"I Must Belong Somewhere," Bright Eyes
This year, I'm lucky enough to be making the somewhat treacherous trek to Indio, California during the third weekend in April, to participate in that great migration otherwise known as Coachella. My excitement is immeasurable--for the last month, other than the occasional new album preview (i.e. The Decemberists, Unwritten Law, and Lupe Fiasco) or a Katy Perry single, I've been listening to nothing other than the featured artists of that highly anticipated weekend; most notably: Arcade Fire, Kanye West, Cold War Kids, Brandon Flowers, Jimmy Eat World, Bright Eyes, Mumford and Sons, Kings of Leon, The Black Keys, and one of my new potential favorites, Foster the People. In
The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald discusses the "colossal vitality...of illusion." He mentions the danger in "[throwing oneself] into [an expectation] with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that [drifts its] way." According to Fitzgerald, "no amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart." In essence: As humans, we tend to romanticize our intended future efforts and events until they simply can't meet the expectations we've created. With Coachella, however, I disagree...for one, since I've never been, my expectations are chaotic and uncertain. Two, I simply can't fathom a disappointing music festival with
these bands (and the friends I get to share the weekend with!)
In discovering new bands through Coachella's setlist and re-discovering old favorites through iPod shuffling, I came upon Jimmy Eat World's "Goodbye Sky Harbor." The final lyrics read:
So here I am above palm trees so straight and tall.
You are smaller, getting smaller.
But I still see you.
When I heard these lines just yesterday, I froze. I rewound the song; listened to the final words again. Googled the lyrics and researched the source of inspiration. Sure enough, the song was inspired by one of John Irving's most impressive works of all-time (and my personal favorite), A Prayer for Owen Meany. The book that, perhaps above all others, made me genuinely attracted to the idea of writing as a profession. Irving's words seeped under my skin and etched themselves into the memory of my hibernated, self-conscious, and confused 17-year-old self. Of course, up until that point in my life I had read a good number of books I counted as "treasures;" small splices of words and paragraphs that came together in harmony and message. I've always loved reading, and I so vividly remember the first real book that had a genuinely lasting effect on me. I was in fourth grade, and Mrs. Callanan was in the process of reading Where the Red Fern Grows aloud to the class. Ever-intrigued by the adventures of Billy and his noble canine friends, I read ahead and finished the book on my own. I distinctly recall the tears streaming down my face as my blurred eyes read over the final page three times. I remember my mom finding me curled on my bed, desperately trying to hide the fact that a book had made me cry. I remember proudly calling that book my favorite for years, and to this day it certainly still ranks as one of the most life-changing books I've ever read. I'll forever love the heartbreaking mix of despair and awe that inevitably arises every time I'm turning the last page of an incredible book. By the time I was in high school, I had had the experience with a handful of novels-- Bridge to Terabithia, A Wrinkle in Time, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Thief of Always, and To Kill A Mockingbird, to name the ones at the top of the list. Today, I've read dozens of books I consider "favorites," and there are too many to count existing on my list of "to-reads." However, I don't believe any book has had the effect on me that Irving's Owen Meany did ten years ago. And honestly, discovering a point at which my favorite book and one of my favorite bands intertwined on their own accord (and not through a clumsy and inaccurate connection forced by me) was one of those rare and perfect moments of cohesive illumination and energy.
Friday, I'm finishing Adventures of Huckleberry Finn with my AP English class. It turns out this book wasn't in my own high school curriculum. It also turns out I never was asked or required to read this book in college, even though the words "American Literature and Culture Major" grin sheepishly from my diploma-- (and as a sidenote, is there really any novel out there that, according to the "experts" who "know," encompasses "American literature and culture" more than Huck Finn?) In any case, it also turns out I don't like this book. And the frustrating thing? I want to like it. I want to like it just like I want to like dim sum, Inception, and Coldplay. According to knowledgable and witty people, Twain's use of satire is unparalleled as he makes grandiose suggestions and social commentaries on mocks human nature. Funnily enough, I'm a big Twain fan-- I love his short stories, think he's hilarious as a person, and have laughed out loud at some of his outrageously accurate and hilarious quotes. And true, this is a great time to teach Huck Finn, as some idiots individuals have chosen to publish censored versions of the novel this year. And yes, I understand the AP test will most likely mention satire, or Twain, or dialect, and all of these are certainly present and relevant in Jim and Huck's arduous and challenge-filled trek down the mighty Mississippi. I understand Twain was a brilliant writer ahead of his time, and I absolutely appreciate Huck Finn for the monumentally daring piece that it was when published. However, it's just not one of those books that makes my heart flutter and my eyes well when I turn the final page-- I'd rather "light out for the Territory ahead" myself.
