Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Creative

by

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

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75046251/

by

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.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75044182/

by

I just picked up my old guitar, intending to idly strum something while waiting for my laundry to get clean, only to find that both my fretting and picking fingers are completely worn and i can’t seem to … well … do anything that sounds like music.


This is so cool. It’s been four years since my fingers were too pink and bruised to play a song. And, honestly, my voice doesn’t mind it so much either.

I rock. A little. I rock a little!

Rock.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75025114/

by

There is a mutiny building in my fingers; a resistance is gathering between my knuckles and around my wrists. They are not used to this sort of treatment… five hours of playing songs that i don’t have the option to fudge … songs that sound only how they sound. Towards the end my fingers were on automatic, picking out strings without my even having to think of it, but in the middle they were clumsy and tired as the muscles in my arms sighed with exertion.


There was a power to it — to making other people’s songs sound how they were meant, and to making my own songs sound out like i hear them in my own head. Kat sat on the bed mostly non-plussed, pecking away at her laptop, but Laurel seemed to be in a mild form of shock. And i… i wasn’t even in the room. The songs had filled it beyond its capacity to hold me.

Fingers aside, my voice amazed me. After having barely mustered up enough of it to power through my jury last week, imagine my surprise as it rose to the top of the staff and i was still hitting clean notes, open throated and howling. Sometimes a song finds one spectacular note inside of itself that my voice is attracted to like a moth to flame, willing to burn itself around the edges just to hit that one note and hold hold hold hold it over the four chords in the progression.

There is definitely a Trio brewing around here, somewhere.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75024430/

by

I am surprised when i do anything well.

I just got back from my voice jury … my hands did not tremble, i did not quake. I smiled. I sang the easier of my two songs first, letting my voice fall into the slack of the piano accompaniment — getting all of the unsureness out of my system. Better to be unsure on the easy one and powerful on the harder. And, so, without much ado, i was.

I am not perfect — it’s something that i’ve come to terms with over the years. But, sometimes i do things right, and when i do those things i am perfect for one barely measurable moment, and i am living from one of those moments to the next right now.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75010270/