

truth is often
numerous things
seem to warrant apologies

at a gateway to narnia
in passing
you met me

in the margins
we whispered
words
raised spines
a third quarter

your platform was flimsy
still i cheshire'd back

--

now that extended stay is over
do not pass go the bank is broke
we are the 99 per cent
by monetary terms only

everyone else has already fled
into high fantasy sanctuary

i gave you what you thought was the key
received what i thought was the end of me

i insisted you stay so i left instead
out to the left coast
you couldn't cross the border
the key doesn't work you screamed

across states
the insular mountains
cascade range
calapooya

--

darling, i know
i know but you didn't
but i'm less wise now than i was before

harder
better
faster
stronger
technologic
enabled

i've seen more now
i'm more apathetic
i'm less apolitical

still i wrote you this poem

--

the other one i wrote years ago
and/or non-committally so

with my head underwater i screamed

up through
lake shasta
columbia
the fraser river

it's not paradise here either
do not pass go the bank is broke
we are the 99 per cent
by monetary terms only

truth is often numerous things

your platform was flimsy
in passing
stay bold

Time melts like snow off the porch

I’ve traded wind chills for sunburns.
Snow days for bomb threats, what have I done?
You’re fascinating, but you don’t fascinate me.
You’re captivating, but you don’t captivate me.
I’m an oiled moth without her superpower.
This New Age? I made it out of silkworms.
Our era of ivory towers—
mark its words, in books, with knives;
that’s not dangerous, that’s multitasking.
You want to hear a secret? I flipped a coin.

Turnaround

I'm in love
with the wrong kind of summer:
the short, the skinny;
to any farmer farming:
a summer bearing no fruit.

I'm in love
with the backside of dawn,
the sort of view from outer space:
sometimes I forget
to halt my frozen lungs.

I'm in love
with the denouement;
the fission fragments
that settle on children:
forgive their consequences.

I'm in love
with the morning after:
the New Year's Day;
to any dreamer dreaming:
a newfound freedom.

Infidelity

I'm in that place where
memories conceived
shatter; like butterfly wings,
sleep; this utterly useless
occupation I abhor; thus
appended happiness,
fragile and short-lived.
We're fucking perfect
right here; infinite shades
of violet greys, sapphires
vibrating at lightning pace;
missiles toward our end.
Collectively, we are stronger
alone, standing corrected.

Blinded

I can smell the red in the room
I can taste the bitter yellow
I can feel the orange of the nurse's sleeve

and the blue she gives me

(to wash away the yellow)

There's a putrid green rising in my throat
I try not to let it taint the purple

(upon which I lie; soft and clean)

But all I see is white.

01/15/13 remedial services

We wear cities on our fingers
and orchestrate disasters;
as we peel back layers
of gut-wrenching speeches.
Of heart-felt desires.
Fasten our eyes upon words, short of phrases,
rest upon the table where our plates lay bare
like holes in the patchwork.
Starved of glamour; we are
spent and stolen; it is
by invisible few who carry the sidewalk--
it is stolen into concrete crevices
from grimy hands and foreign lands
(and hushed, guilty consciences).
Here, factories and floor plans
offer apathy and guidance.
But without reception or a working compass,
the world is lost on us.

anarchaicpoem

in which, one dreams of a future past,
and knows adolescent lilies will never last
as aqueous ink drips, unconsoled by the pen
offering only a strong resistance to its owner's hand.
consider: what if the owner doesn't own it?
is it an enabler or nothing more than a dinner gift?
without an answer, took leave from the table
leaving a whirlwind, a mess, a moral-less fable,
waiting for Freedom, for who knows when--
what if It lives, long ago, back then?

(six) On death

(Inevitably) she ran out of time; flung her hands,
blinking her eyes, calling out to the sky.
An chill-instilling wail, savage and beast-like.
Stone before her holds fast, unmoving, refusing--
to quiver--shaking and trembling,
she lowers her hands, fumbling through the cracks
searching for a lever--any breaking point.
as Death grasps her about the waist,
whispers Calamity in her ear and Escape,
on the other side, where her fingers aren't broken
from jagged, rigid rocks. She can already see it
in her mind; the blood ceases and
her fever runs cold, but in His arms, she falls.

Chaos, often mistaken with anarchy,
and likewise, death, unjustly morbid,
the end to all tragedies,
and one which invokes tears, misunderstanding,
ignites anger, runs cold spells, causes fear
in public hearts who forget to consider
whether we simply struggle by design.

Recovery (exercise 4)

Man, I was a real fucked up child.
I don't think I ever recovered from that.
"Home" moved around a lot
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
My seventh summer, I lost a close friend
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
This one time, furniture split my head open
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Watching my mates fall into the dark?
I don't think I ever recovered from that.
I even lost myself to exercise bulimia
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Then I gained it all back, real fast,
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
The day I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Or playing the role of the Frog Princess.
I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Man, I haven't changed towns since 2004
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Someone told me I've a "trust-able" face
and I don't think I ever recovered from that.
Realizing that I've gained job immunity?
I don't think I ever recovered from that.
The kicker is my generally fast recovery time,
which I don't think I'll ever recover from.

the cold-blooded boy

he spent the morning on the sidewalk
in front of my house
basking in the glorious sun
waving a little too enthusiastically
as my friends and i walked by
pushing our brand new bikes
to the part of the road
where the bike lane began.

he danced on our street
in the hot afternoon rain dodging cars
and ignoring the agitated honks
and saying thank you, but no thank you
when i offered my umbrella
so i’d stand there sheltered on the curb
while he grinned with wet wild eyes
and we’d talk for hours.

he would shiver in the evening
chat his teeth stomp his feet
trying to keep warm under the streetlamp
and i would bring him in a basket
warm soup and bread from dinner
resume my place on the curb
but this last time instead
he kissed me goodbye and got up and left.

Abstract loss

On foolishly allotted ample room and board and infinite paper
I'll key, then delete, than repeat these phrases,
shoving these urges down veins and vessels, resisting for good
to save myself wearing a roster of exhausted faces.

Unable to render material creative and original and new,
resorting to lowly rhymes, replaying Fleetwood Mac: I'll let you run
in the shadows. Damn your love, damn your lies.
Without you and I, me and you could have a lot more fun.

Pray tell, do you ever feel ridiculous playing this game we play?
Counting the dots in that Seurat painting, dots never connecting?
Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte-
shall we, may we, when we, can we, start and end this thing?

1884 was a lifetime ago. I won't expect my having any effect,
rather closure will have me regaining composure, abstracts lost
for a century are easy to fixate upon and hard to quit
despite warnings, health risks, and other means of accost.

With hesitant hands I write stanza after stanza- after stanza.
I tell myself that I am strong/that I do not love you;
then sit back and stare at the page, wondering
how these deliberate words read both false and true.

Fiberglass

When I was three
they put me in a bottle.
When I was four
they rolled me out to school.
When I was five
I learned about dinosaurs, and I thought
I would die in here if they ever came to get me.

When I was six
they came to get me.
The dinosaurs had evolved.
When I was seven
I was still alive.
When I was eight
they rolled me away, out of the city, and I thought
this is it, they're going to kill me.
They're going to shake me champagne,
pop the cork, pour me out
tear my limbs, and eat me.

When I was nine
I was still alive.
When I was ten
they set me free.
When I was eleven
I roamed, unconfined.
When I was twelve
I cut my hand, picking up
severed glass.
When I was thirteen
witnessing terrible things,
those things made me feel like a dinosaur.

When I was fourteen
My scars healed into reptilian scales.
When I was fifteen
I learned about nature vs. nurture and time.
And time.
And time.

Now at sixteen
time won't ever reconstruct that precious bottle.

And tonight, I feel like a spaceship

Obligation;

Something I won't be quaint
or sweet or ever ever ever
pleased about.

Darling, I don't want it
and I never never never did
want it.

Obligation;

is a fucking motherfucker.

Apparently, I feel like a purple spaceship. Mainstream. Indie. Two non-words, as exhibited in these recent videos above.

Projectionists at work

Quiet hands,
charged with electricity;
let them reach out and heal this planet.
Smartly, stirring, and slowly shifting,
swiftly set into motion on a spinning reel.

After a prolonged windy, wet start to spring, Toronto will finally see sunshine. The best part about it is the stained air, a result of endless rainwater evaporating from the depths of our lawns. The following albums emulate it perfectly:

Ohbijou
Beacons (Last Gang)
Released June 2nd, 2009
Recommended tracks: "Wildfires", "Thunderlove", "Make It Gold"
Origin: Toronto, Canada

Jónsi
Go (XL Recordings)
Released April 6th, 2010
Recommended tracks: "Sinking Friendships", "Kolniður", "Hengilás"
Origin: Iceland

Through its more traditional forms, baroque pop intertwines the warmth of string arrangements, hazy twee, and soulful vocal melodies. If it were embodied by a person, they would be unimaginably introverted and difficult to interact with. Wait, check out Braids's Native Speaker as well.

My sweet sixteen gift from mom + sis

05.17: Cute effort, girls, but that is very minimal space.

Darling, how pathetic you are.

Our obsession with everything larger than life- well, it's imaginary. The changing of a past outside of one's mind- well, it's damaging. Seeking a death at the end of every road- darling, how pathetic. Reliving a thousand lies with every movement- at least it's honest.

Us, facades

A weeks worth of newspapers
lined up on the shoe rack; and
five simple words blaring like a siren:
YOU ARE LIVING A LIE.
So please, call no more assistance,
for now it is only thoughtless noise
and grand chaos, abolishing.
Eliminating the machines.

Cracks in the line

Somewhere along the line,
we fell through the cracks;
hanging on to the spiderwebs,
of a tearing wool sweater.

Somewhere along the line,
we dropped our eyes;
shameful of our stubborn pride,
unable to have met glory.

Somewhere along the line,
we surrendered ourselves;
to dominant media propaganda,
with the intent of tragedy.

Darling, where'd you steal your years from?

Staring at the sun, defining
a cluster of sleeper stars, are you?
Or are you a liar, too?
Have you too much time on your hands,
too much wine-caked blood, have you?
Yet to grow old, not to be mistaken
for your years, look-
He knows and he’s shining bright with knives.
Playfully piercing your vision, because
you’re hiding. Hiding before your lies.