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Wednesday, April 01, 2009

happy holi: a poem.
Current mood:

lethargic

parts stick to bloody wet t-shirt
i'm heart sick, in too deep to let my feet work
i need earth, i mean to be brought down to it
low in spots, throwing rocks at barking hounds, to wit
i need fertile ground to sit, my mind's in the clouds
my feet are sliding around, my heat will rise 'till i'm found
on these dusky streets, i've figured that i need her
tossing and turning, glasses of liquor when i sleep worse

plans exposed, hands enclosed within each other
with any lover, it's complicated in ways i can't disclose
but i'm not the type of man to fold, a fact i'm damned to know
i'll sleep with fishes in granite soles to get a standing o
and i'll land in a grove with my heart in my leaded hands
when we both know at the start, i impart that i'm the better man
no coincidence i looked at the stars and the skies and thought of your eyes
your only love, i ache to be that spark in your life

Currently listening:
Jay Love Japan
By J Dilla
Release date: 2007-06-05

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Sunday, March 22, 2009

back issues.
Current mood:

lethargic

in which i compile some of my "greatest hits" for those that haven't read them. i'm suffering from a particularly crippling wave of writers' block, so read my old shit while i figure out what i'm going to write next. you have too much to catch up on.

in anacortes.

the peking saints.

ibiza.

busted bulbs: a poem.

broken cassettes and the disappearing ground.

silkscreen printers.

budget fashionistas.

cologne-scented letterbombs.

empty bottles.

for chris walla.

for lester bangs.

mushroom gravy.

strumming heartstrings.

it's too wet outside for sidewalk chalk.

bear traps.

for donny hathaway.

ballad of the perpetual bachelor.

diesel pushers.

for ellen page.

chilly tongues.

and peter gabriel, too.

Currently listening:
Wide
By Grouper
Release date: 2006-09-19

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Thursday, January 22, 2009

seven minutes, flat.
Current mood:

distractable

everyone should have at least one crush in their lives on someone who works at a bookstore.

i walked into borders (the term "bookstore" is used loosely in this case) during those late- morning doldrums when i'm looking for something to do on my day off, or looking for the new issue of fader magazine or whatever. in this case, i was doing both. at the counter, there was the cute girl with the septum piercing whom i always want to see whenever i visit this particular borders store. it's just a minor technicality that the first time i ever saw her, she kissed her boyfriend before exiting his car. i vividly remember her being, as my good friend ceanne would say, "shaped like a woman." boy, was she shaped like a woman! i quickly regain my bearings as i grab my magazine and a copy of charles bukowski's hot water music.

making my way up to the counter, i realize the girl didn't have a line, so i cut around and went backwards from where i was supposed to exit. casually using that (or something that sounded similar to it) as my opening line, she giggled a cute little courtesy laugh and asked how i was doing. i replied, and asked her in return. she said she was alright, with me relating a little story about how, for the first time in my life, i owe the IRS. "it's only $24," she replied, "but that still sucks. i have friends who were on strike, but didn't get taxed on their strike-pay, so they're probably gonna have to pay in, too." as i paid however much it was, probably close to the amount that i owe the government(!), she looked down at the upright bass on my wrist, but didn't ask or say anything about it. this may or may not have had something do with the boyfriend she kissed the first time i ever saw her. i thanked her. she thanked me, looked me in the eyes through her slim, black-framed glasses, and told me to have a good day.

i wish this was the end of the story.

as i walked into the mall, i imagined her being on my arm. i imagined we'd talk about some band that either she liked and i didn't or vice versa. i imagined we'd venture out into the cold outside, with grey as far as the eyes can see. i imagined we'd get in my car, and she's make an offhanded comment about how we better not get flagged down by someone trying to catch a taxi. i imagined i'd kiss her on the forehead for being clever, and she'd kiss me on the cheek. and i imagined we'd hold hands the entire way home, fingers weaving through each other like the fabric from a knit scarf.

to be frank, i haven't daydreamed about any girl being my girlfriend in a year and change. it was bittersweet. it's how i can tell i'm getting a little lonely.

Currently listening:
Hold Time
By M. Ward
Release date: 2009-02-17

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Tuesday, January 13, 2009

a bright flight: what happens when your hero writes you a postcard.
Current mood:introspective

usually, when i head over to my post office box, i don't expect to find anything: an urban outfitters catalog there, a mainstream alternative music magazine which i should have ended my subscription to long ago there. it's not every day where i find a handdrawn postcard from one of the few people in the world i consider a hero. the word "hero" is a funny term, because it usually implies some sort of vague notion of coveting, as there's something about your "hero" that makes you want to be them. when people look at their "heroes," they sort of imply that they would trade their lives in a heartbeat.

i would not, even for a second, want the lives of my heroes.

most of the "heroes" i have are such because they've lived through hardships similar to mine, and have come out of the debris not quite unscathed, but toting under their arms a beautiful catalog of art that has become a large part of my life. i've talked about john darnielle of the mountain goats being my hero, and this is mainly due to the fact that he, like me, was an abused child growing up, and has spent most ofhis adult life being my favorite singer/songwriter and one of the most vivid lyricists walking the earth right now. elliott smith is another man i consider a "hero," because he was also abused, but unfortunately,despite his vast catalog of pop genius, he never got to claim victory over his troubles. the final name on this list is of a man who almost joined smith and kurt cobain in the tablet of songwriting geniuses who took their lives.

i've made it no secret that i've suffered from depression before, and have tried to kill myself on more than one occasion. there was a rather desolate period in 2005 in which i locked myself in my house, stopped going to work, and desperately scrawled in my notebook. in the bottom of the barrel as far as these times go, i took a bottle of skyy vodka in one hand, a bottle of sleeping pills in the other, and tried to never wake up again. i woke up. i was PISSED.

in 2003, david c. berman, the driving force behind silver jews(long-known as one of my favorite bands), tried to kill himself. for quite a few reasons (one of them quite possibly being divine intervention), he is still alive. a few years ago, upon first listening to silver jews' classic album american water (one of my all-time favorite records), i read a revealing interview with berman about the suicide attempt and his life afterwards.

one day last year, for reasons i'm too embarrassed to actually remember, i sat down with a pen, paper, and drink, and wrote berman along fan letter, describing the effect his lyrics have had on me, my own music, my suicide attempt, and how silver jews helped drive me to take fresh cherries from yakima seriously. he responded with a kind message on the front of a handdrawn postcard.

a postcard from silver jews (front).

Currently listening:
Tanglewood Numbers
By Silver Jews
Release date: 2005-10-18

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Sunday, January 11, 2009

no vowels (or: it takes a lot of heart to name your band "fucked up").
Current mood:

flirty

when i go to the store and buy orange juice, i generally will buy the one with lots of pulp. ingesting pulp flakes makes me feel more alive; it makes me feel like i'm getting more bang for my buck. as i make a cursory sweep of my front teeth with my tongue, finding little surprises from my juice makes me feel like a kid again. and then it makes me feel like an idiot. but i smile, anyway.

sometimes, when i play air guitar at my computer desk, i get way too into it, and smack my hand on the desk super-hard. i'd like to think that when an artist plays air-guitar to their own music, they do the same thing. and then it makes me feel like an idiot. but i smile, anyway.

at most every job i've ever had, there's always at least one person who tells me i'm going to be famous. courtney love, quite a ways before she became a legitimate basketcase, described her legendary late husband as having what is called "the rock star gene." i suppose it's that x-factor that separates hollywood celebrities from perrenial waitresses who frantically search for open casting calls in the paper on their lunch breaks. some of my message board buddies and i were having a discussion about stephanie mcmahon's remarks that hulk hogan was a terrible wrestler, which is a moot point, considering that he's widely considered the greatest wrestler of all-time. some people are made for this shit, which separates hulk hogan from the legions of literally faceless masked luchadores in mexico, or those guys in canada who know every different kind of submission hold, or dudes who fell through tables wrapped in barbed wire on a nightly basis for ECW. in the performing arts, whether it's doing leg-drops or typing in PLU codes, charisma beats skill any day of the week.

i was reading an interview with okkervil river's will sheff, and he rhapsodized on the appeal of david letterman: "i've always been really amazed by letterman because he has this wonderful power that i think a lot of late-night hosts have, where he synthesizes the feeling of just hanging out with somebody. if you're lonely, you can turn on letterman and feel like you're with your funny friend... there's something very sad about that, but it works! it gives you this genuine warmth... part of the reason guys like that get on TV is because they have this special ability to make people feel special."

that was a pretty long aside, but bare with me: the interview with sheff made me think of what lis (better-known to my blog readers as "my dear glaswegian friend") wrote to me about the appeal about my blog (i'm liberally paraphrasing, here): "it's an extention of your personality; it makes me feel like we're having drinks together and talking about music." i'm not as nearly as good a writer as jeff weiss; i don't have the widespread appeal of largehearted boy or the zeitgeist-grabbing tastemakerism of gorilla vs. bear. i'm an unprofessional, off-the-cuff music writer who specializes in what i've referred to as "barstool criticism." i suppose that's why people like me. maybe only a few people like me. but those few people are immensely important to me.

despite the "rock star gene" or charisma that others say i posess, there's a specific reason why i won't become a pop star, neither in the worldwide level of a kanye west, or an underground level, like a lot of the bands i admire: it's because i'm too focused on challenging my listeners. not to say that an artist like kanye west doesn't make challenging, substantial music, but he's also a fairly populist person. i'm too idiosyncratic. i'm too self-indulgent. i'm too cerebral. i'm too... fucking weird. maybe being a pop star isn't in the cards. fuck it. making the type of art that i'd like others to make (but, i guess aren't weird enough) is.

i suppose there's a reason why i have such appeal, though. charisma beats skill any day of the week.

pulp gravitas,
martin douglas martin, esquire.

Currently listening:
Loveless
By My Bloody Valentine
Release date: 1991-11-05

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Sunday, December 28, 2008

emo jeans.
Current mood:

artistic

the dull-but-sweet taste of apple wine(!) crests right on my taste buds as my eyes wander around my dimly-fluorescent-lit bedroom. it was half a bottle, but there's absolutely no buzz. just a lethargic yawn elicited from the sleeping pills i popped down the hatch an hour-or-so ago. success.

i think it's funny when i refer to myself as "punk," and i get the thousand-yard-stare. perhaps it's a generational thing; i was brought up in the generation where being a punk meant doing whatever the fuck you wanted. i record shoegazey, ambient, noisy, experimental folk-pop on busted instruments and a laughably outdated computer. i make the designs for my own t-shirts and own a screenprinting press (thanks, lucas!); if that's not punk, i don't know what is.

i believe the punk aesthetic quietly informs everything i do, from the wildly non-traditional spin on acoustic music to the off-the-cuff nature of my music blog, all the way to my vaguely experimental hip-hop beatmaking. i suppose this exercise is futile, due to the fact that i laugh at being referred to as a "misunderstood artist," as it implies that the artist in question gives a fuck about being understood. but i do want to be understood sometimes.

does everyone have their new year's resolutions ready? 2008 was different from any year of my life, so of course the resolution for 2009 has to follow suit. every year prior to 2009, my new year's resolution has been to become well-known, to become famous. well, i'm quite more well-known this year, due to the music blog and my writing for passion of the weiss. although i wanted to be famous for being an artist, not so much writing about art, an audience is a gift horse i can't look in the mouth.

over the past few months, i've become so disillusioned with becoming "famous" for anything, because of the bullshit politics i've seen coursing throughout underground music. i've been very lucky to have a small and faithful audience for my art, and it's a blessing. i'm no longer interested in being a star. i'm interested in getting better. i want to write better songs, make better hip-hop beats, become a better musician, writer, artist. i've realized that this fleeting venture called "fame" is somewhat of a wash; i'd rather fresh cherries from yakima be found in some dusty bin twenty years after my death by some crazy experimental garage band or something. i want my niece to become an artist, and i want to be an influence on her life. but i want to get bette, so the treasures they discover can be of actual merit.

new year's resolution for 2009: get better.

Currently listening:
The Raincoats
By The Raincoats
Release date: 1995-04-05

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Thursday, December 04, 2008

radio static/loose threads.
Current mood:

artistic

holy fuck! it's december already? where did 2008 go? it felt like just yesterday i was wearing the super-v in my (current, as of december 4th) profile photo, in san francisco, politely fielding the charms of two girls wasted out of their minds on acid, calling me "beautiful" and asking permission to touch my hands and being amazed by the softness. now, i'm sitting in front of a computer of a room twice the size of the one i had when the year started, listening to hooky art-punk on the headphones, and wearing a hoodie that looks remarkably like television static. it's been a good year; no severe depression, no mounting pressure to become a star (that's what an enormous pay raise will do for you). just music magazines, pinot grigio, and my second-straight year of involuntary celibacy.

of course, satisfaction doesn't make for a good read, and i apologize. the pay raise came at a weird time for me, because i was completely in the mindset of making a change in my life; moving down south and pursuing this music thing head-on. it's funny how making almost $20 an hour will change your outlook on life; now, it's a situation where i'm able to make art at my own leisure, and, for probably the first time since i started making art, i'm not at all worried about its popularity. before, i made art because i liked it, but i also passionately wanted it to be my career. now, although i still would like to be able to do what i do full-time, i'm not as worried about it. before, i primarily did art because of the way creation makes me feel. now, i ONLY do art because of the way creation makes me feel.

at the beginning of the year, i was dead-set on making buttons for north caroline an "official" release, even thinking about putting it on the cool-but-absurdly-expensive means of vinyl. now, i listen to the record, and i think it works better if i quietly put it out as a CD-R release, and work on my current projects (my EP and my next full-length) and push those. it's not that i don't enjoy buttons anymore; it's just that i've gotten a great deal better at songwriting, arranging, and producing since i made that album, which was mostly written between the ages of 20-23. i feel as though that album was practice; a nice little demo for people to enjoy. although the new album will likely be recorded at home like the first (and will likely be even dirtier and more lo-fi in sound, because that's what i've been gravitating towards), i think the three aforementioned aspects will take it far past buttons in quality. the EP is likely going to be recorded in olympia with my friends in repeaters. score.

with the EP, the new album, and the emergence of 5 o'clock shadowboxers, maybe 2009 will be my year. the thing is, i'm having so much fun nowadays, it doesn't even matter if it will or won't be.

snow tired,
martin douglas martin, esq.

Currently reading:
Downtown Owl: A Novel
By Chuck Klosterman

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Sunday, November 02, 2008

milk and vegan cookies.
Current mood:

drunk

as the four tires from my car kicks up leaves of all different colors, i survey the scene as my car radio blasts some song with big guitars from the era of alternative radio. coats, halfway-naked trees and smashed pumpkins being left to die in the turn lane of the street? yeah. it must be november 1st.

those pumpkins have been disemboweled. they died a slow death long before some bored kids decided to crack their hollow shells on the street. i set my clocks back about three hours ago. it's official; the days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder, which have been the lyrics to many a corny love song over the past umpteen years. it's girlfriend season, but i don't need somebody to cuddle; i have a big bottle of pinot grino and central heating to keep me warm this year. have you ever drank white wine out of a plastic cup? i've always been invested into debasing tradition. predictable, coming from someone who throws layers of unlistenable noise on top of catchy folk-pop songs. someone once told me that i take folk music to such unmusical extremes that i should be ashamed of myself. conversely, i'd never felt prouder in my life.

flipping through rock magazines, checking out attractive principals of flavor-of-the-moment bands and genuine artists who are only being interviewed because history gives journalists no choice but to take notice. checking out three-star reviews for experimental opuses, and giving near-perfect ones for bland hasbeens. wondering how jenny lewis ended up forking a dude like johnathan rice for almost four years, now. in a perfect world, she'd be throwing on an overcoat, living in a spacious northwest apartment with some wide-eyed art-folkie who drinks white wine from a plastic cup and debases folk music to the point where he should be ashamed of himself. ha. wine yields interesting results: like a song about a suicide bomber.

i have mild alcohol abuse to thank for my fruitful "career" as a singer/songwriter.

appeal to pour,
martin douglas martin, esquire.

Currently listening:
Alight of Night
By Crystal Stilts
Release date: 2008-10-28

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Wednesday, October 22, 2008

big nothings.
Current mood:

depressed

there are a couple of you that know this already, but today is the 5th anniversary of elliott smith's tragic suicide. of course i'm going to write. music and suicide are two things i'm intimately familiar with.

it's fairly appropriate that two of my biggest musical influences have had their lives taken by their own hand (smith, kurt cobain), and others have narrowly escaped the same fate (david berman). in some capacity, i've been trying to off myself since i was thirteen years old. it is both a supreme accomplishment and a sublime failure that i'm here to write about such things, but whatever. life hands you lemons, i guess. i hate to play the "troubled artist" card, but the thing is that i'd been troubled long before i knew i wanted to even be an artist, being sort of predictable that i would gravitate towards the ones too fragile and sensitive for the cold world. or maybe they were just selfish. or maybe they just weren't as "lucky" as i am to have divine intervention on my side.

luck is a crock of shit sometimes.

i've always been slightly jealous of those who have had a strong support unit. noone's really been there to show up to rescue me, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand, and talking me off the ledge. the few people that i've told directly about my suicide attempts have all taken the "stern disciplinarian" approach: "why would you squander so much brilliance?" "you should get therapy or something." "shit, why don't you kill yourself?" there have been a couple of times in the last couple of years where i set out to disappear. no tearful note. no going-away party. just me and two bottles: one of pills. the other filled with some sort of alcohol. peace out.

i've sort of been in a slump as of late, but nothing major. nothing that sitting on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, strangling a bottle of pinot grino couldn't fix. i don't handle my problems publicly anymore; there's too much regret from using depression as a cry for attention during my teenage years. you have nothing to worry about; only be worried if you go three weeks without hearing from me. no going-away party. peace out.

i'm slowly working my way out of it, though. i got out of the house today. had coffee with a friend.

i'll be here tomorrow,
martin douglas martin, esq.

Currently listening:
Either/Or
By Elliott Smith
Release date: 1997-02-25

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Monday, October 06, 2008

in anacortes.
Current mood:

hungry

people mistake me for a juggler. i've always had pretty much a one-track mind.

now, don't call bullshit on this "one-track mind" theory; i wholeheartedly understand that i'm a singer-songwriter/blogger/former-semi-official-music-writer (looks like the site i was going to start writing for next month is a no-go-- looks like i have more blog posts)/burgeoning novelist and memoirist (according to my spell-check, that's not a word)/crude visual artist, but at the same time, i suppose i involve myself in so much artistic work because, well, i don't ever see any of it being completely finished. check one: the album's finished, but it won't be FINISHED until it's released and i can start working on the next one (i don't think it would be feasible to lauded for work i did as much as four years ago). check two: i suppose a blogger's work is never done until he or she quits, but think of how silly the term "retired blogger" would look on one's resume.

being the laughably self-conscious being that i am, i often wish that the way i'm perceived was founded on any shred of reality. quoth natalie, a former co-star (and my last kiss-- really, that was almost two years ago?): "when we first started hanging out, i would occasionally stalk your myspace page. and although from meeting you, i knew you were a charming and genuinely nice individual, i would look through your profile and blogs and say, 'FUCK this guy. this young man (editor's note: at the time, i was 23, so i was still, in theory, "young") who literally looks like he was bred to grace clothing ads. a lovably amateurish musician, an incredible writer. this dude who alternately exudes the persona of a charismatic prankster of a rock star and a scared little boy whose head you want to lie in your lap and shelter from a cold world that'll chew him up and spit out his bones. i bet these little myspace groupies and random passerbys that come into his job are lining up around the block to fuck him. well, FUCK HIM.' to me, you were just so perfect, but imperfect to a point where it was obvious that you need somebody. i wanted to hate you, but at the same time, i wanted you to need me, just like all of those girls i was sure you were fucking." (editor's note [again]: one of my favorite things about natalie was that she was so poetic. i'd like to think some of that rubbed off on me, but i'm probably wrong.)

the funny part about the preceeding paragraph is that MOST girls i meet seem to think this. sometimes, i look in the mirror or through my profile, and i wonder, "how the fuck did i stylize myself?"

this neurotic thought process was spurred by one line. isn't that how it always works? rivalries turn to a vicious bloodsport of syllables over one line; entire civilizations are left to crumble over one line. of course, this line doesn't evoke half the wreckage (sensationalizing the mundane: always my wild card), but i would definitely pay good money to be able to read minds and really be able to know who would like to do what. 'cause i'm not gonna lie; i'm a dude: that would be pretty cool. but the only mind i can read is my own, unfortunately, so the only thing i can do is be superlatively wasteful with words about how beautifully you can freeze-frame a thousand words, and that, hey, you're pretty cute and you should just reply to one of my stupid messages with a "yes," just so i can take a short look at the girl behind the $80,000 lens, and you can decide whether or not i'm worth all the metaphorical imagery. don't let your imagination stand between us. mine is what brings us together, sorta. meh, who am i kidding? i may not even be worth you stepping from behind that looking glass. whatever.

i think i may have talked about how, because i can't really draw, i try to make my music as visually as possible. i talk about colors and tones a lot when recording, and that probably sounds wanky and pretentious as hell, but it works for me. the weird part about it is that the lyrics are crafted like novels and short stories and poems, and the music is crafted like visual art. i've been told that fresh cherries from yakima is "more art than music," and that's a metaphor. i wouldn't consider myself a good, or even passable, musician. even being called an "artist" is sort of awkward for me, but i guess it's, for lack of a more novice term, exactly what i am. it's sort of why i take my music to unmusical extremes. it's artsy, right?

destroyed canvases,
martin douglas martin, esquire.

Currently listening:
Alight of Night
By Crystal Stilts
Release date: 2008-10-28

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Sunday, October 05, 2008

chemistry and distance.
Current mood:

bored

throwing paint to the wall. splash. wipe. redo.

remember how i said that i had never shown my visual art to anyone? well, my only birthday present this year was a silkscreening kit. therefore, it looks as though i'll be selling my visual art on garments for $13. i suppose i shouldn't put a great deal of secrecy on my drawings; it's not like they're highly-detailed landscape drawings or anything. they're cartoonish.

although i'd consider myself a fairly introverted person, i always get myself into these situations where i'm on the receiving end of a conversation with one of my heroes. i saw one of my favorite lyricists of all-time and his guitarist loading up his van. i spoke and thanked them. we had a short conversation about me feeling old, and, being as though they're a good ten and fifteen years my senior, i was assured that i have nothing to worry about.

of course, it's understandable. officially entering adulthood is pretty scary.

there are two bridges that draw themselves over the water, a few miles apart. there are two young people (well, so that i don't contradict myself, one young person) standing on each bridge. the protagonist is inspecting the dirt on his shoes, wondering if the other is looking at him, trying to communicate with him. a photo's worth a thousand words, and he casually wonders if there might have been some verbiage wasted on him. beautiful photographs. i hate using the word "beauty," because it seems like such a clutch word, something you hoist on something when you can't think of anything better to say, but the word fits in this case. there are actual words being exchanged, too, but we only communicate through smoke signals. did you see what i just did? i broke down the fourth wall. only thing is, there's another dividing us. that one's up to you.

i'm not saying the "tortured artist card" is being pulled out of the deck, but don't worry: i'm still starving.

banking for the bulldozer,
martin douglas martin, esquire.

Currently listening:
The Boy Who Floated Freely
By Ramona Cordova
Release date: 2006-03-28

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Thursday, October 02, 2008

year in review.
Current mood:

amused

now, this is the time of year i usually bludgeon people over the head with the whole "i wasn't supposed to make it to the age i am now" diatribe, but after a very revealing chat with my boss, i don't know if i want do rehash the same introspection i do every year. besides: this is a celebration.

generally, on my birthday, i raise my head, have a drink, and say, "i'm gonna make it through this year if it kills me" ("this year" by the mountain goats. from the sunset tree, 2005), but something completely shocking happened in the past year: my 24th year on earth was undoubtedly the best 366 days (leap year, folks) i've spent on this earth. for a perpetually depressed kid with a childhood history of abuse, isolation, and suicide attempts, this year was nothing sort of miraculous.

aside from minor relationship disappointments, i had a banner year as far as things i wanted to get accomplished while i was 24: my album's done, i've been steadily playing shows around town all year, my blog is one of the most read mp3 blogs in the northwest(!), i've learned to let people get close (that's both family and friends), i visited portland again, got another tattoo, and a whole bunch of things i've already forgotten.

of course, there's the biggest surprise of them all: fresh cherries from yakima slowly becoming a more and more popular musical entity. it feels like the nearly four years of hard work is starting to pay off a little; my sound's expanding (i.e. getting louder and weirder), my guitar playing is exponentially better, and my lyrics are getting even sharper than before. i have nice people doing nice things by helping out (white rainbow's adam forkner is mastering the record, while my friend nilina-- a portland-based journalist and INCREDIBLE photographer-- is doing the album art). it just feels like i'm luckier than i should have been allowed.

i mean, shit. getting lucky is how i managed to survive trying to kill myself three years ago. there's always this talk of divine intervention, and although i'm not quite as morally sound or faith-based as i should be (but i am a little, i guess), i always think, "maybe that was this god guy's way of saying, 'you're not done here, martin douglas.' perhaps there's something in store for me." who knows? maybe i'm supposed to just burn out later in life. ha.

it's weird to go from "i'm gonna make it through this year if it kills me" to "this year is going to be fucking incredible," but that's where i am.

and because goals are a huge part of my life (duh), let's set them for the 25th year:

00. put out buttons for north caroline in a physical format.
01. actually move to portland (as i've been talking about for two years, now).
02. finish writing honest kids and record it at home.
03. continue working on the novel and memoirs i've been talking about.
04. ACTUALLY START work on the autobiography that everyone keeps telling me to write.
05. incorporate samplers and looping pedals into my live show.
06. learn that my work isn't going to walk up and leave if i go out and have fun every so often.
07. maybe even start dating.
08. tour or travel. see more places.
09. put my first magazine feature on my family's "wall of fame."
10. get better at everything.

throwing paint to the wall,
martin douglas martin, esquire.

Currently listening:
Weirdo Rippers
By No Age
Release date: 2007-08-28

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Friday, September 26, 2008

fashionistas for world peace.
Current mood:

curious

tote bags and big sunglasses and darfur and sudan pins and two-hundred dollar haircuts.
ceanne, this is why we're such good friends. you keep it real.

i worked from ten last night to 8:30 this morning with no lunch. i slept for five hours, and woke up because i couldn't sleep anymore. it's going to be a long, long night. the midnight oil is hard to burn when your sleep is infrequent. i was convinced that i would be able to sleep until it was time to get ready for work, too. maybe i have a lot on my mind. paying dues, paying rent, paying off debts, and trying to get this album released. not to say that i'm stressed at all; it's just that insomnia has been a big threat for a long while, because sleep is very important to me.

i've recently noticed that there are a lot of references to sleep, sleeping pills, and other depressants (alcohol, mainly) on buttons for north caroline. the second verse of "lullaby for a retired model" describes a dream i had. "bourbon and bedsheets" is about BOURBON AND BEDSHEETS, for shit's sake! i think it's a fascinating thing when you notice a recurring theme in someone's songwriting, especially when the songwriter (or songwriters) claim that it was totally subconscious. i'm not going to be coy with you all; sleep is a very important part of my life. sleep is almost like a drug to me. when depression strikes, i use sleep as a way to combat that. my sister tells me that it's a form of not dealing with my problems, and she's absolutely right. i'm not trying to justify it at all; maybe it is unhealthy. sleep over substances. for sure.

flash.

now, she didn't exactly tell me that she wasn't writing about me; but a non-reply implies it, right? maybe she pretended not to care when i walked right up beside of her, or maybe she was talking about someone else. i don't fare very well when it comes to competition; i always find myself to be the weaker opponent. so, i'll just smile and wave and tell her that her handwriting is pretty. perhaps one of these days she'll wave back. i'm not a boy in a rock band; i'm a shy folk singer who throws paint at his bedroom wall and keeps whatever sticks. and some of the shit that doesn't gets put up with thumbtacks. i'm not into suffering for my art; i'm more about creation. playing pretend and creating my own little world for my own little characters to live in. there's not always a happy ending, just listen to "good morning, stranger." but who knows? maybe the art-punk folkie will actually get to take a good long look at the girl behind the lens. i'm putting too much thought into a crush that's supposed to be frivolous, aren't i?

let's catch a show. let's stay home and listen to records. okay, i'll stop overthinking.

camera shutters,
martin douglas martin

Currently listening:
Women
By Women
Release date: 2008-01-01

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Wednesday, September 24, 2008

reaganomics.
Current mood:dizzy

a very good friend of mine always used to tell me i was extremely neurotic. it's hard to argue with that. i have this uninformed theory that most writers are this way, simply as an excuse to overthink everything; to sit and repeatedly try to find the bottom of your glass as you try to parse out every single little detail of every single little situation you've ever been in. then, you sit and purge everything, and published authors and divorced ex-girlfriends inspect the mess thoroughly.

the overcast sky cast a faint shadow as i buttoned up my multicolored flannel, all navy blues and pearly whites and faint hints of red and mustard yellow and black. i walked across the street as the reflection from headlights bounced off my chest. i grabbed a bottle of something. she put it in a brown paper bag. i walked back across the street, opened it up, and poured into a plastic cup. what does drinking this early prove except that i'm probably a little desperate to go back to sleep? that i have a problem? ha. no problems here. except that i still have a day job to head to at 10pm tonight.

there's a rug on the floor in my bedroom. it has golf tees on it; it was my blanket/bed from when i moved into my first apartment and had no mattress. it's been everything from a blanket to something to hide stuff under to a curtain to its current incarnation: something to sit on while i practice guitar on my bedroom floor. sometimes, i play songs i've already written. sometimes, i attempt to write new ones. other times, i just fuck around until inspiration strikes. earlier, i was thinking about the time when i was in las vegas, and my friend mark and i were having a conversation with some 30-somethings that also happened to be from washington. he talked to the couple, while the remainder struck a conversation with me. "you're an artist, aren't you?"

i had no idea i could be put on front street that easily.

i've never tried writing a large body of work, so i approach my lyrics like a novelist. i can't draw, so i approach my music in colors and textures. this probably sounds like a bunch of pretentious shit, but i do put together my music in an artful manner. but i never went to art school. i'm a community college dropout. hell, i never even took an art class in high school. but here i am, world. i dunno; i'm a regular dude. art is just something i do. did i mention that one of the guys from stereogum likes my music? of course, it's the arty one. he's a cool guy, though. the fact that i'm even about to have an album out has wildly surpassed my expectations. i'm not going to bullshit you; you all know i'm a dreamer. but as far as EXPECTATIONS go, i really thought that buttons for north caroline was going to end up being merely a demo in circulation on the internet.

everything i've ever done has started out as a game of pretend.

first, it was, "let's pretend to be a singer/songwriter!" now, my debut album's being mastered, and i've been playing a show every-other-month for the entire year. then, it was, "oh shit. i can set up a blog for free! let's pretend to be a music journalist!" now, i not only have one of the most widely-read northwest blogs on the internet, but i'm going to be an actual music writer for a website. "let's pretend to be a hip-hop producer!" an esteemed colleague of mine recently called me "one of the top-five best new beatmakers in the world." and please don't confuse this with idle bragging; i'm just as surprised as you are. in fact, i'll go out on a limb and say noone's more surprised than i am with the superlative amount of luck i've been having in 2008. the bottom of the glass looks rosier and rosier with each passing day.

a cute girl pats me on the shoulder and says, "i wasn't writing about you. go about your business." and that's how it goes. business as usual. solitude is my girlfriend and artistry is my first-born child.

green apples,
martin douglas martin, esq.

Currently listening:
Los Angeles
By Flying Lotus
Release date: 2008-06-10

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Friday, September 19, 2008

the peking saints.
Current mood:

anxious

the best hug i've gotten in a long time was from a dude.

my friends and i were walking away from catching about forty-five seconds of john vanderslice's bumbershoot set, in route to a stage to-be-determined, and i saw a young man about three inches taller than me holding a sign that said "free hugs." now, i've seen kids walking around with these signs all day, but there was something really inviting about this shirtless young man, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, not looking lonely in the least, but waiting to unleash his love onto an unsupspecting passerby.

as i passed the gentleman, i thought, "fuck it," and stopped as my friends walked until they saw i had stopped. i looked at the guy with arms outstretched and smiling, and said, "come here, man." as we put our arms around each other, i patted him on the back, as i do whenever i find myself hugging another man. he, on the other hand, gave me an embrace with the warmth of a thousand suns, not holding too tight and bear huggish, but almost with a brotherly passion. i felt so comfortable in this guy's arms, i wanted to put my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes. for a second, i was in love. not like creepy homoerotic tension love, but an uplifting feeling that made me think of how lucky someone is to get hugs from this guy on a regular basis.

but for a second, i really was in love.

Currently listening:
Vivian Girls
By Vivian Girls
Release date: 2008-09-30

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martin douglas martin, esquire

Last Updated: 5/16/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 26
Sign: Libra

City: Northeast Tacoma
State: Washington
Country: US
Signup Date: 11/8/2004

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