“I’ll scar you for life.” That was The Scar Maker’s professional promise. Then he’d add, “I’ll make you interesting. For just $69.99.”

He launched this business venture once tattoos ceased to be edgy.  Tattoos, he realized, were no longer badges of youthful rebellion. They were time stamps of faded youth. Any vegan mommies, cube dwellers, or myopic professors shuffling about with a daisy chain around their ankle, an incorrectly translated Chinese adage or tribal armband were vestiges of another era.

Tattoos had been such a simple way to pay for an outward expression of your secret side. And what good is a secret if no one knows it? Problem was, too many dull people selected the same dull tattoos and the whole country became oversaturated with clichéd flesh.

So The Scar Maker seized his opportunity: he allowed you to pay for your counterfeit sins.

Real sins, the dangerous kind that make for good stories, were in short supply. People were too busy multi-tasking to sin much anymore. Drunken

Ernest Hemingway-style bravado was extinct. Drugged up rock gods no longer bled on cue for an audience. No one went big game hunting, rolled around in broken glass on stage or pummeled street toughs just for kicks.

People battled each other via Xbox, recreated their lives on Facebook and became Rock Stars without picking up an actual guitar. Virtual life was taking over, and no one actually lived. So fake memoirs topped bestseller lists and scripted reality shows reigned on TV. The public was hungry for reality, but wanted it manufactured. Real life rarely offered a cohesive story arc.

This is where The Scar Maker came in. He’d give customers a cool scar and a great story to go with it. He used creepy old tools that he found at junk sales: 1960s ice picks, 1920s fireplace pokers, 1970s medical scalpels. All sanitized of course. He didn’t need any lawsuits.

The Scar Maker worked out of a shithole on 1^st Avenue in New York. The half-lit neon sign read, “Scarred For Life”. Or it would have, if all the letters still lit up. At night, in the dark, it actually read, “red Lie”.

This was by design–he’d short fused the sign. Gentrification of the East Village was becoming a problem.  He worried that his middle class

customers would be denied the thrill of slumming it. There was a depressingly generic Duane Reade drugstore around the corner from his shop and rumor had it an Olive Garden was moving in. So he manufactured grime too; painting mildew on the walls and strategically planting some plastic roaches. Customers nodded with approval at the faux decay.

Now truthfully, The Scar Maker only had about 12 scar stories that he offered. Of course, he didn’t tell his customers that. They all wanted a special story. But he wasn’t that creative. Or, maybe he was just lazy. So, the 12 scar stories he recycled were:

1. Mountain Climbing in the Himalayas

2. Glass Bottle Thrown While Onstage In Rock Band

3. Drunken Vegas Night

4. Skiing with (fill in the celebrity) in Aspen

5. Street Fight A (Protecting a Woman from Harm)

6. Street Fight B (Thug Style Gang Fight)

7. Mafia Hit Attempt

8. Bear Attack

9. Running with the Bulls in Pamplona

10. Jungle Adventure

11. Racecar Collision

12. Saloon Shoot Out

He charged more for extras, like dates, names and exact places. For a while, he considered advertising a “Frequently Scarred Discount Card” or a “Buy Two Scars, Get One Half Off” offer, but decided against it.

The Scar Maker had one hard and fast rule: all scars had to look like scars. Some idiot came in asking for a Donald Duck scar, and The Scar Maker told him to get the hell out of his shop. He refused to Disneyfy his work. “Go to Times Square if that’s what you want,” he sneered.

His commitment to offering people a life experience without the stress of actually living it became quite profitable. The people who came into his East Village shop were all types. Some were accountants, some were PR flacks, some were college students. All of them were looking for a way to personalize their unblemished skin and unused lives.

So The Scar Maker created scars for Upper West Side daddy’s girls with poodles and Midtown lawyers with canker sores. Queens’ English teachers who dangled participles on the sly and pimpled cops from Long Island. His customers wanted a bit of baggage, just enough to seem worldly, but not world-weary. They craved life experience, but nothing authentic enough to result in heartburn or wrinkles. They wanted carry on size baggage.

Soon, The Scar Maker was scarring customers from all five boroughs. (Plus one personal trainer from Hoboken.) He dreamed of franchising his business, and started to get a bit cocky. After all, what he offered was better than real life, because it was more efficient. He was the architect of experience fraud; providing tangible evidence of risks not taken.

Then one night as he was closing up shop, an irritable man in a business suit knocked on his door. The Scar Maker pointed to the CLOSED sign. But the man was insistent. He began pounding at the door, shouting, “Open up you piece of shit!” The Scar Maker considered going out the back way. But realizing that this guy would just track him down later, he unlatched the lock.

“What do you want, man?” he said.

The pissed off businessman stepped inside the shop as the door slammed shut behind him.

“I want my money back.” He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, pointing to a scar.

The Scar Maker inspected it. One of his better efforts, he thought. It was made with a Victorian dental instrument. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, asshole. I went to an office party last night. Joe Peters was there. We’re both up for the same promotion. So, we’re both talking to our boss, you know. A pissing contest. And he’s a real tough guy type. That’s the whole reason I got this scar. Thought it would give me an advantage. So I’m about to show it to him, when Joe Peters rolls up his sleeve first, and shows him his scar. Well, it looks just like mine, plus his story is exactly the same!”

“Running with the bulls in Pamplona?”

“No. Bear attack.”

“Oh.”

“So now this scar is useless. To make matters worse, Joe Peters’ wife is wearing the exact same dress as my girlfriend. Except she looks better in it. Yeah, I know, that’s not your fault. But I looked like an asshole. And now Joe Peters is getting the promotion.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

 “That’s it? You’re sorry?”

“You want a new story? You can have Running with the bulls in Pamplona.”

“No! You told me my story was special. You told me it would make me interesting. I want my damn money back.”

 The Scar Maker pointed to the sign above the cash register: ALL SCAR SALES FINAL.

“But you sold me a faulty scar! A used scar. It’s not fair.”

“Look, I don’t see why you won’t just take another story.”

“Because it was supposed to be a bear attack. It was supposed to be my bear attack. And I’ve already told other people about it. Everything’s ruined now.”

The Scar Maker shrugged.

The man picked up his suit jacket off the floor and looked as though he were about to leave. But then, he spun around and punched The Scar Maker square in the jaw.

Shocked but not really hurt, The Scar Maker lost his balance and fell sideways. His left cheekbone slammed down on the sharp edge of the counter. He slid down, banging his head against the hardwood floor and passed out cold.

The businessman looked down, rubbed his inexperienced fist and whispered, “holy shit” before slipping out of the shop.

Three hours later, The Scar Maker came to. His head was pounding. He put his hand up to his throbbing cheek, then blinked at the blood on his fingertips. He stood up and went to the bathroom to inspect the gash. Even under the flickering florescent light, he could tell it was perfect. Better than any scar he’d ever made.

Well, it was almost perfect.

The story wasn’t quite right. Too mundane. A sucker punch from a disgruntled businessman? No. A scar this beautiful deserved a better story: a murky jazz den in New Orleans run by a voodoo priestess. A drug deal gone bad. Pandemonium as he’d escaped a hail of bullets and a rabid dog…

These may seem like strange words coming from Irish novelist John Boyne, who has almost exclusively written about the past and achieved worldwide renown for his book The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, which was set during the Holocaust. But during a stop in Vancouver to promote his World War I novel The Absolutist, he told ZOUCH that he’s always looking for parallels between the past and the present.

“I don’t want readers to look at this and go `oh, he’s writing about the Iraq War’, because I’m not,” said Boyne.  “But I always write with one eye towards what’s happening now.”

John Boyle (photo Mark Condren)

The Absolutist tells the story of two teenagers, Will and Tristan, during the war. And though the conflict has already been written about exhaustively, Boyne felt there was more to learn.

“We’re told continually told that these memories should be kept alive, and we can’t forget. The point comes when all the people who were there are no longer with us. Are we just supposed to stop? Have we said everything there is to say? I think if you have something to say, say it.”

Boyne said there were two elements of his story that he feels have been under-represented in past literature. The first was the role of conscientious objectors, and the effect their actions would have on their families back home.

“Other soldiers from a town would of course be out dying. How would the parents, or the sister of the boy that laid down his guns, be treated?” said Boyne.

The second element Boyne felt had been overlooked was the gay relationships that must have existed between men fighting in the trenches.

“In the intimacy of war and the horror of the trenches, relationships of one form or another must have formed. And this was something I’d never read about, so I wanted to explore it,” he said.

Boyne felt this topic was especially relevant, as the United States is currently grappling with the recent overturning of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. During the First World War, homosexuality was illegal. And though we’ve progressed significantly, Boyne said he was amazed at the level of hatred that still exists towards homosexuals in the military.

“The unsettling thing is that it’s nearly a century later,” he said. “A couple of months ago I was watching the Republican primaries, and it was one of those meetings where they had three or four candidates on stage. They had a soldier on the screen from Iraq. The audience goes crazy applauding. Then he prefaces what he’s saying by mentioning he’s a gay soldier, and they boo him.”

Boyne was disgusted.

“I found it stunning that the audience would respond that way. Later that day, that soldier may have been killed,” he said. “The level of hatred is amazing. I mean, it’s one simple fact about who he is.”

Boyne feels conscientious objectors are equally controversial. In fact, the title of the book refers to individuals whose beliefs are even more extreme, and rather than serving as stretcher-bearers or helping out beyond the front lines, they refuse to participate in the war effort at all. His character Will is one such person.

And Boyne felts Will’s story was an important one to tell.

“War, simply put, is not a good thing,” he said. “Most people, surely, should be opposed to war.”

See larger image The Absolutist (Paperback) By (author) John Boyne New From: $10.00 In Stock Release date April 10, 2012.

The waves finally
were what changed him.
The ceaseless crash
and pull.
Or that’s what he’ll say
if anyone asks. He’ll say
how he couldn’t stand
the rushing of the deep
turning over or the color
or the weight.

He won’t say how
he looked back to the others
and only wanted
to be far away—oceans,
climates and continents,
zones of time.

But he doesn’t say, just lies
on the sand,
head bowed in something—
prayer, thanks,
the anguish of relief.

When I was eight or nine, my pre-pubescent boy crushes included Suzi Quattro, Lena Zavaroni and Bonnie Langford. I also appreciated the music of Gary Glitter and Joan Jett. Clearly I empathized with the precocious and the glamorous. I’d like to say that changed as an adult, but probably it didn’t.

In 1978 my parents allowed me to go and see “Grease, the Movie” but not, you’ll remember, “Saturday Night Fever” (SNF was too racy). I had a black leather jacket (size small) and dreamed of living in California. Again, nothing much has changed, except now the jacket is size large and one of these crushes has been transferred to Cindy Bullens, who’s been described as “the thinking man’s Joan Jett”.

Why the crush? Well, for a start she’s super-talented, with peach-melba looks. As an added bonus she also sang on the original soundtrack to Grease. She’s worked with Elton John, Bob Dylan, Bonnie Raitt and John Hiatt, released a respectable amount of her own critically-acclaimed albums (think quality, not quantity, darling) and was a contributor to Murphy’s “Strings of the Storm”. She is without doubt a VIP, by which I mean Very Impressive Person, so I thought I should ask her about her recording experience with Murphy on “Strings of the Storm”, and how she ended up as the only girl in Murphy’s band.

Charles Pitter:  How did you hook-up with Elliott Murphy to record “Strings of the Storm”?

Cindy Bullens: I had met Elliott years ago in the US through mutual friends in the music business. Back in 2002, I opened a couple of shows for him in Italy.  We had a great time and I eventually did a whole tour with him a couple of years later.  Then, when I was touring solo in Germany in 2005, I got an email from Elliott asking if I would come to Paris after my tour and sing on his new album. So I did!

Charles Pitter:  Had you heard Elliott’s music before?

Cindy Bullens: Sure. Over the years I had heard his music and had heard him perform here and there.

Charles Pitter:  How long did the sessions last?

Cindy Bullens: I was in France for several days. We drove to Le Havre on the northern coast of France to record. It was a blast!

Charles Pitter:  Having released your own records as a solo performer, is it then difficult to take more of a backseat on someone else’s album?

Cindy Bullens: Not at all. I really enjoy being part of the whole process. Sometimes whoever the artist is wants you to do a specific part and you do that. Other times, as with Elliott, he has an idea of what he wants, but then lets you create ideas as well. Obviously, I only wanted what was best for him and his music. Again, we had a lot of fun!

Charles Pitter: Do you use a different technique as a backing singer compared to when you’re signing front and centre?

Cindy Bullens: Yes. As a background vocalist, I consider my voice to be more of an instrument that has to blend in with the whole track, and with the other singer or singers. My sole intention is to be a part of the whole. When I sing leads, I need to make the song or track represent me as an artist.

Charles Pitter:  How much collaboration was there in the studio? Were you presented with complete songs and arrangements, or was there any experimentation?

Cindy Bullens:  The tracks were mostly complete, but Elliott did have me add a rhythm guitar to “Green River” which was fun. As I said before, yes, I did experiment a bit on the vocal parts.

Charles Pitter:  Does Murphy work in a similar way to you in the studio?

Cindy Bullens: I got there after it was mostly done so I can’t say completely. But where we are similar is in that we both know what we want and like ultimately and that we won’t settle for anything less.

Charles Pitter: What was is like being in the studio with an all male team? Did you notice any alpha-male behaviour?

Cindy Bullens: Never ever has being with all males been anything but easy for me. I have a lot of “alpha-male” in me as well, so it’s completely natural.  Now that I am in a female trio, the Refugees, it’s been interesting learning how to be with all women! I love both!

Charles Pitter:  Do you prefer touring or recording?

Cindy Bullens: They are completely different animals. I love them both equally.

Charles Pitter:  What’s your own process for song-writing? Do you compose on guitar or piano and does the music come first or the lyrics?

Cindy Bullens: I have no particular pattern for songwriting. I mostly write on guitar, but there are times when I want to approach an idea from a piano point of view. I write very differently on each instrument. As far as lyrics, most times a title or line comes into my head and that’s where a song starts, then I fool around with some music. If I am lucky, things come together and a song emerges. Other times, the idea gets shelved and brought out at another time.  I have a ton of song fragments that have never seen the light of day. I never take songwriting for granted. I am in awe of the process.

Charles Pitter:  What are you listening to at the moment?

Cindy Bullens: You know, I really don’t listen to much at all. Usually, a friend or colleague will tell me about some band or artist I should hear and I’ll check it out, and I’ll go see them live. but honestly, I don’t listen to much anymore.

Charles Pitter: What inspires you?

Cindy Bullens: That’s a big question! People’s personal stories inspire me. Everybody has one. It’s getting down into the nitty gritty of those stories, those people (and some times, most times, it’s myself) and finding out what makes them feel the way they do.

Most people are good souls who just want a decent life. It’s how we strive to make that life that inspires me.

Charles Pitter:  Are there any plans for a new Cindy Bullens album?

click to hear samples

Cindy Bullens: Well, my album “Howling Trains and Barking Dogs” came out in 2010, so I’d say there might be a new one in 2013. I’ve just started thinking about it.  Also, my trio The Refugees, just released our second album “Three” in January. It has just been released on Blue Rose in Europe on April 6.

Visit Cindy Bullens’ website at cindybullens.com.

Visit the Refugees website at therefugeesmusic.com.

(Coming soon on Zouch: “The Adventures of Cindy B”.)

This time last year I was in the midst of spending five months studying abroad in Utrecht, the Netherlands during which I transformed from a wobbly, timid biker into a full-fledged bike addict. And though I had always planned on getting a bike once I arrived in Holland, I never could have guessed how important those two wheels would become for me.

It’s no secret to the rest of the world that the Dutch love to bike, and that they bike a lot. But it’s not something you really grasp until you walk out of the Amsterdam train station and the first thing you see is a parking lot dedicated to bikes – hundreds of them. It’s an image I’ll never forget.

My bike was purple and green, so I named it Dragon. Dragon was a good bike: the right height, comfortable seat, and virtually no technical problems throughout the five months we shared together. Still, it had been about 10 years since I’d last been on a bike so I was beyond nervous to ride amongst the Dutch.

The Dragon

At first I was incredibly shaky. I had trouble starting to pedal and had major issues turning corners. Countless people passed me in the bike lane; it was embarrassing. While bikers around me were riding while texting with one hand and carrying a shopping bag in the other, I was wobbling along the edge of the lane, just happy to be upright.

For the Dutch, biking is as comfortable and casual as breathing. Kids learn to bike from an incredibly young age and it’s rare to find a Dutch person who doesn’t know how to ride (really – my Dutch classmate, Marijn Brok, said he has never met a Dutch person who can’t ride a bike. Brok learned to ride when he was about five-years-old). I saw couples biking holding hands, biking without using their handlebars, biking while talking on the phone or reading or eating; my roommate even saw one guy watching TV on a laptop he had taped to his handlebars. These bikers were serious – seriously cool, that is.

Seriously cool.

Before long, I got the hang of things. I became the one passing others in the bike lane. I was the one biking one handed, waving my arms, whipping around corners. It felt good, and beyond that, it felt natural. Riding Dragon to the grocery store or the city centre or even just down the street to a friend’s house became the norm – and I loved it.

I believe that everyone who visits the Netherlands should rent a bike, even just for a day. Biking allows you to experience Dutch culture first hand; you aren’t just a tourist, you’re part of the traffic, part of the city and part of the lifestyle.

It’s almost as if biking is such a part of Dutch culture that the Dutch themselves aren’t even aware of it anymore.

“At least, for me it’s just a way of transportation, because our infrastructure allows us to get around on bikes. It’s more a convenience,” Brok says in an email. “It affects us in the way that we think, ‘It’s not that far, let’s grab a bike.’ It helps us getting somewhere fast.”

Cycling rocks!

But if you ask me, biking is more than just a mode of transportation and a means of exercise for the Dutch; it is a way of life, a defining factor of their society and their culture. Bike repair and rental shops are everywhere; there are even bike lanes on the highways between cities (I rode these lanes all the way from Utrecht to Amsterdam – a three hour trip).

Saying goodbye to Dragon, the little bike that stood loyally by my side through countless late nights and early mornings, was harder than I thought it would be. Biking him back to the shop that evening felt a little bit like a funeral procession. Still, I’m thankful for the time we had. And if I close my eyes, I can still picture the city of Utrecht that we’d ride through together: the gorgeous canals, green trees, bustling cafes, coffee shops, old windmills, and, of course, my fellow Dutch.

See larger image Bicycle History: A Chronological Cycling History of People, Races, and Technology (Paperback) By (author) James L. Witherell List Price: $16.95 USD New From: $16.94 In Stock Used from: $45.68 In Stock

The Internet is over 40 years old; the World Wide Web, over 20. Google has made the Internet navigable. Apple has made it portable. Facebook has made it social.  So, it’s all happened, then?

Maybe that’s why we keep encountering more of the same.

There are aspects of the digital ecosystem I know I’ve had enough of, each time I see them. It’s then I also realize I’m feeling bored, surfeited, jaded. What might they be?

Cloud. “Cloud” this. “Cloud” that. In theory, each time you come across an observation about the “cloud,” an invisible ring of déjà vu should descend on you. Not because the word denotes a meteorological phenomenon, but because it’s become a digital tech buzzword of our times.

And, as if we’re not getting enough of it in tech blogs, venerable dailies, literary magazines, local rags, we also are seeing them pop up else elsewhere, as posters, sculptures, and whatnot. Interestingly, we’ve been using cloud services for a long time, unbeknown to us. Were we to have adhered to the old paradigm, we’d still be calling it the “Internet?” Cloud=Internet.

The Big Four.  Tech news seems to be dominated by constant updates on only the Big Four: Apple, Amazon, Facebook, and Google (worthy successors to the erstwhile giants Intel, Microsoft, Dell, and Cisco), each of which is fighting to colonize the “cloud.”

Is it just me who experiences a dull fatigue reading about them? It’s a bit tiresome that one of them has, sort of, even spilled over into the supermarket isles of household cleaners. Tide Pod, the latest product offering from Procter & Gamble, palm-size, liquid detergent-filled capsules that is being hailed as the biggest innovation in laundry in about a quarter of a century has an uncanny Apple-y flavor (no pun intended) to it. Meant to pique the curiosity of consumers who dote on hi-tech gadgets, did you notice that the Tide Pod is a phonetic cousin of the iPod?

Infographics. Unless you’ve been leading the life of an oyster under the rock, you’ve probably noted the explosion in the trend of non-textual storytelling, of presenting complex information, visually.

We’ve entered what many observers are dubbing as the “Golden Age of Infographics.” Soon, the day may be upon us when even news headlines are depicted pictorially, resurrecting the mode of communication of the Neanderthals. Infographics are eye candy. I love them. Only, I see too many of them, too often.

Apps. There is an almost frightening array of apps. In early March, the Apple app store registered a staggering 25 billion downloads. It hosts well over 10,000 apps. That’s a drop in the ocean compared to the 600,000 or so apps available in the iOS app store. There seriously should be moratorium on them.

Social Networks.  No one should expect extra credit for knowing the names of the social network behemoths—Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Tumblr, and Google+. But, ever tried Proust? Badoo? Cowbird? Jaiku? Orkut? FetLife? Jotting down the names of the entire swarm of all such platforms that are out there, globally, would exceed the length of this feature.

Point is, with these sites, there is a visceral feeling that you’ve encountered them somewhere before, for they betray an uncanny familiarity. Their content is surprisingly similar to the one that came before it; their message as hackneyed as the other; their format as predictable as the next.  Let us not make them anymore.

Yawn.

See larger image Digital Culture: Understanding New Media (Paperback) By (author) Glen Creeber, Royston Martin List Price: $40.00 USD New From: $26.00 In Stock Used from: $18.73 In Stock

Yes, us Brits have always had a reputation for restrained passion – that is the beauty of British classics. The tension between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy is such because they cannot simply blurt out how they feel about one another but instead must discuss the weather, the dances, the families. There is a famous dance, when Mr. D. has finally managed to muster up the courage to ask this headstrong young woman to stand up with him, a woman who frustrates him decidedly as he cannot decide whether he loves or loathes her. During this dance the pair remain largely silent until Elizabeth remarks that they should probably “talk by rule”. Manners and etiquette are a strong theme in almost all of Oscar Wilde’s plays, as he ridicules his society with their rigid principles of behaviour, their hypocrisy, and their misguided notions of right and wrong.

It is this theme that is the most noticeable in E. M. Forster’s 1908 “A Room with a View”, a novel that, if you haven’t read, you must run to the nearest Waterstones (if you are in Britain) or Barnes & Noble (if you are in the US), pick up a copy and start reading immediately. This is no ordinary classic, oh no. Mr. Forster was not one for diddle daddle.

Forster asks us a very pertinent question in this book: Do we listen to our heart?

Before you go throw up in the corner, hear me out.

This isn’t a book about romance, this is a book about passion and our attempts to repress it. Here is a heroine, a young girl named Lucy Honeychurch (a glorious name, no?), who finds herself caught between two men. Very Twilight I admit, but alas there are no vampires or werewolves in this one. One boy, George, is free-spirited, child-like and from, ahem, a lower class (what a hulabaloo!). The other, Cecil, is, quite frankly, a pompous idiot. He waltzes around and bores everyone. Who do you think she is engaged to? You guessed it: Cecil the llama-head. Why? Because that is what she is supposed to do. Lucy is supposed to marry a wealthy man, who is pretentious and knowledgeable about politics and blah blah blah.

What does Forster want her to do? To understand that she is in love with George, the son of a Socialist. But George is someone who has the impropriety to offer her his room, in the hotel where they happen to both be staying in Florence, that has a view in exchange for hers that doesn’t. He doesn’t care about having a view and she wants one. So why can’t she have his room and he’ll just switch to hers? WHAT? IS THIS A JOKE? How rude! My goodness, George, control yourself! Such an offer is greatly looked down upon. Poor old Lucy is shown sympathy by all the other tourists in this hotel. How could a man offer his room with a view to a woman who wants one? Good Lord, what is the world coming to?

No, no, no Lucy, much better to ignore your naïve feelings for this young man and instead get engaged to a respectable fellow who refuses to play tennis in public and would rather sit around and smoke, feeling very smug about being so great. He is much more suitable for a young woman, for let us remember, as Charlotte kindly reminds those of the female sex: ‘It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves’. Here we have the silliest, most infuriating character in the book instructing Lucy on how women should behave and their purpose in life. It is almost as though we could see Forster writing this part of the novel, shaking his head and chuckling to himself at the ridiculousness of it all.

It is certainly ridiculous to us now, but back in the day that was how it was.

Forster, however, lets you in on a secret about our fair heroine. She plays the piano with passion. The dear clergyman, Mr. Beebe, notices it. There she is, wandering about Florence, desperately trying to obey all the rules that are set out for a young lady, saying all the right things about the weather and the beautiful churches, and yet she plays the piano in an “extraordinary” way for a young British woman of the early twentieth century: with passion. Mr. Beebe remarks knowledgeably that if Miss Honeychurch “live as she plays, it will be very exciting”. He is a lot wiser than he looks.

It is through the power of music that Forster conveys his most important message and it is also here that his writing takes on a whole new level of brilliance: “The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected.” Music becomes a safe haven for equality. There are no class barriers when it comes to music.

But, I must not get carried away, for Forster is not completely serious. There is an extremely famous scene that occurs in this book – ladies, prepare yourselves.

George, Freddy (who is Lucy’s brother), and that delightful Mr. Beebe, run around in the woods naked. Yes, you heard me. Absolutely starkers. There they are, stripping off their clothes, splashing each other in the lake and then deciding to play a good game of football – still naked. If you wanted to be all literary about it, you could probably argue that they are freeing themselves of propriety, throwing caution to the wind and proclaiming themselves stripped of social repression.

Or you could just enjoy the idea of three men running all over the place completely naked.

Who should stumble upon them? Poor Lucy of course! Goodness me, what is she to think? Here strolling next to her is her fiancé, a man who only kisses her after asking her permission, and there stepping out of the bush, ‘radiant’ in his birthday suit, is a man with whom she shared a passionate moment in Florence, yelling “Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”

Just like in the Twilight series, you will have to read the book to discover which man the young Lucy decides to stay with. And of course, it is up to you whether you choose to be Team Cecil or Team George.

Either way, A Room with a View is a stunning work of literature, beautifully written, completely addictive and a definite page-turner. Forster leaves us in no doubt of the important things in life, admitting through George’s father, Mr. Emerson, who is probably the most knowledgeable and yet most ignored character in the book, that “though life is very glorious, it is difficult”.  Mr. Emerson sure sees things very clearly.

Forster leaves us with a firm and significant acknowledgement that is as relevant today as it was then, that “we fight for more than Love or Pleasure: there is Truth. Truth counts, Truth does count.” This is an age-old message that is prominent since literature began and can certainly be found in all the greatest works of the most talented and intelligent authors.

Perhaps we might do well to listen to them.

See larger image A Room With a View (Mass Market Paperback) By (author) E. M. Forster List Price: $6.95 USD New From: $2.96 In Stock Used from: $1.44 In Stock Release date September 1, 2009.

I wish my mouth was missing.
Or locked.
Like a gate
to the hell it creates.
Fires
like tidal waves
fly from my tongue.
Burning everything
I hope to touch.
And while the ashes are beautiful,
they dissolve against my skin.
Lingering.
Like another layer
of useless desire.

Finding a folk album that doesn’t indulge in horses or open fields is a feat. But, finding one that touches poignancy and sends you to a reflective place with every listen is also rare. While half heartedly browsing Bandcamp during a dull day at work, Davis Hooker’s Phoning It In caught my attention and has subsequently become a guide for my nocturnal commutes.

Phoning It In was originally recorded in Belfast, Ireland but was recorded again via telephone for the show of the same name on KDVS 90.3 FM. It was recorded on tape and is now offered on a limited edition batch of remastered tape reissues by Portland based Wil-Ru Records. The lo-fi quality definitely adds charm and intimacy with hisses and crackles of earnest warmth, but Hooker’s fingerpicking and poetic lyrics are equally enchanting; they convey depth with simplicity that is grand and sincere.

On the opening song titled “I Don’t Know”, Hooker sings of uncertainty with a bittersweet sense of acceptance and maturity that introduces the autobiographical. “Autobiography” ultimately defines the progression of Hooker’s songs on Phoning It In as themes of memory, childhood, love, growth and loneliness appear and resurface.

On first listen, the song that may leave one awestruck is “Rome”. It begins with an enthusiastic, melancholy chime of chords that settle into soft strumming and rise again in the chorus where Hooker sings: “always bow to Rome/ when in Rome…”. His thoughtful lyrics are expressed in the title’s wordplay, which suggest the word “roam”. Hooker has the ability to dip into sad melodies that fluidly shift to a feeling of resolve.

Comparisons to Bill Callahan can be made when Hooker begins a picking pattern coupled with a serious, baritone voice on “Monsoon”. But, the falsetto in the chorus changes the expectation of solemnity and instills a heightened, soaring vulnerability similar to the sense of resolve on “Rome”.

The fingerpicking that waltzes on “Suffer Boys” where he sings: “Where are those days where we frolic and play?/ We talk about everything/ and then talk some more…”, recalls Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” as well as the nostalgia and innocence in the opening song. The resigned but inviting lines of the chorus: “oh suffer, suffer, come suffer boys…” have a sensitivity that is subtle enough to trick Will Oldham into a tear, maybe two.

Regardless of the similarities, Hooker’s charm isn’t restricted to the likes of talented, jaded men such as Callahan, Cohen and Oldham. The tape ends with “I Don’t Know – Reprise”, which indeed follows the same tune as the opening song, but has been transformed into an astute distillation of vocals without accompanying music. The effect of this is striking as the autobiographical sense of growth and change extends to the listener as well. It gives one the feeling of reading a poem, then reading it again and coming to a different realization. Not only is Hooker’s songwriting clever, it is also intimate and immensely poetic, as he continues to accept uncertainty as he sings hymn-like to himself in the reprise:

“… Let my teeth fall out/ Let my back break down/ Let me always be alone/ Ghost that I am/ With my head in my hands/ Let me never find a home./ Why must I always/ go my own way/ I don’t know/ I shouldn’t have today.”

Phoning It In is consistently dark but comforting, with just enough variation in mood to maintain its intensity. These are the kinds of songs one seeks when in a sleepless, depressed rut at 3 a.m.; Hooker has all the right qualities to make lullabies out of existentialism, sadness and uncertainty.

Hooker has previously worked under the moniker A John Henry Memorial, played upright bass in The Watery Graves of Portland and contributed to Worms and Rob Walmart. His forthcoming joint release LP Davis Hooker II with Marriage Records and Wil-Ru Records will be out in May.