Queer (garbage), untitled (last post), Anything (little love)
Queer (garbage), untitled (last post), Anything (little love)
Wow, i haven’t done this in a while… i’m still working on these… audio tomorrow, maybe. Oh, and if this makes your screen all screwy, then you are definitely in 800×600 :p
i said you weren't like other girls, maybe meaning that other girls are like you and the learning curve is the one of your hips, eventually i plan to figure it all out how to get past crying over you i'm inconsolably yours, nothing you say will make this better curled up on the floor, i've been crying for hours, i've never been wetter our phrases unveiled are medusa's gaze reversed, we're putty with each other usually what a change it would be to be as hard as stone, our phrases slung ineffectually when i called you house you wre playing our favourite record - repossessing it for yourself i'm inconsolably yours, nothing you say will make this better curled up on the floor, i've been crying for hours, i've never been wetter uncontrollably spinning - out of control, emotions are on the loom i'm spun out over y o u maybe i'm better off alone, with only myself to hurt and to make cry maybe we could wait till we're older, i'm jaded, you're colder to give this another try maybe we wouldn't feel anything then but until it happens, can i come over to share your bed? i'm inconsolably yours, lyring next to you won't heal the wounds left by inexplicable anger, yours and mine, will this be over soon? i ran out of tissues, can i use your shoulder? i miss you, i love you i love you
They seem to be insisting that it’s beautiful outside; everyone is, that is. I can tell from here, i suppose, by the way the air in the house is still and that i am walking around in bare feet.
Caring this much about what someone else thinks of me is frightening. I’m not sure how else i feel about it.
I should open the window.
I was walking down Chestnut street yesterday while playing guitar, which was somewhat unusual — seeing as it was cold enough that i couldn’t feel quite where my fingers were on the fret-board and because Chestnut is a rather urban pedestrian thoroughfare. I couldn’t quite tell you why it seemed like such a good idea at the time, but somehow i just knew it needed to be done. So, off i went down the street, retuning and changing picks inbetween songs without breaking my stride. Well, at least, not until i broke a string, which waylaid me dead in the middle of a block with my schoolbag and guitar case scattered around me as i went about changing my D string with a grim sense of determination.
Each person that passed by my motley pile of possessions and rapidly uncoiling packet of fresh strings felt like a missed opportunity, and i miswound the string twice in my hurry to get up and running. When i finally got back to my feet to begin tuning i found a man almost on top of me – mid-thirties, denim jacket, not much taller than me. He asked me what sort of guitar i had and i immediately switching into the “shoot-the-shit” mode you need to assume while speaking to randomly chatty guitarists; they don’t usually tend to be the most informed persons in the world, which seems to fuel their need to randomly ask you what sort of guitar you’re playing when the company insignia is obviously displayed in gold lettering on the headstock. But, anyhow, against my normal codes of operation, i engaged him in conversation as i continued tuning up.
By some flaw of fate and luck, he was the opportunity i wasn’t meant to miss. As our conversation continued, it turned out that he wasn’t just shooting the shit — in fact, he was a local singer-songwriter who plays open mics in the area and even has a Saturday show lined up at the Tin Angel! He gave me his email address and a flier for his show, and told me to get in touch with him about playing an open mic sometime.
Herein lies the dilemma… i’ve got the email all written, its window hidden behind this one while i type. I took care in arranging it with the right balance of nonchalance and enthusiasm, ellipses and exclamation points. The problem that has arisen is simply this: what sort of music do i compare myself to? Our conversation already established his ignorance of Ani DiFranco (and probably, by extension, Peter Mulvey) as well as our collective distaste for Dave Matthews and Creed along with their hapless legion of fans. So, i’m stuck trying to condense my four-odd years of songwriting and over ten dozen songs into a witty little mad-lib of a sentence, like “Like a mixture of ___ _____ and ______with the pop sensibility of ______ ___ and the instincts of a pre-fame ______.” Or, something like that…
Any thoughts? I really need some help on this one.
Some more links.
First, and for-sure-foremost, i wish Henry a very happy birthday! I swear, if i could sign up somewhere to eventually have a kid that precocious i’d totally get on the list right now :p
Meanwhile, the ever-educational JillMatrix provides some enlightening links on the topic of Internet Radio and Conglomerate Takeover. Though i generally tend to side with record companies when it comes to what they don’t consider fair use, i do object to the neutering of my home computer and my electronic media. Sadly, these two positions tend to conflict with each other … while i feel that the record companies have the right to object to illegal distribution of their artists’ songs, i don’t feel that rendering a compact disc unplayable by a computer or making software i use to record and upload my own songs illegal is any kind of answer. I enjoy listening to cds on my computer, i make music rather than stealing it, and i probably spent 1000% of the typical American’s yearly expenditure on albums and concerts last year. I’d appreciate it if i receive some respect with the next cd i buy instead of a stupid anti-theft thing stuck to the inside of the cd tray. Thank you.
On a related topic, Rolling Stone‘s new darling the Recording Artists Coalition has a website up to help you understand just what they’re complaining about. Headed by such industry luminaries as the venerable Don Henley and the Grammy-magnet Sheryl Crow, the RAC is looking to win recording artists more rights when it comes to being employees and when it comes to their own songs. One major point of contention is that a typical recording contracts signs an artist not for a number of years, but for a number of albums. This means an artist can wind up stuck with a record company for their entire recording career, whether or not they have the best interests of the artist in mind. Examples include Aimee Mann, whose label left her hanging when it came to her last album Bachelor No.2; after having a smash critical hit with her songs on the Magnolia soundtrack, Mann bought the album back from her company and released it independently. Even on her own she’s still having to battle labels both big and small, as this letter shows. But, back to the RAC, i find it rather amusing that they needed to run four fundraiser concerts and get biweekly coverage in RS while Courtney Love is slowly achieving what they’ve set out to do on her own.
On a slightly less musical note, ClosetBoy had a bad sitcom moment where he felt like Vonda Shepard was going to loom up behind him with her piano and start crooning. I find this amusing because today i was following Izabelle and Amy around while playing guitar and they turned around to remark “I feel like i just walked out of a break-up scene on Dawson’s Creek or something, and you’re the sad breakup music just following me out.” A year ago i would’ve cringed but, aside from the current Dawson’s renaissance, Peter Mulvey (my personal idol) was played on Felicity a year or two ago. So, who am i to scoff at the WB?
On the subject of getting effed over by corporations, the usually user-friendly DreamHost seems to be pulling a con-job on good-ol’ KevRock. Definitely a bit underhanded, in my opinion. And, in other SurvivorBlog Alumni news, why the hell isn’t Josi on my sidebar anymore? I surely don’t have a clue.
Finally, i am officially addicted to Cafe Latte Jelly Belly jelly beans. Can you argue with a jelly bean that actually has caffeine in it? Nope, didn’t think so.
While cruising around on Meg’s Not So Soft tonight my attention was drawn to a story concerning college apartments and seating rules. Having recently had a number of guests in my house that easily outstrips the available number of seats in both the parlor and kitchen, i am well aware of our accepted seating policy: we function on the “fives” rule, where seats are up for grabs unless the person vacating calls fives, which will reserve the seat for a span no longer than five minutes. This doesn’t always leave everyone happy with the seating situation, but not too many people complain.
Meg’s college apartment apparently only featured two pieces of furniture suitable for planting one’s bottom on, and so it was strictly every man and woman for themselves. It is here that her story begins…
I can’t really say anything else without ruining the story … just trust me on this one. As if Meg isn’t funny enough without surefire oddball material to work with.
At some point during which i was surely raving about my website and how much fun i have writing for it and meeting people through it, Elise decided to set up house on BlogSpot, though she didn’t tell me about it until i mentioned something to the effect of that she could only get sexier if she — in addition to being incredibly intelligent, acting as an op on a MUDD via telnet, and playing a bit of guitar — had a blog. Of course she did, because her sexiness rates off the scale, and she’s actually had some really sparkling moments of blogging in the month she’s been writing so far. Funny anecdotal entries from math class, reminiscences reminiscent of the stylings of Martha & Rabi, and entirely flattering opposite-view accounts of things i’ve mentioned us doing here.
Without much discussion we decided that my linking to her, via sidebar or upon any mention of her name, would result in too much strangeness to be worthwhile. As such, our two respective blogs exist in entirely separate universes… while hers is anonymous in name and design, mine is here for all to see along with over a year of context, songs, and occasional photographs. Somewhere in that distinction, i have found that i rely on her accounts of our collective life to remind me of what has gone by rather than my own. My reluctance to air actual personal details aside, i am simply uncomfortable with making more than an obscure mention of a day spent in New Hope, marathon sessions of Secret of Mana, and her having fallen asleep in my bed.
I can peg this reluctance for you exactly; it’s a fear of us winding up anything like Selina and i did last year. Rereading entries from the two months we were dating reveals a sickening half-and-half mixture of short-sighted starry-eyed rambling and oddly prescient airings of my complaints. As the relationship lurched towards its final implosion what i said on the page turned my actual words and emotions into something akin to a third wheel — i was trapped between half-fictionalizing what was happening only to be held to the letter of what i said, or relating it in actuality only to be skewered for saying what i felt.
Of course, i can’t honestly compare a healthy and happy relationship to whatever it was Selina and i were drifting through last winter, but with that as my only other experience i’m sometimes left unable to do anything but that. If i had three or five or ten girlfriends’ reactions to my page to go on, i would be less hesitant to chronicle more of my current daily life here. But, i only have one perspective, and a skewed one at that, which means i’m left reading sparkling details of what i’ve been doing with my life over on BlogSpot and i can’t even give you a link to them so you know where i’m coming from.
Watching favourites Shaun and Alison battle with personal disclosures lately has inspired little faith on my part, but the different enthralling ways that they describe those experiences have lead me to realize that if i don’t talk about them at all i’m not only cheating myself, but i’m not being interesting at all.
Speaking of not being interesting at all, i can’t believe you just read all of that :p . Or, am i all wrong; is it not the obscured mentions or the explicit ones that interest you, but instead my inner-turmoil on the matter? I suppose i’m just stuck on how to best portray this particular crushing aspect of my life to you. Dare i ask… any thoughts?
The lack of motivation i’m exhibiting today is truly astonishing. First off, i definitely lacked any drive to get out of my bed … my eventual departure from its warmth and comfort was a combination of having to use the bathroom and falling off the side of my bed. These events had no correlation to any amount of ringing and/or screaming provided by my alarm every forty-seven minutes, which meant it was already past the time i said i would show up in work to hang out (and maybe actually work). In Peter-logic, being late to something is typically an excuse to blow it off altogether, and three hours later i found myself planted in front of my computer on the twenty-seventh page of Wonder Woman images from across the web in a highly whimsical and misguided campaign to redesign the site using Golden Era Wonder Woman art. Having failing in that endeavor of misguided ambition, i decided to cruise aimlessly on Amazon, which for me has become nearly a Olympic event. From stationary i already own to a video game i have absolutely no reason to buy to reading negative reviews of a book i already definitely like based on the four or five times i’ve read it. Somewhere in there i ate a cold piece of pizza and wrote a check for our electric bill
Yes, it’s non-stop excitement here. A virtual house of fun. Excuse me while i organize my guitar picks into ROY G BIV order with subdivisions for gauge and manufacturer…