I went to a Marian Call concert on Tuesday at the Mystery Brewing Company in Hillsborough, a tiny little bar plunked more or less in the middle of nowhere.  I’ve never been in a more endearing bar, though; there was a little lending library in the back and Doctor Who posters on the walls–the perfect setting for a Marian Call concert.  The music was excellent and fun, as always (this is my third Marian Call concert), and Marian sang some excellent new songs from a soon-to-be-released albumScott Barkan thoroughly impressed me with his songs from his new album, Flightless Bird, and after the concert we chatted about the cover art.  I mentioned that it reminded me of The Tragedy Series, and he was so excited that someone else recognized it.  Turns out he’s good friends with the artist.

Tomorrow morning I’m flying to Indianapolis for work, so I’m going to do my best to shoehorn a few adventures in between meetings!

Artistic:

Fascinating:

Music:

Books: I somehow made it through high school without having read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith; I’ve finally filled in that particular gap in my reading.  A coworker loaned me a copy, well-loved with all the best parts highlighted.  I fell in love instantly.  I’d say it’s a shame I hadn’t read it sooner, but I think maybe I ran across this one at just the right time.  The book is beautifully done, and I feel like I’ve met an old friend for the first time.

Last night I finished Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, which is exactly what it says on the label.  Rilke wrote a series of letters to a young poet friend of his; sadly (happily?), the recipient of the letters is really only well-known for publishing Rilke’s letters.  He became a soldier instead of a renowned poet–though after reading Rilke’s thoughts on poetry, I almost wonder if the young soldier got the better end of the deal.  I love poetry, and poets are a treasured breed, but good heavens, they’re bad at living.  Rilke sounds like the quintessential tortured poet, all introspection and angst (and eventually dying young).  I kind of want to tell him to go eat a sandwich, mop a floor, and work for his living to get a little perspective and infuse just a little bit of practicality into his dreamy musings.  At the same time, his thoughts on the virtues of solitude (even of loneliness) and on the poet’s work in general have merit.  I think I would enjoy his poetry but would find him tremendously frustrating to know in person.

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