Band of the Week

I've come across a pretty cool Gothic band, along the lines of Evanescence or Lacuna Coil. They're called Within Temptation. Songs to check out are "Memories," and "What Have you Done."



I like them because of the contrast of dark, chunky electric guitars countered by the ethereal clarity of a female voice.

Yes, I know they look kind of scary.

Rehab. . .

I've been thinking, now that I've gone home for the summer and have much more time on my hands at the end of the day, but thinking is about as far as I have gotten. I have a myriad of ideas swirling around in my head, but every time I try to sit down and put them to paper I encounter a severe lack of energy and ability to do so. This isn't something new, but I've only now been able to analyze it. This isn't a normal case of writer's block. It's something deeper; not case of not being able to find the right words, but the lack of ability to even reach the source for words. I've lost my creative energy. I pick up my guitar, maybe with the intent to find something, a little solace perhaps, but after a few cursory pickings I find that I have no feeling for the music and I can't go on. I put the guitar down. The same happens at the keyboard and anywhere else that I used to find a creative outlet.

I happened upon what I think is the problem while listening to "Rehab" by Rihanna. This is a line from the chorus, "It's like I've checked into rehab, and baby you're my disease." The idea here, obviously, is that love is like a drug. And somehow, for a brief moment in time, all the connections fell into place. . . I'm craving this "drug." It doesn't make as much sense now, as I'm musing about how to express things on a public forum, but it made at least somewhat of an impact. The problem is that I'm drug free--I don't have Rihanna's disease, and I've never had it.

I think what it comes down to is that I'm a bit of a romantic--which might come as a surprise to some. All through high school and early college the source of my creative inspiration was the idea of being in love. And there were a lot of girls who crossed my path who were beautiful enough to provide me with the illusion of just that. My creativity was fueled by the color of their expressive eyes, the slight hint of a smile, or an honest laugh.

But that energy source has faded. I have not been enthralled, for lack of a better word, in quite some time. I'm growing older, more bitter and jaded, discouraged even, because my illusion of romantic love is fading. And that is the source of my creative woes. I have no muse.

All the great artists and writers, that I can think of, made some form of tribute to their "muse." That means that if I want to be a great artist/writer, then I need to find one, and soon.




. . .Of course, the Phantom had a good muse, and he got really creepy.








Here's (not a link) Rihanna's music video for "Rehab" which I think is pretty cool*.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWqvMtSga8M

*It's a typical music video with a scantily clad woman (Rihanna), motorcycles, a classic car, Justin Timberlake, and lots of PDA.

Sharpshooter

I completed shotgun training for my summer employment last week and it went considerably better than last year. I got 10/10 which was the best score out of everybody in the class (except for a grizzled old timer who also got 10/10). It's kind of surprising, I really don't shoot much compared to most Alaskans, and this was really only my third time ever shooting a shotgun--the other two being last year's training. When the instructor of the course saw my grouping he said that I should be on a shooting team. I did have a nice group, by the end I was just shooting through a large hole in the center of the target. Hmmmm. . . third time with a shotgun, ever.

Yes, for those of you who envision otherwise, it might come as a surprise that I don't greet strangers at the door with my shotgun in their face. I may come across as being a crusty mountain man at times, but I really don't dislike company enough that I would ever greet people at gunpoint.

Which brings me to my next point, kind of. I can't find ammunition anywhere in Alaska. I have a brand spankin' new gun that I want to take to the range, and I can't find any bullets for it. All of the shelves in Alaska are bare. I guess it's because people here are still panicking over the fear that Obama is going to restrict gun rights--which I totally understand. But it's frustrating; I want to go shooting and I can't. It's all Obama's fault.

Oddly Enough. . .

It's kind of strange, but I've come to realize that I kind of missed the ribald humor of my summer work crew. And, oddly enough, I find the down to earth life of a blue collar American worker to be a strange relief from the intellectual labors of a collegiate education.