On the fifth day of the week, the second of Tevet in the year 5774, corresponding to the fifth of December in the year 2013, in the city of Somerville, Massachusetts, where their hearts first found home, the bride, Sonya Leah Glixman Taaffe, daughter of Marika and Jaime Taaffe, offered a ring to the groom, Robert Richard Noyes, son of Deb Knowles Jones and Worth Noyes, saying to him, "I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be, yours." He accepted, saying, "By this ring, I am consecrated to you in accordance with the laws of our people." Then the groom, Robert Richard Noyes, son of Deb Knowles Jones and Worth Noyes, offered a ring to the bride, Sonya Leah Glixman Taaffe, daughter of Marika and Jaime Taaffe, saying to her, "I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be, yours." She accepted, saying, "By this ring, I am consecrated to you in accordance with the laws of our people."
So each promised the other:
I will be your friend and lover, companion and fellow-traveler, constant and co-conspirator. I will love and support you, strengthen and rejoice in you, and be your hearth and harbor through all our travels. I will share with you all that I am.
We bring to this marriage our words, our music, our intelligence, creativity, and curiosity, our patience, our playfulness, our compassion, our desire to learn and our willingness to understand, and pledge to make them flourish in our mutual home.
All is valid and binding.
We picked up our marriage license and our rings this afternoon. We were on our way back from Somerville City Hall when we heard from the jeweler that the rings were ready. We were a block from her shop: we wrote back joyfully and walked straight in.Jade Moran
made our rings; she's done extraordinary work. We met her for the first time last Wednesday; she showed us the models on Saturday; they went to the caster's on Monday and were polished and ready to take home by this afternoon. The design on the inside of each ring is a binary star system: two stars in each other's orbit, moving on their mutual arc through space. She wrote us an accompanying poem for a wedding present. We stepped outside the shop and swung each other around, hugging so tightly. They are beautiful; they are ours
. They say what we want them to.
I understand it is not a prerequisite for all relationships, but it pleases me that I am marrying someone who understands why this photoshoot
melts my brain. The sea as well as the stars, always.
Rabbit, rabbit. The first of the month was Sunday, but my time has been doing its best to disappear since then.
This is the week by whose end I will be married. Will have been married for a day, even, counting from the afternoon on Thursday. I do not know if that should be a strange sentence to write; it isn't one I spent most of my life expecting. From the point last September when Rob looked up at me in the light from the lamp on the computer case that doubled as his side table and said, "You realize we're probably going to get married," however, it has felt in some ways like an ordinary thing. (It wasn't a proposal. We proposed to one another in March, with books and the cat-emblem rings we have been wearing on our right hands ever since. It was the recognition that we weren't talking about vows and rituals and children's names just for the pipe-dream fun of it; it was the thing I knew he was going to say as soon as he went silent in a particular way, around two in the morning. We joke that the telepathy only works when it's funny, but it's proven to have a few other applications as well. I said I'd thought of it. We decided to winter out first. We made it through the winter.) I am surprised only insofar as I am marrying anyone, because it was not a goal of my childhood or a settled fact of my adult life; I considered it much more likely that I would never find anyone whose habits of life and mind interlocked permanently with mine, or if I did, it might not be a marriage. Past that particular act of acceptance, I am not at all surprised that it's Rob.
I haven't been writing about the wedding much, partly because I haven't wanted to make this journal a catalogue of logistics. There has been a great deal more last-minute than we hoped or planned for, matching the things that have been no trouble at all. The poles for the chuppah are borrowed, beautifully turned, and lead-weight; I wrenched my back badly tonight fetching them out of the storeroom of their current owner, who carved them decades ago as a wedding present for another couple. The cloth was embroidered by my namesake great-grandmother over ninety years ago and rested quietly in the cedar chest from which my mother unpacked and offered it weeks ago; the design is of poppies and my father is fashioning small soft clamps that will hold it to the poles without strain on the threads. The kiddush cup is old silver and belonged to my grandfather, but we need to purchase wine tomorrow. Our wedding clothes are the green velvet dress and the black velvet jacket we've owned for years, supplemented with a pair of new pants on Rob's side and a pair of new boots on mine; the ketubah arrived this morning and was discovered to be the victim of an inexplicable snafu on the artist's end which we are hoping our calligrapher can amend or at least cope with. We are picking up the marriage license before we meet Rob's mother at the airport. We are waiting on the rings. What really matters is that everyone we asked to the wedding will be there, and that we are saying to one another what it matters most to us to say. Rob's father is officiating for his side, the rabbi whom we found through my singing teacher for mine. It's the last hour of Hanukkah, although we aren't putting that in the ketubah. Lights against the dark.
He had a haircut from the Mercury Theatre the first time I saw him; he was onstage in 1938 with a script in one hand and a bunch of flummoxed gestures in the other, Frank Cyrano in a sand-colored sweater vest racking his brain to determine whether the pizza some joker from Emperor Norton's had just ordered in was an anachronism or a swing-band-plausible prank. I looked like some LJ-icons of indeterminate gender who said positive things
about the show later that night. We met in person in the green room of Arisia in 2010, when it was still being held in the hell-ziggurat on the Charles that dispensed free claustrophobia and social anxiety along with inconvenient scheduling; he had just come from being Dr. Alberts in a lab coat and appalling tie and I was trying to grab some snacking and breathing space in my one free hour between panels all day. We talked over LJ, intermittently and with appreciation of intelligence and art; I saw him in four more shows before we met in a context that wasn't after one of them. That was last January. The story since then is, in retrospect, a shockingly direct progression. I don't expect it to stop on Thursday.
Being married isn't an endpoint. It's a beginning, but it isn't a cold start: I don't know when we began our lives together, because an afternoon of conversation at a bookstore is the kind of glancing thing that might happen with anyone of sufficient interest and eighteen hours of sci-fi film is the kind of venturing thing that can happen with someone who really likes movies and forty-five days from hanging out to kissing is not the kind of thing that happened to me with anyone else in my life; we moved not effortlessly, but so naturally into one another's orbits that for months I kept expecting it to break, like a spell. Our first night together, we told the stories of how we had met in 1943: the flat with rain-cracked ceilings and the little wrought-iron balcony, the typewriter we shared, the Atlantic crossings; he heard me singing for the USO, the shy stranger with the sounding-blue eyes I saw splicing and editing the broadcasts. Both of us Odysseus and Penelope, meeting at the story of the bed we lay in. We fought and it didn't break; we were happy and it didn't, either. And it is not nothing that we are marrying—I wouldn't spend so much time organizing for nothing—but one of the reasons I think our wedding is not more of an event in the conventional sense is that it's confirming, affirming what we know about ourselves already: we matter to each other. We are choosing to recognize it with a ceremony we have built ourselves out of the traditions that speak to us, leaving all the rest aside (besides, if strippers really are a prerequisite for bachelor parties, we'd have both ended up at The Slutcracker
and that would just have been an evening out), but it is not out of obligation: now this comes next
. None of this last year and eleven months is what I thought would come next, except that it delighted me so that it did.
It has not been without pain; it has never been not worth it. If that's how a marriage works, I am all for it.
Just to continue last night's theme: an acceptance! My poem "A Find at Þingvellir"—written for my brother, about Mjölnir, originally published in Archaeopteryx #1
—will be reprinted by Minor Arcana Press in Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books
There will totally be content of more than two sentences here again someday.
1. An announcement! Because Strange Horizons
made its stretch goals for this year's fund drive
, we are now auditioning podcast readers
. We are looking especially for readers conversant in more than one language, with accents that are not General American. Previous experience as a professional reader is not required, but you do need to be able to send us clear, high-quality recordings. Please feel free to forward and repost this advertisement. We are looking for as diverse a selection of readers as we can assemble.
2. An argument! For those of us who grew up on 1776
, the most disorienting thing about Captain Nice
(1967) is not seeing William Daniels as a milquetoast instead of a firebrand, but seeing William Daniels with a contemporary haircut and a middle-American accent. Discuss?
3. Art! I like this photoset
Tomorrow is my family's annual Hanukkah party, unavoidably two days after a major cooking holiday due to calendars. Sunday morning is the baby shower for my sister-in-law, which her family is hosting and I must find a gift for. Monday, things need to be done for the wedding. Next week is going to be very busy.
Today I am thankful that derspatchel
and I live in a house where albino squirrels watch us from the cross-trees of the telephone pole outside the kitchen window.
On the first night of Hanukkah, I gave my love a pomegranate. We lit the first night's candle for home.
There was indeed a pleasing amount of John Hurt in "The Day of the Doctor."
Briefly, because I have to be awake in a very few hours to meet with a jeweler— ( Oh, for God's sake—Gallifrey stands!Collapse )
(I still wanted more.)
This afternoon Rob and I went to Somerville City Hall and applied for our marriage license.
It is a bureaucratic procedure; it felt curiously like a ritual. We each had to fill out one side of the application with our full names, current occupations and places of residence, and birth information. Black ink only. We were asked to raise our hands and swear that we knew of no impediments to our marriage, which turned out to mean that we are neither married to anyone else nor related to one another. (Incest laws in Massachusetts are indifferent to cousinship, but a whole array of in-laws and step-relations are right out.) The clerk complimented our engagement rings. Neither of us are changing our names. We turned to one another afterward, breathlessly grinning: this is real. This is something we're doing. It is going to happen. It is what we want.
Licenses are customarily issued three days after applying, but thanks to the holiday we'll be picking ours up on Monday. The state of our ketubah is slightly more uncertain, but if necessary it will become part of the reception in March rather than the wedding ceremony next week.
In other news, wedding ceremony next week. Very small, family-only, the blowout of inviting everyone on the planet we know to be saved for the reception, after our lives calm down in the spring. We are marrying much more in the style of my grandparents (who eloped) than my parents (who were married in my grandparents' living room by the justice of the peace who lived downstairs, but still had a best man and a maid of honor) or my brother and his wife (who won the fight with her mother about not getting married in a Catholic church, but still ended up with most of the accoutrements of the modern American wedding: bachelor party, wedding party, registry, guest list, rehearsal dinner, headaches. Lovely Halloween-themed cake, though). It has still been strange and stressful at points; especially with the late move, this has wound up being very much the Autumn of Major Life Changes. We seem to be surviving.
I think we are doing more than that.
I had no idea there was a video for Concrete Blonde's "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)
" (1990). Does anyone know who's playing the vampire? He looks naggingly familiar to me, but there are a lot of sharp-faced actors in the world. His hair makes me think of Len Cariou's Sweeney Todd, which is thematically appropriate, but not very helpful.
My poems "Sedna" and "Kaddish for a Dybbuk," originally published in Mythic Delirium #6
, will be reprinted in Mythic Delirium #30
, the final print issue. It is a retrospective of the first twenty-five issues and the table of contents is very weird for me to look at, because I recognize all but the first two poems from their original contexts. I was in college when both of mine were written: "Sedna" was one of my earliest publishable poems, written in the spring of my sophomore year at Brandeis; "Kaddish for a Dybbuk" in the fall of my senior year, strongly influenced by Phyllis Gotlieb's poetry and the growing involvement in Jewish life that marked that semester. Over ten years ago. That time feels like it belonged to someone else, but I keep reminding myself it was me. I do not need to be any more of a ghost in my own life than time makes happen for everyone.
My comments import to Dreamwidth again!
There are things to do today.
Two dreams last night, completely different from one another. I think the halves of my brain flipped a coin to see who got the nightmare this time.
The first requires me to explain that in January 2010, after seeing Mission of Burma at the Bowery Ballroom in New York, I wrote about four hundred words on a story that never went anywhere, mostly describing a fictitious band called the Standard Deviants:From the name, she had been expecting math rock or geek-chic indie gaucherie, spiky-haired boys in half-rimmed glasses and tennis shoes, not a four-part motley of post-punk midlife who could as easily have had students or children in the audience, jolting through songs about de Chirico's metaphysics and trysts on the Red Line.
And you said it's a full moon when I said it's not foolproof. Moving nowhere, what we never fell to feel again, slingshot off melancholy into a shrapnel of drums and the singer's voice warped and burred on the low notes like guitar noise, her fingers in her lacquer-black Fender's strings. The bassist wore a denim workshirt whose sleeves turned back and forth from his wrists like a magician's patter as he bent to his instrument, stone-faced as a clown of the silver screen. Even between songs, the drummer was never still enough for Siân to make out the words scrawled in red and black capitals from torn T-shirt shoulder to wrist, spiraling into the soft bend of her sinewy arms.
Racing in slow motion, strawberries and cream. Tea leaves, bicycle chains and dream of Christopher, Christopher and the machine.
It stopped there; it never picked up again and I'm not sure there's anything there to, except that I always liked the one fragment of Alan Turing love song. (At the time, I had no idea that anyone was writing them
.) So did my unconscious, apparently. I dreamed last night that rushthatspeaks
found me the music video on YouTube. It was done in black-and-white, with a 35mm look as if it had been assembled out of British New Wave: a dark-haired boy in a striped pullover wheeling his bicycle through industrial streets (rowhouses and hills, a river I didn't recognize through the dustbin backs of gardens), looking for someone or something while the band played a cavernous, brick-backed space full of dancing bodies, bright hair, tattoos. Dig silver, wash letters, there's no word for where you've been. Someone touch your shoulder, play a different scene.
It should end with the boy entering the club, obviously, but I can't remember if it did. I feel slightly as though my brain has fanworked itself.
In the second dream, a plaintive but otherwise reasonable-sounding man with whom I'd been having a conversation online about black metal suddenly started complaining that it was fascist that he and his friends couldn't refer to ladies' night at their usual bar as "the Pigsty" anymore, and when I pointed out that wasn't actually fascist and I was pretty sure he still had a legal right to make pig noises at women who wanted to buy drinks, it was just kind of an asshole thing to do, I started getting internet-stalked. Threatening messages on Facebook, LJ, friends e-mailing me to say that Photoshopped images of me were being posted on Craigslist selling sex work, etc. He said gloatingly that he had my permission to do it, because I'd started the conversation with him. He wouldn't answer when I asked if he really believed that.
That dream was a lot less fun.
P.S. Hammer, please do not remake The Abominable Snowman
(1957). I didn't think it was perfect, but if it hasn't got Peter Cushing
, what's the point?
As the rest of my friendlist prepares to watch (or has just finished watching, I'm not sure about broadcast times) the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who
, I am preparing to attend a modern opera about Lizzie Borden
. We'll watch "The Day of the Doctor" when we get back. If there isn't enough John Hurt, don't tell me.
We did observe the twenty-fifth anniversary of the program last night: derspatchel
showed me "Remembrance of the Daleks" (1988), written by Ben Aaronovitch of more recent Rivers of London
fame. I can see why the Starship of Madness
cast was willing to go to Long Island for Sylvester McCoy—his Seventh Doctor is a wonderful mix of registers and incongruities, his clown's dress and manners (bits of business with pens and Panama hats, his quirked mouth and that question-mark umbrella) offset by that sharp, precise, irritable voice and the cynical intelligence behind it, dropping hints of being something much more and much more dangerous than a time-jaunting eccentric with a taste for paisley and sleight of hand. Not to mention the willingness to destroy planets and talk the last remaining member of a species into terminal meltdown. I like Ace as well; I'm not sure how I could have been expected not to, seeing as her dystopian future looks a lot like the punk '80's and she never goes anywhere without at least one blunt object and a backpack full of explosives. I have already been warned that their run together is very short; the series went into limbo before any of its mysteries could be more than tantalizingly raised. I really want to read Aaronovitch's own novelizations, though.
Excuse me while I run for a bus.
This is the best comic I have ever seen about tmesis
in the English language and also nearly identical to the example we were given in Latin III, except that instead of ridiculous
the host word was unbelievable
. It's an actual morphological rule; I believe in English it has to do with syllabic stress (in Latin, it's more strictly the splitting—τμῆσις—of a compound word). No one should have been surprised that it led to a brief fad of students saying unbelievfuckingable
just to be difficult. Dr. Fiveash also spoke fondly of the emphatic possibilities of reduplication: unbe . . . believable
, which I have never actually used in conversation no matter my level of incredulity, but I appreciate having been told in my junior year of high school that I could
Armed with a carton of goat's milk, some discs of Taza chocolate left over from the Halloween party, and the fact that Dave's Fresh Pasta sells Fat Toad Farm goat's milk caramel
, I have made myself goat's milk salt caramel hot chocolate.
Dinner was an experiment from Amsterdam Falafelshop
on Elm Street. I'd bought salad items from them, but never actually their falafel. It's delicious. Crunchy on the outside without being tooth-breaking, fragrant chickpea goodness inside. I got three in a bowl (I wasn't sure how a pita pocket would travel) and piled baba ghanoush, hummus, pickled turnips, and garlic-fried eggplant around them; the cost came to less than most sandwiches and it was an entire dinner as far as I'm concerned. Their garlic cream sauce is indispensable. I forgot to try the tahini. Next time. There'll be a next time. Possibly very soon.
I am going to drink my hot chocolate and rewatch Stephen Frears' The Hit
(1984), which has John Hurt being morally ambiguous. Of such things are evenings made.
Things that arrived in the mail today:
1. My contributor's copy of Mythic Delirium #29
—the next-to-last print issue—containing my poem "Hypnos and Thanatos." I wrote it the night derspatchel
ended up in the ER for a tooth infection, which is not what the poem is about. (We were pretty hard up for sleep, though.) The rest of the lineup is splendid: it's a bare black-and-white presentation as far as the pages go, but the words more than make up for it.
2. My birthday present from my brother: Schmekel
's second album, The Whale That Ate Jonah
(2013). Still 100% trans Jews, still stupidly catchy, and their musicianship is sharper and more extensive this time around. Current favorites are "Hold My Yod" and "FTM at the DMV," but "The Binding of Isaac" is really good.
3. A postcard from beowabbit
Things that did not arrive in the mail:
1. Foolish Ida's Book II
(2012), because I bought it at T.T. the Bear's. It's a side project of Sarah Rabdau
's, a five-song EP inspired by Maurice Sendak's Outside Over There
(1981); I don't know if she played any songs from it tonight because I left after Bent Knee
and Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling
. Two sets of amplified bass is about all I can take. (I got to see the new videos by DNFMOMD, however, and Bent Knee closed with a shrieking deconstructed banshee cover of "You Are My Sunshine," so it was totally worth it.) One of the song titles on the back of the CD sleeve was "the Scientist." Another was "these arms are mermaids." I got it on the spot. It was the correct decision.
, because they met me at the show. That was also pretty cool.
3. A pamphlet of Songs from the American Revolution
, collected in 1779 by one Captain George Bush (no relation) of the Continental Army, who had the wondrous decency not to leave out the bawdy songs as well as the patriotic, romantic, and bored. My parents brought it back for me from Pennsylvania last weekend and my mother remembered to give it to me this evening. I feel bad about trying to peel the price sticker off the back because it's a chapbook and the cardstock fuzzed. This is why bookstores shouldn't put stickers on chapbooks. I don't think I recognize any of the tunes in it.
There's new music all over my life all of a sudden. I like it.
The ironic aftereffect of viewing The Night of the Doctor
(2013) last thing before bed is that I woke up wanting a time machine. The Doctor who sold his soul, sacrificed his name, gave away everything he stood for and became a monster to fight monsters? Of course I want him played by John Hurt. And then I want a series of that nameless Warrior seen for just one stinger moment in that fire-polished ripple of metal: Doctor no more . . .
I have always thought John Hurt was beautiful, especially in his dark, watchful younger years. He always looked a little bruised around the eyes, even when the rest of him was boyish; he's a good face for someone I suspect of deploying the Gallifreyan equivalent of the Deplorable Word to end the Time War. I imagine we'll find out the full story in "The Day of the Doctor," but it will still be just a flicker, like this glimpse of Paul McGann. Thirty-year-old John Hurt is not happening without serious technology. (Neither is more onscreen McGann, I am afraid, although at least in his case there's years of radio drama to catch up on.) It's still probably most I've enjoyed a script by Steven Moffat since "Blink." And I can write wistfully about the rest.
Just in time for me wondering about music videos, Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling
has presented me with a cover of Shakespears Sister's "Stay
." Apparently it usually looks more like this
They're playing T.T. the Bear's Place
tonight to promote their new single, By Hook or By Crook
(2013). I slept much less than I would have liked, but I am seriously thinking about going anyway. I haven't seen the band live since their last CD release in 2011.
Speaking of promotions, the Post-Meridian Radio Players
' Indiegogo campaign to raise extra funds for The Big Broadcast of 1962: A Byfar Christmas Carol
is now live
. They need $1000 by December 4th and are prepared to make it worth your while (aside from the excellence of the resulting show, obviously). Donate money! Get stuff! Support radio! We have T-shirts?
The morning was not interesting. I slept less than four hours. I had to pay bills. derspatchel
went to bed around three in the afternoon and I couldn't blame him.
The afternoon improved instantly from the point when I walked over to see rushthatspeaks
. We watched several music videos and the fourth episode of Hannibal
. (This show is so good.) We made omelets for dinner when gaudior
got home, fended off cats from a plate of sardines, and then went for dessert in Central Square. It was supposed to be dessert in Harvard Square, but the only thing that looked like parking for miles turned out to have a moving permit slapped on it prohibiting street use between the 13th and 15th of November, so we went to Toscanini's instead. I thought I was ordering a cup of half salt caramel and half pumpkin ice cream with hot fudge and somehow ended up with a pint of same. Ate it. No regrets.
And tonight I came home after stopping at Whole Foods for goat milk and yogurt and discovered that a friend with whom I've had almost no contact in fourteen years had sent me an envelope stuffed with index-card cartoons I had given her in high school. I wasn't expecting them. I didn't recognize her married name on the return address. I have been sitting here experiencing cognitive dissonance. They're unmistakably mine: the handwriting, the fact that little bug-eyed cartoon faces were my sole trick of visual art and I exploited it shamelessly, some of the very LHS-specific jokes. I didn't remember half of them. There's the alternate history where the Mayans scare off the conquistadors with bitter spicy chocolate and the ones where I daydream in class and the ones where I'm seeing a caricature of Sigmund Freud for my compulsive cartooning tendencies and the ones where I learned from Jim Henson that a sketch ends best when somebody explodes and the really embarrassing one where I complain about the depressingness of the twentieth century . . . and I did not grow up to be a cartoonist. At all. I mean, it's not hard to see why. There are about sixty cards here on the dining room table—my friend says in her accompanying letter that she kept her favorite twenty-five, which I thought was a joke until I started counting—and they're really, really rudimentary work. It would be one thing if the art were just kind of scrawly, but as far as verbal humor goes, they're really awkward. That's fatal. The punchlines run on too much, or they're obvious, or they're just kind of naive; I can see where the joke was supposed to go, but it doesn't necessarily land. I had a thing for meta, characters talking back to their creators or complaining through the fourth wall. It would have been precocious if I were twelve, but I must have been fourteen or fifteen for most of these (there are at least two cartoons about yearbook signing and similar mentions of sophomore classes; I don't seem to have put dates on any of them) and I can't help feeling that if I'd had any real talent for cartooning, it would have manifested by then.
And then on the other hand I turn over card after card and think, "Wait, I learned to write in different fonts? There was a time in my life when I could draw water-splashes? That's an umbrella getting struck by lightning and that's the sound effect of someone walking into a refrigerator in the dark. That's a dream sequence where I get menaced by cartoon demons until I remember it's a dream, think of a pencil, and scribble all over them and make my escape." I think of myself as an idiot when it comes to art. I did a sketch in colored pencils of my brother's parakeet when I was in eighth or ninth grade and a watercolor drawing of a dragon parade around the same time that are both on the wall in my parents' house and I don't hate them. Otherwise I know that all the genes for generating things that are interesting to look at went directly to my brother and I don't begrudge him for it, I am just sorry that I have all the fine draftsman's skills of a yak. Except that in tenth grade I didn't seem to think so. All through high school, I didn't think so; I drew dozens of these little comics for friends and close teachers and her letter is quite right, I never kept any for myself. And so it doesn't matter if they're really stupid, or if—I left some objectivity around here somewhere—they just weren't brilliant, I am incredibly glad to have them as reminders of things I tried
. Take that, Tiny Wittgenstein. I wonder if I can still threaten to draw a satirical cartoon version of you. It'll have bug eyes and anxious eyebrows. Are you feeling lucky?
Having taken a shower and at least stopped shivering so badly (I think my fever may be coming back), I am attempting to de-Wittgenstein the previous post
slightly with an addendum of reasons I like
the music videos I listed. Click back to watch. Exorcism performed, I am going to bed.( Because, because, because . . .Collapse )
linked me to the video for Lorde's "Tennis Court
," which started me thinking about music videos. Generally speaking, I haven't seen very many; they're not how I discover music. I'll watch them if recommended, but I don't tend to seek them out on my own. There are exceptions: I watched the video for the Pet Shop Boys' "It's a Sin
" (1987) because it was directed by Derek Jarman and Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice
" (2001) because of Christopher Walken dancing. I've seen a lot of Nine Inch Nails and Tori Amos and all the Dresden Dolls that existed the last time I checked around 2008 or so. (Also some fan-made videos I remember with fondness, although I doubt I could find them again if I looked. Actually, this
was one.) Because they come around on the internet or because people I trust sit me down and show them to me, I know I've seen more than I can recollect off the top of my head. But when I thought of putting together a post of some of my favorites, I started drawing blanks. I like Kate Bush's "Experiment IV
" (1986), but I like the song by itself much more
. Jill Tracy's "The Fine Art of Poisoning
" (2003) was created as a short film after the fact. Trying to compile some really striking examples, I feel like I'm left with an unsatisfying and not particularly representative set:
The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, "Wuthering Heights
Kate Bush, "Hounds of Love
PJ Harvey, "Man-Size
16 Horsepower, "Black Soul Choir
Orbital, "The Box
Hole, "Celebrity Skin
Rob Zombie, "Living Dead Girl
Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling, "Episode 1: Arrival
Amanda Palmer, "Want It Back
The Magnetic Fields, "Andrew in Drag
The Pack a.d., "Sirens
" (2012) and "Positronic
David Bowie, "The Stars (Are Out Tonight)
What's all the rest I'm missing? I don't even mean classics of the genre, just weird things with music you like. rushthatspeaks
, what was that beautiful one covered in blood?