By Thomas Jaunism
Everyone feigned contentment. She stood in the middle of the room and drowned in voices of people she didn't know. She didn't care about them. She'd had enough of this shit. She thought 'those little fuckers' and she felt bad for swearing in her head. A voice told her it was OK to be 'fucked off'. She should give that cheeky one a smack around the ears.
She remembered how much she loved Antoine. She imagined resting her head on his lap in the sun. Another voice told her to 'snap out out of it'.
She thought of what she would cook for dinner and how she couldn't be bothered cooking tonight, or tomorrow night...and how she couldn't remember the last time she was happy, or if she'd ever been happy.
She tried to recall how she ended up in this room and why she was always pleasant to everyone. She forgot why she smiled at strangers and made small talk with her colleagues.
Her hands were red, cold and frail. She detested her hands. She felt the mole on the left side of her face and hated her parents. She wished she could go home and watch TV dramas with her mother.
She searched for something to look forward to. She saw days turn into years and all of them lonely. She was completely inside herself now. The sadness turned to sobbing and she did nothing to stop the tears.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - III" - The online chat edition...
Thomas: Hey. I've been asked to write a letter for amplifier
Lake: don't they sell our stuff?
Tj: It's there but no one buys it.
L: Should I give up?
Tj: Maybe. Remember what Syd said: “you shouldn't try and be what you can't be”
Or what about trying to sound more like those electronic tunes I see on music blogs.
L: Yeah I love that shit
Tj: are you taking the piss
?
L: No. It seriously makes me feel closer to the future I believed in when I was kid.
I still have a hope for that future.
Tj: You still writing folk/pop tunes?
L: Ostensibly... I just wait for gold to arrive
when it does i'm overwhelmed by the beauty of creation.
You still on that crusade against overwrought prose and banal minimalism?
Tj: Clearly
L: As much as I'm all about electronic 'tricks' and fancy production, I still believe in the power of 'the song' and it's manifestation in 'the sing-along'. We're always going to need songs that sing our stories to a strumable rhythm and a humable tune...
Tj: ok ...
L: As technology begins to permeate every facet of our lives, the way we interact changes. Our personal relationships start and are maintained with digital tools. Interactions with our communities and the world at large are increasingly reliant on new forms of communication. Our lives are spent earning a living, loving each other, and hanging out, in ways that would not have been possible 50 years ago. Thus, as has always been the case, we need songs that draw upon our contemporary lexicon. Songs that soothe pains we have felt. Songs that talk of times we recognise. Songs that sing -not of a future that never came to pass- but of a future we are part of creating.
Lake: don't they sell our stuff?
Tj: It's there but no one buys it.
L: Should I give up?
Tj: Maybe. Remember what Syd said: “you shouldn't try and be what you can't be”
Or what about trying to sound more like those electronic tunes I see on music blogs.
L: Yeah I love that shit
Tj: are you taking the piss
?
L: No. It seriously makes me feel closer to the future I believed in when I was kid.
I still have a hope for that future.
Tj: You still writing folk/pop tunes?
L: Ostensibly... I just wait for gold to arrive
when it does i'm overwhelmed by the beauty of creation.
You still on that crusade against overwrought prose and banal minimalism?
Tj: Clearly
L: As much as I'm all about electronic 'tricks' and fancy production, I still believe in the power of 'the song' and it's manifestation in 'the sing-along'. We're always going to need songs that sing our stories to a strumable rhythm and a humable tune...
Tj: ok ...
L: As technology begins to permeate every facet of our lives, the way we interact changes. Our personal relationships start and are maintained with digital tools. Interactions with our communities and the world at large are increasingly reliant on new forms of communication. Our lives are spent earning a living, loving each other, and hanging out, in ways that would not have been possible 50 years ago. Thus, as has always been the case, we need songs that draw upon our contemporary lexicon. Songs that soothe pains we have felt. Songs that talk of times we recognise. Songs that sing -not of a future that never came to pass- but of a future we are part of creating.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Cautionary Tale 1
I felt like a bottle of sweet inspiration to quench a tenacious thirst. They sell some cheap imitation shit at the supermarket two minutes from my house so I tried there. They'd run out -no more for two weeks.
The best stuff is made locally but they only sell it at a shop which takes ages to get to. It was cold and wet so I flagged.
Then I remembered I had some a friend brought round a while ago. I took a sip but it was flat and tasted a bit weird.
So I went without for a week and waited for the weather to clear up. But when a fine day did arrive I wasn't thirsty anymore. I'd started drinking apathy because my flatmate buys it in bulk.
It doesn't give you the same buzz but it's really easy to drink....
The best stuff is made locally but they only sell it at a shop which takes ages to get to. It was cold and wet so I flagged.
Then I remembered I had some a friend brought round a while ago. I took a sip but it was flat and tasted a bit weird.
So I went without for a week and waited for the weather to clear up. But when a fine day did arrive I wasn't thirsty anymore. I'd started drinking apathy because my flatmate buys it in bulk.
It doesn't give you the same buzz but it's really easy to drink....
Thursday, 16 December 2010
What was that thing I was just about to do...?
Jane is a kind woman of about 65 years. I guess that because today is her 'retirement do'. I bet she's a mother. I'd say she has at least two well brought up children.
I watched her clean up after the afternoon tea with another woman named Monica. Monica's around 45 years and has never had children. She's slightly less well kempt than Jane. I've never seen her knock something over, but she looks clumsy. She must mean well though I never warmed to her.
Ursula brought a cake peppered with capsicum and cheese. I thought 'what an odd combination for something called cake, I must try it'. I was disappointed because it was dry and tasteless.
I ate quickly and unscrupulously. Then I got a sore mouth because everything was too salty. I'm the young one that no one talks to.
Jack must be older than Jane. He encouraged me to drink more wine so he would feel better about discretely refilling his white plastic cup multiple times. Jack felt the urge to smoke when he saw people switching to coffee. He asked Jane to join him as joke. She laughed. Everyone was in the mood for a chuckle.
Jane and monica started cleaning up. Monica lost interest after she saw that Jane had control of the situation. Jane looked at a paper plate that still had some chips on it. She picked it up, decided against something, and put it back down. She moved a paper towel, decided against something, then turned around and asked the others a question. I forgot what she said because it was of no consequence. She contined cleaning around me as I peeled a mandarin.
I pretended to read my book but secretly watched her tidy. I thought 'You're doing a stunning job Jane, and it's a celebration in your honour'.
I watched her clean up after the afternoon tea with another woman named Monica. Monica's around 45 years and has never had children. She's slightly less well kempt than Jane. I've never seen her knock something over, but she looks clumsy. She must mean well though I never warmed to her.
Ursula brought a cake peppered with capsicum and cheese. I thought 'what an odd combination for something called cake, I must try it'. I was disappointed because it was dry and tasteless.
I ate quickly and unscrupulously. Then I got a sore mouth because everything was too salty. I'm the young one that no one talks to.
Jack must be older than Jane. He encouraged me to drink more wine so he would feel better about discretely refilling his white plastic cup multiple times. Jack felt the urge to smoke when he saw people switching to coffee. He asked Jane to join him as joke. She laughed. Everyone was in the mood for a chuckle.
Jane and monica started cleaning up. Monica lost interest after she saw that Jane had control of the situation. Jane looked at a paper plate that still had some chips on it. She picked it up, decided against something, and put it back down. She moved a paper towel, decided against something, then turned around and asked the others a question. I forgot what she said because it was of no consequence. She contined cleaning around me as I peeled a mandarin.
I pretended to read my book but secretly watched her tidy. I thought 'You're doing a stunning job Jane, and it's a celebration in your honour'.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - Email II"
thomas jaunism (tjmusicmanagement@gmail.com) Sun, Nov 28, 2010 at 17:15 PM
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: Yo!
Hey bro,
Thought I'd give you a summary of my week...
Kate commented on the extraordinary size of the leaves on my street.
I noticed that they'd cleaned the leaves from the yard at my work.
I was nearly hit twice by cars on the way to the organic supermarket near my flat. My anger grew.
I solved the mystery of the open window in my kitchen.
I met a German with a perfect french accent and lost all hope in my ability to speak foreign languages.
I tested a kid on his english. He couldn't speak a word more than hello. “c'est pas mon truc Monsier...” We carried on with the exercise regardless and he told me about his favourite things. He did judo and he loved judo. I couldn't quite grasp what he disliked at first...Then I worked it out and we shared a understanding than was beyond the both of us. “So...What don't you like?”
“ur...the judging... the judgement of people...Me and you... we're the same...”
I wished him good luck for the Judo and basked in a rekindled warmth of what is right and true.
A tragedy occurred down a mine in New Zealand. I watched the Prime Minister make a speech on the internet and was moved to tears.
Regained faith in my aptitude for foreign languages after talking to a woman from the US named Rose.
Love to you and yours...
Thomas
--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: Yo!
Hey bro,
Thought I'd give you a summary of my week...
Kate commented on the extraordinary size of the leaves on my street.
I noticed that they'd cleaned the leaves from the yard at my work.
I was nearly hit twice by cars on the way to the organic supermarket near my flat. My anger grew.
I solved the mystery of the open window in my kitchen.
I met a German with a perfect french accent and lost all hope in my ability to speak foreign languages.
I tested a kid on his english. He couldn't speak a word more than hello. “c'est pas mon truc Monsier...” We carried on with the exercise regardless and he told me about his favourite things. He did judo and he loved judo. I couldn't quite grasp what he disliked at first...Then I worked it out and we shared a understanding than was beyond the both of us. “So...What don't you like?”
“ur...the judging... the judgement of people...Me and you... we're the same...”
I wished him good luck for the Judo and basked in a rekindled warmth of what is right and true.
A tragedy occurred down a mine in New Zealand. I watched the Prime Minister make a speech on the internet and was moved to tears.
Regained faith in my aptitude for foreign languages after talking to a woman from the US named Rose.
Love to you and yours...
Thomas
--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****
"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - One side of the dialogue between Thomas Jaunism and Lake"
thomas jaunism (tjmusicmanagement@gmail.com) Sun, Nov 20, 2010 at 16:06 PM
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: How's it?
Hey bro...
Things are pretty sweet here. I'm still working on my new novel. It's a romance between a struggling writer and the girlfriend of the lead singer of the band he manages. It ends badly. I'm also writing short stories for my blog, slowly learning the art of the blog post. It's a great medium.
Good to hear that you're writing some new songs. Send me an Mp3 or two. I've also tried my hand penning a song. It's called “The theme-song of Thomas Jaunism” and is inspired by actual events.
I live close to a river and it's so fucking vast it buzzes me out. I fight an overwhelming urge to join it's flow with every crossing. Yesterday I traversed this river and remembered what an elder told me when I was a teenager. I currently teach some adolescents to earn my keep in France. Their boredom is contagious and their aversion to learning gets me down. Perhaps it was the observation of such indifference that compelled a kind, middle-aged, family woman to remark to my teenage self, “These are the best years of your life you know?”.
As of this year, I've authored four novels and two novelettes. The TK city council have just finished erecting a statue in my honour. I'm currently in talks with a production company that has agreed to air my sit-com based on a dole office in Wellington. I have regular sex and can afford to buy a six-pack of beer whenever I want.
So as I crossed the river I reflected on what that woman had said. I walked toward a Friday night knowing more than I had ever known. Being more experienced and more complete than I've ever been. We veer from the track but still we advance. To paraphrase the RZA, 'we zig and we zag but we always goin' forward...' I recalled my younger self being so depressed at the fact that high school could be the peak of my existence. I remembered believing in a better future.
I can safely say that adolescence wasn't my best work. And that last Friday night wasn't my best work either. You'll understand this as a songwriter -but we can also apply the logic to our daily lives and our daily selves. We create to find something better, but our previous creations are crucial building blocks for our future. Thus we overcome the problem of disappointment and dissatisfaction, and rejoice in the contentment of progress and its rewards.
We all have our purpose. The masters inspired me to start and the erroneously encouraged inspire me to continue...
On se tien au courant...
TJ
--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: How's it?
Hey bro...
Things are pretty sweet here. I'm still working on my new novel. It's a romance between a struggling writer and the girlfriend of the lead singer of the band he manages. It ends badly. I'm also writing short stories for my blog, slowly learning the art of the blog post. It's a great medium.
Good to hear that you're writing some new songs. Send me an Mp3 or two. I've also tried my hand penning a song. It's called “The theme-song of Thomas Jaunism” and is inspired by actual events.
I live close to a river and it's so fucking vast it buzzes me out. I fight an overwhelming urge to join it's flow with every crossing. Yesterday I traversed this river and remembered what an elder told me when I was a teenager. I currently teach some adolescents to earn my keep in France. Their boredom is contagious and their aversion to learning gets me down. Perhaps it was the observation of such indifference that compelled a kind, middle-aged, family woman to remark to my teenage self, “These are the best years of your life you know?”.
As of this year, I've authored four novels and two novelettes. The TK city council have just finished erecting a statue in my honour. I'm currently in talks with a production company that has agreed to air my sit-com based on a dole office in Wellington. I have regular sex and can afford to buy a six-pack of beer whenever I want.
So as I crossed the river I reflected on what that woman had said. I walked toward a Friday night knowing more than I had ever known. Being more experienced and more complete than I've ever been. We veer from the track but still we advance. To paraphrase the RZA, 'we zig and we zag but we always goin' forward...' I recalled my younger self being so depressed at the fact that high school could be the peak of my existence. I remembered believing in a better future.
I can safely say that adolescence wasn't my best work. And that last Friday night wasn't my best work either. You'll understand this as a songwriter -but we can also apply the logic to our daily lives and our daily selves. We create to find something better, but our previous creations are crucial building blocks for our future. Thus we overcome the problem of disappointment and dissatisfaction, and rejoice in the contentment of progress and its rewards.
We all have our purpose. The masters inspired me to start and the erroneously encouraged inspire me to continue...
On se tien au courant...
TJ
--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Another story featuring a supermarket...
By Thomas Jaunism
I went to the capital of Spain last week to see a man about a horse. Sage Francis performed at the University bar several weeks prior to this. He was unshaven and balding- two things I relate to well. He appeared on the stage with a flag draped over his head and an insouciant swagger. His I-don't-give-a-fuck manner inspired feelings of loathing, unworthiness and jealousy in equal parts. I forgot that I was about to leave due to anxiety and boredom and was instead welcomed into his exultant realm of certitude. He said “this next song is called ---------. And it's Magnificent”, and the sentiment echoed throughout the night.
Madrid was magnificent. The man had lied about the horse so I had time to relax. Each day I made my way to the same small supermarket to buy peach nectar. It was delicious. En route, I always passed the same fast food restaurant whose stoop three men used to drink that extra strong beer one could purchase at the aforementioned store. They seemed to be well content with their haunt and were friendly enough to exclaim a series of words to me as I passed by. But I don't speak Spanish so we didn't get on. There was a gentleman who stood outside the supermarket holding the door open for customers. He had a friendly smile which he used to accompany his softly spoken responses. These consisted of “Hola”or “Buenos dias” and “Gracias” in that order. One would be greeted with a polite 'hola' on entering the building and would receive a gracious 'gracias' after handing the man their surplus coins and continuing their day.
I was going to write about the fact that this dude would be lost if the store installed automatic doors. But I've been overcome with a sinking feeling and what's more I have a peculiar sensation in my stomach. There was a kindness in that man's eyes that one rarely sees near such establishments. I like to think that he has become part of the community and people greet him good humour and lose balance when he's not there. But I'm questioning the morality of adding poetry to poverty.
I saw a collection of short films on some rough neighbourhoods in New York the other day. I thought they were beautifully shot and showed great insight into the people's lives. The directors answered questions afterwards. “So you show us the hardship and all this bad stuff in New York” said one dude, “but what are you doing to help these people?”. I didn't understand their answers as my french is not complete, but they weren't happy and the discomfort weighed heavily on us all...
But this is stuff you already know. All art is shit but some art makes us feel less shit. Because, of course, we need to regard magnificent creations to know that magnificence can be created.
Epilogue
Detachment has prevented me from being injured by sharp attacks on my work and my person and allows me to find beauty in the harshest of truths, but should we dress cold horrors in metaphoric cloaks for the sake of art?
I went to the capital of Spain last week to see a man about a horse. Sage Francis performed at the University bar several weeks prior to this. He was unshaven and balding- two things I relate to well. He appeared on the stage with a flag draped over his head and an insouciant swagger. His I-don't-give-a-fuck manner inspired feelings of loathing, unworthiness and jealousy in equal parts. I forgot that I was about to leave due to anxiety and boredom and was instead welcomed into his exultant realm of certitude. He said “this next song is called ---------. And it's Magnificent”, and the sentiment echoed throughout the night.
Madrid was magnificent. The man had lied about the horse so I had time to relax. Each day I made my way to the same small supermarket to buy peach nectar. It was delicious. En route, I always passed the same fast food restaurant whose stoop three men used to drink that extra strong beer one could purchase at the aforementioned store. They seemed to be well content with their haunt and were friendly enough to exclaim a series of words to me as I passed by. But I don't speak Spanish so we didn't get on. There was a gentleman who stood outside the supermarket holding the door open for customers. He had a friendly smile which he used to accompany his softly spoken responses. These consisted of “Hola”or “Buenos dias” and “Gracias” in that order. One would be greeted with a polite 'hola' on entering the building and would receive a gracious 'gracias' after handing the man their surplus coins and continuing their day.
I was going to write about the fact that this dude would be lost if the store installed automatic doors. But I've been overcome with a sinking feeling and what's more I have a peculiar sensation in my stomach. There was a kindness in that man's eyes that one rarely sees near such establishments. I like to think that he has become part of the community and people greet him good humour and lose balance when he's not there. But I'm questioning the morality of adding poetry to poverty.
I saw a collection of short films on some rough neighbourhoods in New York the other day. I thought they were beautifully shot and showed great insight into the people's lives. The directors answered questions afterwards. “So you show us the hardship and all this bad stuff in New York” said one dude, “but what are you doing to help these people?”. I didn't understand their answers as my french is not complete, but they weren't happy and the discomfort weighed heavily on us all...
But this is stuff you already know. All art is shit but some art makes us feel less shit. Because, of course, we need to regard magnificent creations to know that magnificence can be created.
Epilogue
Detachment has prevented me from being injured by sharp attacks on my work and my person and allows me to find beauty in the harshest of truths, but should we dress cold horrors in metaphoric cloaks for the sake of art?
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