Restless Leg Syndrome

Our word count has taken quite a beating this month. I blame the onslaught of end-of-semester jitters, a perfect storm of restless legs, colder weather, needs for home and horrid, horrid amounts of work. We begin November still high off the fall magic of October and then plummet into the realization that it’s almost Thanksgiving, and every  bit of work put off will be breathing down your neck with dragon-like force quite soon. Stage one: ambition and adderall. Stage two: boredom and burn out. Stage three: Turkey.

Thanksgiving is so rooted in traditions: Family traditions, friendly traditions, traditions misconstrued by false memories and drunk ones. It comes right at that time of year when I consistently reach my breaking point, and suddenly, without fail, everything I am working on or to seems insignificant, and I doubt I’m the only one who feels that way. When I return to the suburbs it usually only takes a few days for boredom to sink in. This time, I was charmed. The place you grew up, whether a small rural town, the city, or somewhere in between is honored during Thanksgiving. I apologize for the cheesiness but maybe that’s part of the charm, too.

So as I write from New Jersey, still seemingly full and sleepy from bird-induced tryptophan almost four days later and dreading the back to Boston commute, I’d like to say thank you. I know it’s a little late, I know everyone does this the day OF Thanksgiving, not after, but suck it.

I’ll say it briefly with words: Thank you to Allston, to Boston, to part-time (possibly stray) cats who kill the mice in my walls (and possibly in my head), to good beer and cheap wine, to crunchy leaves under bike wheels, to fighting the wind, to frozen hands swathed in soft gloves. To future confusion, to long talks, vaporizers and movies.

To the long way home, to the town I grew up in, with more leaves piled high than any other in New Jersey (a lot of this has to do with LEAVES, evidently), to the skyline, to old friends and their parent’s houses, to my parent’s houses, to bagels, to dirty basement irish bars and lost conversations, to wondering where missing people are, to bad jokes and good senses of humor.

Okay, that was less brief than I thought. Might as well have just composed my own version of “La Vie Boheme,” The college kid rendition…

And I’ll say it with music, too.

Poupée de Cire, Poupée de Son – Arcade Fire (Serge Gainsbourg cover)

I’ve been on a slight Serge Gainsbourg kick, starting sometime around 4 AM while writing a philosophy paper and ending… not quite yet. When I downloaded Histoire de Melody Nelson in the throws of hard work, the haunting, creepy yet sublime combination of Gainsbourg’s french whispering (about a car accident between Monsieur Gainsbourg and a young girl named Melody Nelson’s bicycle and the infatuation that ensues… thank you, Lolita), electric guitars and horns in the background got me through the night. This is a cover by Arcade Fire. Not with the same effects as the original, but pretty damn good.

Reds – Houses

Heard them during a yoga class (harhar), was upside down and still wanted to fall into a blissful yet bouncy, floating sleep. I asked the instructor after for the band’s name, and downloaded the entirety of their album All Night. I don’t pretend to know much about electronica or ambient music, but I’m definitely a fan.

I Am Always Coming Home – Squinch Owl

I saw this rag tag group of Western Massers at Kitchen Sessions a few weeks back, and their first EP (which you can download AND SUPPORT THEM at a price of your choosing on their website, linked) has been a staple of my days since. Watch the video put together by the Kitchen Sessions crew here and enjoy some accordion thronged folk, complete with a work saw played with a bow and her remarkable vocals. I am always coming home, indeed.

Your Arms Around Me – Jens Lekman

Sometimes you just need some Jens. ‘Nough said.

That Western Skyline – Dawes

This song is simply beautiful, and lead singer Taylor Goldsmith’s voice is really showcased. It’s pure folk rock, The Band reminiscent harmonics and longing lyrics. I don’t know who this “Lou” he keeps singing to is, but if a friend was sad that their lady left them, I’d like them to whine to me as beautifully as Dawes does.

November – Tom Waits

To keep the voices in my head straight, Tom Waits needs to be listened to heavily about every 3 months. And to end this eclectic mixtape of strange, I give you Captain Eclectic McStrange and awesome, Mr. Waits, sing-yell-speaking about November because, “It only believes in a pile of dead leaves and a moon that’s the color of bone.” Thank you all, and to all, a decent end to the semester, a merry end to the year.

To more frequent writing, to New England winter survival tactics, to not drowning in books! …

And if you are drowning in books, I guarantee a “drowning in books” themed playlist, coming to you in an hour of extreme procrastination and sadness, which I’ll write while trying to get library dust out of my lungs. It’s the least we can do. Stay tuned.