ruth acting out or fresh everything bagels sitting on the counter top waiting to be toasted
on friday, i went to a baseball game with finn and fall, and i drank a beer, and we ate hot dogs, and we watched the fireworks after the game like it was two thousand and twelve or something. it was a really nice night
we ran into one of their oldest friends at the game, someone they have known so long, i don't know if they can even remember meeting. i accidentally talked to her boyfriend as though he spoke my own language and it i guess it scrambled his brain for a bit, but i think he'll be alright
my dad usually takes me to a baseball game around my birthday, but a few days before the date of this year's game, i mentioned that i was looking forward to it, and he seemed confused. then he said, 'oh, that fell through,' and that was the end of that
this week has been full of unexpected, dark developments in the lives of people on the edges of my life. my usual experience of the world lives somewhere on the scale of tired sadness to hopeful joy, but this whole last week was stained by the lurking potential for tragedy
last night i dreamed about swimming through the crystal clear waters of a drowned city and massive waves would lift me up twenty stories in a moment and then drag me down into the depths. i dreamt about eating a package of ramen that tasted like a fried chicken sandwich with dill pickle chips, and i dreamt about finding a nest full of baby squirrels waiting to be fed
The Universe is Magical. If you let it in it will not only tell you it's secrets but is will share this with you. It may be in a powerful and profound way.
The Universe stole my heart a very long time ago. It is precious. It speaks in music, love and silence. And what comes from that creates life.
The Universe inspired me to not only write this book, but to publish it. FriesenPress also available on Amazon.com and in other Bookstores. ~Maria
Should sludge metal be hummable? Want some melody mixed in with the magma? Bands have asked similar questions about tempering sludgeâs usually relentless ugliness â see especially YOBâs incendiary Our Raw Heart (2018). But Mike Scheidt, YOBâs frontman and creative force, is a past master of metal textures, and the singular source for that recordâs surfeit of sentiment is intrinsic to Scheidtâs very body. Pyres, on the other hand, is a Toronto band offering here its second LP in 13 or so years of infrequent activity. As no less an authority than Japhy Ryder (and Dogberry, too) has told us, âComparisons are odious.â But Pyres is swinging for the fences on Yun, urging listeners to open up to big riffs and even bigger feels. And the opening strains of the LPâs longest cut âA Depth Charge in a Dead Seaâ closely evoke YOBâs âBeauty in Falling Leaves.â Itâs provoking, at the very least. But is there substance beyond the provocation?
To be fair, thereâs just about as much grunge in Pyresâ sound as there is sludge, and grungeâs relations to melody are much less fraught. Still, Pyresâ playing is at its most exciting when the band is channeling Alice in Chains at their most scabrous, as opposed to the later Soundgardenâs tuneful turns. See âGranular Flow,â which commences with a cosmic groove orbiting âSuperunknownâ (and mehâŚ) before it bottoms out into tougher, nastier riffage that gestures toward the blues. More significant is the feeling tone pervading those sorta bluesy passages. Pyres just sounds like theyâre having a better time when the music slows down a beat and struts.
Still, thereâs more than a sniff of the progressive to the proceedings on Yun, edging several songs toward qualities referred to with words like âtechniqueâ and âcomposed.â The desire to prettify sludge is prevalent (see records by big bands in the subgenre, like Torche and Helms Alee, if you must) but strange. This reviewer prefers sludge that focuses its intent on the ugly in the music: Noothgrush, Iron Monkey, more recently the mighty Primitive Man. On occasion, Pyres achieves an effectively unpleasant intensity; check out the closing minute of âNova Cruciatusâ or the mournful second half of âOld Dogs.â Sometimes new tricks just arenât necessary.