the sourcerer: Time Flies at the Bellevue Lounge and one morning in New York City.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Time Flies at the Bellevue Lounge and one morning in New York City.

There's something about having a party at a house on a Saturday night, with an almost full Sugar Moon... something pretty wonderful. The Time Flies must be one of my favourite bands. They evoke that feeling you get just before lift-off. They ended their set with a rocking dirty version of "Blue Moon". A young girl said to me, breathlessly: I always thought he was cool, but John Trafford is GOD!

DJ Appletart dusted off the decks and played for the first time in two years. I'd forgotten how nice it is to fill a dance floor. Halfway in, the tall drink of water joined on percussion and MC Mr Nimbus had the crowd shouting. Thanks to the Cutie with the eyeliner for keeping me cool and watered for two hours and to Be, for twiddling the controls.

2h30 Found me... still at the party. Knowing that I had to get up at something to do with a four again.

Is this what people mean when they talk about a midlife crisis? If so, I like this part.

I felt like a teenager with no curfew.

Like an egg in a whisk.

Dawn in the city. We shot an iced tea commercial in a play play New York.

The day passed by like a dream.

4 comments:

Adi said...: Hej Appletart!
just read on FB what JT said about your set: really eclectic, interestin', offbeat and totally, totally danceable.
cant believe I missed your comeback.
:(; February 21, 2011 at 4:42 PM
Adi said...: er. sorry. I meant what GOD said about your set.; February 21, 2011 at 5:41 PM
the sourcerer said...: :-)
wish you'd been there. wish I was still there...
xx; February 21, 2011 at 8:33 PM
Chris said...: 'like an egg in a whisk'
I love that.
who's the cutie then, miss tart?; February 21, 2011 at 8:38 PM

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You could tend a garden at night, only at night, pouring dark water onto leaves, and into the earth, like pouring midnight onto midnight. You could hold your soil-stained hands up to the moon. The stars would gleam on the bottom of the shovel. It would smell the same as a daytime garden - it would smell green, violet, red, white. But come back, in daylight. Come back, to see the colours without closing your eyes.
- Sean Michaels. Accompaniment to the song "Immune" by LOW. Said the Gramophone

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
Jim Jarmusch (1953- )

You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg gardens where you smelled and saw nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cézanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought that Cézanne was probably hungry in a different way.
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) - from A Moveable Feast.