Tonight is a full moon and although I was really looking forward to setting camp on my roof and starring at the sky for hours, it is pouring rain for almost two hours now and there is no moon to be seen, it is way too cloudy. But I always enjoy it when it rains. In a weird way it makes me feel more alive, more aware of my surroundings and it feels as if the rain washes away everything. All feelings, all unpure thoughts and all remains of human actions in the conscience. It cleanses the air, it is like a sacred ritual, held during the most mystical hours of history.
Today is not a good day. Today, I found out that the White Stripes, Jack and Meg White's band is officially no more a band. In the second day of the second month, it was announced in their website www.whitestripes.com .
The White Stripes have been active since 1997, that is for almost 13 years. In those years those two people, those two brilliant musicians, have managed to produce many extraordinary albums, and give chills to their fans every single time they get up on stage. The brilliance of Jack White, his guitar skills and his ability to create mindblowing melodies and sounds, accompanied by the most peculiar, yet beautiful lyrics I have ever heard are simply precious. Meg White's energy on the drums is unique. With every bang of the drum, her spirit and her delicacy stand out in every song. As if every song is two seperate ones, one where Jack White's voice is trembling and he is screaming along with crazy guitar riffs, and one where the firm, yet serenial moves of Meg's baguettes on the drums sink into your brain. All those magnificent elements of Meg's and Jack's performance are the ones that make The White Stripes so special.
The first song I've ever heard from the White Stripes was "Seven Nation Army" from their album "Elephant"(2002). It might as well be the most popular one, and that is propably why I heard it in the first place. After carefully listening to this song I got really curious about who on earth is this band, I was baffled by the lyrics and I kept wondering what is the matter with the guitarist. Then I bought their only album there was in the store, "The White Stripes"(1999). I still remember the feelings I had whilst listening to it. It was a revelation. Their sound was something I could never imagine could exist and it was completely conquering my mind. Since that day, I always say that The White Stripes are undeniably one of the best bands there ever was.
Farewell White Stripes, I want to believe that your music will never fade, and I hope that Jack White's musical mastermind will live on through The Dead Weather and The Raconteurs , as well as Meg White's harmony will shine in her life, as I live in the hope of a personal album.
"The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack any more. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful"
While watching the "Oxford Murders"(2008) the other day, I was particularly intrigued by the "M heart 8" puzzle that was mentioned at some point in the movie. It basically is a capital M above a heart which in its bottom end is crossed by a straight line and beneath it is the number 8. This is a symbolic symmetry of some kind and you are supposed to find the next symbol that goes under 8. It is really hard, my brother and his friend who are supposed to study algebra and stuff couldn't figure it out, but once you find it or you are told the answer it is pretty amazing. It is actually brilliant!
"... blah blah blah..."
She barely heard his footsteps in the stairs. She lifted her head from the newspaper she was vaguely reading and, above the kitchen table and between the clove pink blossoms that stuck outside the vase, she could discern his bowed head entering.
He looked tired. He always looked tired. He always used to look a little older too, with his long grey hair covering the remaining black curls that reminded her of old pictures her mother had given her.
"Where's your mother?"
"She's with grandma, they went to the doctor to remove the stitches"
"How are you?"
"I think I might be a little sick... Today we did that field trip I told you about last night"
"Ah. Eh, was it good?" For a minute he seemed completely out of touch with his thoughts as he was pacing the floor taking off his heavy black coat, getting rid of his worn out leather suitcase, going into his study, coming out, going to the kitchen, going in the study yet again.
"Yeah it was cool." She nodded mind absently browsing through the newspaper.
He was a miserable man. No doubt, miserable. She has very few memories of him beign utterly sober and cheerful at the same time. He might laugh, once or twice, but rarely in the mornig that is. The days he is spending all day at home he usually wakes up at nine in the morning and by noon he has had his first drink. By four in the afternoon he might be a little cheerful, as if the weight has been lifted for a while off his shoulders. But within an hour of that liquid joy the weight seems to fall back in its place more heavy than it ever was. Those hours she simply prefers not to talk to him. He is restricted on his part of the house and she on hers. Up and down. Literally. He lingers, as if at the bottom of all, in the first floor. She, on the second.
She lost his sight behind the wall that seperates the kitchen from the living room, she saw the light turn on and herd cutlery sounds. She was now starring at the last page of the newspaper looking at nothing, just chasing with her eyes the little black letters.
After a little while she was brought back to reality by the violent slam of the refrigerator door. It seems, he wasn't going to eat anytime soon. He left the kitchen and got lost behind his study's half closed sliding door. The noise from the radio programme he was listening to was getting too annoying for her, so she thought it would be best to just get lost in her room.
As she was moving towards the stairs he called out to her.
"Hey, where's your mother?"
"She's in the doctor, dad "
It was cold and it was pouring rain. Early hours of the second month, it never usually rained that much in this place of the earth. Yet he was treading slowly across the uneven pavement, mindlessly avoiding the little lakes of muddy water the rain was creating. He had no umbrella over his head like most people in the street did. His hair was dripping liquid pieces of sky, while his eyes were fixed on where his feet were stepping. His eyes would break away, once or twice, from the hypnotizing synchronized movements of his feet and would briefly scan the misty horizon and rest eventually for a few minutes on passerbys. It was a long street, mostly occupied by grey-ish miserable shapes of cars with miserable people driving inside of them. They did look so miserable. Every one of them, gazing at nowhere through the windshield, gas, brake, gas, brake. But the thought of those people couldn't hold his attention for long enough. Now he was clearly thinking something else.
Well, not everyone had umbrellas. That guy over there didn't. He had a slender figure and was soaking wet, with folded arms around his oversized coat, somewhat like embracing himself. It seemed as though he was awaiting for something, or someone, even though he did not look that much eager about it as much he looked at great unease. You could tell from his face. One would guess that even if it weren't raining, his face would have had the same expression of silent agony.
As he was just feet away from the most miserable figure of all, he stopped. With an abrupt stir of his head he threw his dripping wet hair back and just stood there. After a minute or so, he reluctuntly took a step forward and was now close enough to the other guy with no umbrella that he could touch him if he wanted to.
" You look so sad"
"I said that you look so sad."
"Why would you feel the need to tell me that?"
"Because I thought you might want to know that you look really sad."
"I do not really care for how I look."
"So you do know that you look sad, but you just don't -
"I am sad. How can a sad man possibly look anything else but just sad?"
"Why aren't you happy?"
"Because. Because its thursday, and It's getting late. Because I am sad."