Our Third Annual Music Exchange

It's year #3 of one of my favourite traditions: trading music.

My friend Alasdair and I started trading music across the ocean way back in the 'naughts. A few years ago, we opened it up to all of our friends, and for the last two years, close to a dozen of us have traded albums/playlists.

I love this because I love new music, and I love learning about someone through their taste in music, and I just love good music.

So join us!!

Here are the guidelines:

Let me know you want to participate, and I will hook you up with our Dropbox folder.
Select ten-ish songs. (8 min, 12 max) Songs and artists don't have to be "new," but you cannot include more than 2 songs that appear on other albums (incentive to submit early!!), and you cannot include more than one song per artist.
Upload your album to the shared folder on Dropbox by March 15, 2014 (your folder name would be MIX TITLE - NAME).
Download all the other mixes.
Listen to good music!!

And here is the theme:

Making Cloudy Skies Clear Again

Interpret however you wish.

Comments

Simone Weil: On "Forms of the Implicit Love of God"

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Esse - Czeslaw Milosz

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st...

* not with ink

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