He was continually talking about himself and his relation to the world about, a quality which created the unfortunate impression that he was simply a blatant egotist… To come into is presence gave me the sensation of being undressed, or rather peeled, for it was much more than mere nakedness which he demanded of the person he was talking to. In talking to me he addressed himself to a me whose existence I had only dimly suspected, the me, for example, which emerged when, suddenly, reading a book, I realized that I had been dreaming. Few books had this faculty of putting me into a trance, this trance of utter lucidity in which, unknown to oneself, one makes the deepest resolutions. Roy Hamilton’s conversation partook of this quality. It made me more than ever alert, preternaturally alert, without at the same time crumbling the fabric of dream. He was appealing in other words, to the m of the self, to the being who would eventually outgrow the naked personality, the synthetic individuality leave me truly alone and solitary in order to work out my own proper destiny.

Our talk was like a secret language in the midst of which the others went to sleep or faded away like ghosts… Hamilton opened my eyes and gave me new values, and though later I was able to lose the vision which he had bequeathed me nevertheless I could never again see the world, or my friends, as I had seen them prior to his coming. Hamilton altered me profoundly, as only a rare book, a rare personality, a rare experience, can alter one. For the first time in my life I understood what it was to experience a vital friendship and not to feel enslaved or attached because of the experience. Never, after we parted, did I feel the need of his actual presence; he had given himself completely and I possessed him without being possessed. It was the first, clean, whole experience of friendship, and it was never duplicated by any other friend. He was the symbol personified and consequently entirely satisfactory, hence no longer necessary to me. He himself understood this thoroughly. Perhaps it was the fact of having no father that pushed him alone road toward the discovery of the self, which is the final process of identification with the world and the realization consequently of the uselessness of ties.


— Henry Miller, The Tropic Of Capricorn

Up to now, the concept will has been subsumed under the concept force; but I am using it just the opposite way, and mean that every force in nature is to be understood as a function of will. And this is no mere squabble over words, or matter of no moment: on the contrary, it is of the greatest significance and importance. For at the back of the concept force there is finally our visual knowledge of the objective world, i.e., of some phenomenon, something seen. It is from this that the concept force derives. It is an abstraction from the field in which the laws of cause and effect prevail… whereas the concept will, on the contrary, is the one, among all possible concepts, that does not derive from the observation of phenomena, not from mere visual knowledge, but comes from inside, emerges from the immediate consciousness of each one of us, in which each is directly aware of his own individuality in terms of his own existence: not as a form, not even in terms of the subject-object relationship, but as that which he himself is; for here the knower and the known are the same.

— Arthur Schopenhauer

As anyone passionately excited by a living experience would have done, I pressed on, as fast as I could, to the conclusion of the Schopenhauerian system: but though its aesthetic portion had satisfied me completely, and particularly had astonished me with its notable understanding of music, I was nevertheless shocked—as any in my state of mind would have been—by the moral turn at the end of it all. For there, the extinction of the Will to Life, absolute renunciation, was put forward as our only real and final redemption from the bonds (now for the first time keenly felt) of our individual limitation in understanding and dealing with the world. For such a one as I, who had expected to cull from philosophy a capital justification for political and social agitation in the name of the so-called “free individual,” there was here, obviously, nothing to gain: the only offering was a requirement to turn from this road entirely and put down the impulse to a personal career. To me, at first, this had nothing at all to say. Not so readily, I thought, would I allow myself to be moved to renounce the so-called “cheerful” Greek viewpoint, from which I had composed my paper on “The Artwork of the Future”. Actually, it was Herwegh, with a weighty thought, first moved me to reconsider my emotion. “All tragedy,” he suggested, “is contingent on this insight into the nullity of the sphere of appearance; and every great poet—indeed, every great human being—must inwardly have reconciled himself intuitively to this truth.” I looked back to my Nibelungen poem and there, to my amazement, found that what now was giving me such difficulty as a theory had long been familiar to my own poetic imagination.


— Richard Wagner, on Tristan und Isolde

In the rites of the classical mystery cults the initiatory symbolic shocks were experienced in graduated series by neophytes spiritually ready, who were carried thereby through expanding revelations to whatever sign or event, displayed within the ultimate sanctum, conferred the consummating epiphany. But life too confers initiations, and the most potent of these are of sex and death. Life too communicates revelatory shocks, but they are not pedagogically graded. These initiations are administered both to those prepared and to those who are unprepared, and while the latter either receive from them no instruction or, worse, are left damaged (insane, a bit exploded, defensively hardened, or inert), those ready receive initiations that may not only match but even surpass the revelations of the cults. For since life is itself the background from which the prophets of yore of both the great and the little ceremonial systems derived their initial inspirations, life holds still in store the possibilities of the same enlightenment anew, and of more and greater besides.


— Joseph Campbell, The Masks Of God: Creative Mythology

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.


— Charles Bukowski, “so you want to be a writer?” from sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way

La Dispute - Nov. 4th, 2011 - Wonder Ballroom - Portland, OR
FROM REDEFINE MAGAZINE

This probably won’t be the most “professional” review ever — but in my shaky defense, I dare say that previous revisions were even more visceral and less sophisticated than this one… so there’s that.

Now onto the concert-going frustrations of a La Dispute fan over the age of 21…

I first heard La Dispute over three years ago, and it was instant love. Somewhere at the Bottom of the River Between Vega and Altair became a favorite of that year and has remained on regular rotation ever since. Even then, at 24, I was a loner in my fandom; few of my peers could appreciate why I adored La Dispute, and I learned not to care. I made peace with the fact that people think it’s alright to like emo/hardcore/whatever when they’re younger but shun it when they’re older. I learned to accept that if people were unwilling to look past genre tags, they would never discover vocalist Jordan Dreyer’s compelling lyrical narratives. But it’s fine. To each their own, I say! — or did say, anyway. That was before I went to La Dispute shows, though — before “their own” ever encroached on “my own” and affected my concert-going experiences. Now I just want them to see the light.

In 2009, La Dispute were on tour with Thursday, and I caught them in Detroit, not far from their hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. It was then that I learned that La Dispute shows seem to be comprised of the following human components: real dismal jerk-offs, extremely stoked kids, and completely apathetic individuals. I’d somehow had the great fortune of surrounding myself with “real dismal jerk-offs” that evening. These misers were next-level, though; they not only hated on La Dispute, but spouted racist epithets, too. In their initial ramblings, they implied that all Arabs are terrorists. Later, when I pulled out my camera to take photos, one commented that I had a camera, and another smugly responded, “Of course.” Wait, of course why exactly? Because I’m Asian? Yes, he was alluding to that, indeed. I held my tongue and fumed, only to fume more as they abusively and loudly judged La Dispute, making fun of Dreyer for his “emo” voice and sarcastically calling for encores throughout their set.

Tonight, two years later, I’ve managed to catch La Dispute again. They’re on tour with Thrice, and I am hundreds of miles from Detroit, in Portland, Oregon — but the same misers are here. Just like before, they make fun of Dreyer’s “emo” voice and sarcastically call for encores. Just like before, they don’t realize that all across the country, there are clones of themselves, saying and thinking the exact same brainless negative things. Just like before, I’ve somehow managed to surround myself with these horribly, horribly unoriginal whiners…

An unsavory crowd has put a damper on my experience both times I’ve seen La Dispute. I chalk this up to the fact that their nation-wide tours have been with large bands like Thursday and Thrice — both of whom have long-running, established fanbases that are comfortable and don’t necessarily seek change. Both Thursday and Thrice have come a long way stylistically in the past decade. Their recent outputs are more instrumentally-complex and textural than their early hardcore albums, and they’ve grown up for all to see. For those who are just absorbing Thrice’s music now, La Dispute may seem like a most ridiculous opener. You can bet that the dismal jerk-offs love this dichotomy.

In the same breath that they’re calling for songs from Thrice’s latest, Major/Minor, they’re making fun of Dreyer for playing a tambourine or looking emaciated from pushing his body to the limit — and one can hypothesize that what they’re really miserable about is how painfully ignorant they are. Telling your friends you dislike a band is one thing; heckling loudly at a band that is playing to a sold-out crowd just makes you look like an idiot. It might help you to stop for a moment and consider why bands like Thursday and Thrice are bringing La Dispute on tour to begin with. Bands with followings as devoted as Thrice’s or Thursday’s don’t need to bring a No Sleep Records band on tour with them. Consider, then, you curmudgeons, that perhaps these bands that you absolutely idolize might find worth in the band you’re shitting on. Maybe you could show just the least bit of respect, too!?

This mean-spiritedness is particularly despicable when directed towards La Dispute because of the joy the band exudes as well as fosters in the all-ages community. As I stood in the 21-and-over section of Wonder Ballroom, I realized that I was, as usual, the lone fan in a sea of skeptics — though some warmed up as their set went on. All of La Dispute’s existing fans — the “extremely stoked kids” — were front-and-center in the all-ages section. Their enthusiasm kicked to the curb my previous assumption that kids only sang along with La Dispute at the Detroit show because of Detroit’s proximity to the band’s hometown. Not so. The extremely stoked kids in Portland love La Dispute just as much as the extremely stoked kids in Detroit; they know all the lyrics and all the breakdowns — and it’s not just a few of them. It’s dozens of them, roaring back like lions. The music speaks to them on a level that’s much, much deeper than just surface, and that should mean something to even the most jaded of hearts.

But as the kids were enjoying themselves this evening at Wonder Ballroom, the bitter individuals behind me threw up their hands in bemusement, “holier-than-thou”-ness radiating from their every scoff. I’ve learned that their confidence is a pretense for cowardice. When I confronted the racists in Detroit, I gave a general statement defending the Arab community and explained quite plainly that I had a camera because I run a music magazine. The main culprit backpedaled immediately. He claimed that none of what he said was what he meant, and his less ostentatious friend called him an asshole, attempting to diffuse the situation with a weak “good cop” act. His dishonesty was obviously not convincing.

This evening, too, had one particularly outspoken master of heckles who was surrounded by less intense followers. After one follower played mock air guitar and vapidly complained about La Dispute being too “dramatic,” I turned to him and calmly asked, “I’m just curious; are you familiar with Thrice’s old material? Because it very much resides in the same world as this.”

“Oh no,” he responded immediately. “I have just never seen them before, that’s all.”

“But you’re hating on them so hard,” I replied — and he had nothing more to say. Suddenly, he too had no ill will and was just misunderstood.

Later, the outspoken master of heckles was running through his latest cycle of snide “One more song!“‘s and fake cheers when Dreyer began to reflect upon the positive aspects of the evening’s show. He gave a heartfelt monologue about how La Dispute felt at ease in Portland due to the crowd’s warm reception and concluded by saying of the venue, “This kind of place is important because it not only gives us a home, but gives everyone here a home… so, thank you.”

It was clear that the thanks came from a place of honesty. And with such an immediate juxtaposition between unwarranted bitterness and blinding gratitude, I’m sure the heckler felt ridiculous for being so negative. He remained silent for the remainder of the set.

I’d like to think that such tales are examples of disarmament through gentle logic and of enlightenment warming cold souls by proxy. Maybe it’s a stretch. Maybe it’s overly optimistic. I don’t care. I’m going to stick to that ideal, and to end this review — if you can even call this that — I’m going to incorporate the band’s spirit to back me up. Here’s “The Castle Builders” from Somewhere at the Bottom of the River Between Vega and Altair. Love it or leave it.

—-

Now speak of anger,
Forget all the fears you’ve kept about love and sex and death and faith,
Erased, or swinging sweet from around her neck and between her breasts.
Let every lonely body finally break its fear of flesh and say,
“How strange it must’ve been back when we shook at the sight of sweat.”
Let our worries wander out of like water streaming from a spring,
And sing of all the things our heads have failed to ruin yet.
There’s so much they have failed to ruin yet.

Bright as lightning, loud as thunder,
We’ll move all the hurt aside to let love sustain our passions,
And move up and onward.
We are not our losses, we are only the extent to which we love.
So build a home for your family, and build a castle for your friends.
Now set their beds with sheets and blankets, keep them safe until the end.
I’ve felt the damage and burn from the fallout.
My love failed but theirs prevailed.
My friends, I’m only flesh and bone,
But I won’t let you die alone.
So leave our hearts at the foot of the mountain.
Let our burdens be locked in the stone.
If you will help me roll it upward,
I won’t let you die alone.

I see a beauty springing upward from the earth and from out our hearts.
For all the bad that seems to plague us, I swear to you there’s good.
They say that death is not a problem, it’s a promise,
I can only say for sure that when it makes your bed I’ll kiss your head “Goodnight.”
So speak of all the love we lost, and what it cost us,
Left us beg our breath to stop but we kept on and
We were strong. We stayed bright as lightning,
We sang loud as thunder, we moved ever forward.
We are not our failures. We are love.


— Vivian Hua, REDEFINE MAGAZINE

“What we know depends also on what, as moral beings, we choose to make ourselves. ‘Practice,’ in the words of William James, ‘may change our theoretical horizon, and this in a twofold way: it may lead into new worlds and secure new powers. Knowledge we could never attain, remaining what we are, may be attainable in consequences of higher powers and a higher life, which we may morally achieve.’ To put the matter more succinctly, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ And the same idea has been expressed by the Sufi poet, Jalal-uddin Rumi, in terms of a scientific metaphor: ‘The astrolabe of the mysteries of God is love.’…

The self-validating certainty of direct awareness cannot in the very nature of things be achieved except by those equipped with the moral ‘astrolabe of God’s mysteries.’ If one is not oneself a sage or saint, the best thing one can do, in the field of metaphysics, is to study the works of those who were, and who, because they had modified their merely human mode of being were capable of a more than merely human kind and amount of knowledge.”


— Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy