Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

elise

85287995

by

Day 94 was a hard song to write, and it continues to be a hard song to sing. I wrote it as random scribbles on the back of a concert playbill i had in my pocket while i was waiting in a doctor’s office. Random enough? The inspiration was as much anything that song refers to as it was the fact that i was due to have my tonsils removed by said doctor within two weeks; i felt as though i hadn’t made good use of my voice for a while and wanted to work on something new before i has things taken out of my throat by surgical force.

Having written the first draft of the lyrics on it, the playbill then found its way to my floor – where it stayed for two weeks until i read them to Elise one night. I don’t remember the entire chain of events, but a few hours later i came out with the revised and arranged song that kicked off today’s event. It’s still rather young and rough around the edges (and has oh-so-many lyrics to squeeze in), but i definitely like it already.

by

Duct tape the damned thing into the window, that’s what i intended to do. Because i will not be waking up at five thirty in the morning stuck to my own self and coughing, hacking, until finally i crawl out across the hall to the bathroom so as not to wake up Elise. My personal alarm clock seems to be set for five thirty despite the level of humidity present, but i can’t help but think that i’d have a shot at a whole night’s sleep if i didn’t have so much trouble breathing — this morning with hands braced on other side of the sink either trying to keep me standing or trying to aim well in the dark, fiddling with her stupid drain that always falls down when it should be staying up. I wound up downstairs on the new couch doing a crossword as my vision slowly doubled from the percocet until finally each box had halfway overlapped into its neighbor and i knew it was time to sink back into a largely restless slumber.


I’ve never owned my own duct tape before; it makes me feel powerful. The air in here is cool now, and the doors are closed. It’s my own damned clubhouse. Now if only i brought the portable fridge in with me…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/06/85165007/

by

When we finally descended the stairs in search of PB&J and evening activities we had been lounging around since 10am, having only interrupted our reclining to go downstairs to make omelettes for breakfast followed by a short engagement with Classic NES. As we each finished our third half-sandwich our eyes locked across the table, neither of us blinking or moving an inch.


“So, Elise, some more Nintendo?”


“Well, Peter, i might be convinced to thoroughly whup you at Super Mario Bros. 3.”


“If by severely whup you mean ‘attempt to take advantage of a poor only child who never had friends to test his vicious head-to-head Mario Bros. skills against each and every day after school’ but – eventually – ‘fail in the face of he who is brave at heart and fleet of thumb’ … then, yeah, i’m up for a game or two.”

” … Boys are such dorks.”

Suffice to say that what was “a game or two” at 6pm somewhere around 10pm turned into “i’m going to go home for a change of clothes so that i can come back to beat the Piranha Plant World that you claim to hate so much.”

And then, of course, came 1am, when it was something to the effect of “See, if you time your jump to match exactly with the beginning of his parabolic arc you very nearly stand a chance of landing on his back and then boost-jumping onto the musical note box (which, lamentably, possesses no musical qualities whatsoever), which will bring us one level closer to ending the evil reign of the despotic ruler that is Bowser.”

Right. Not to mention 2:15am, which went a little something like “OH MY GOD, HE’S COMING THIS WAY! DEAR SWEET LORD PRESS THE FUCKING JUMP BUTTON OHGODOHGODOHGOD.”

Suffice it to say, i had my ass thoroughly whupped, and i got to beat Mario Bros. 3 level for level without a single warp flute nearly a decade and a half after it’s release. Oh, and, had an amazing day just sitting around in my gym shorts with Elise.

Perfect. Just… perfect.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85118611/

by

I was singing at the time.

I am getting used to her “hold it” as she tightens the focus and adjusts her shutter speed. I am beginning to learn to breathe down through my chest so that its expansion doesn’t ruin my pose. At the time i was just on Walnut street, though, with my extra black dress shirts slung over my shoulder.

So far Elise has mostly taken my picture while i’ve been playing guitar, or reaching for my guitar, or relaxing after having played my guitar. Last night was just me and the shirts, and a single red tie. Somehow the thought of it was a little threatening, as if i’m not worth photographing while i’m not running through my rock-star routine – which comes through alright in photographs even if it doesn’t sound up to par in person.


I needed to feel worthy of her photographs, and so i had my demo playing on my headphones during my walk to her room. I was really listening hard – wrapping my mind not around the lyrics and the guitars that are so familiar to be but around the arrangements that sprung up in the studio… the subtle changes i made to the songs on the fly that created the solid front they produced on the record rather than the random chance that they might turn out well when i play them live. I was wrapping my mind around the concept that i am worth listening to beyond the immediacy of my rhyming and strumming.

Somewhere inside of that thought i began to sing… not singing along with my record, but singing with it; adding harmony where i was too naive to place it when it was recorded, adding subtle changes in lyrics to deepen the songs that weren’t fully realized at the time. Just singing… singing out, singing loud …to songs that no one else on the street knew at all.

I’ve learned to turn off my peripheral vision in moments like that so as to ignore the bemused glances i draw from passers by, but i could hardly ignore the rumpled man on his ten speed bike keeping pace beside me. I am a jaded Philadelphian at best, and a guardedly hostile one at worst, and so when he motioned for me to take off my headphones i was hardly expecting anything other than him asking for directions or money. Possibly both. I slowed down a little, almost maliciously, since he would have an even tougher time maintaining balance on two wheels at such a slow speed. I offered him my attention.

“You should be a singer.”

“I am.”

Headphones back on, speed increased, and by the time he was out of my peripheral vision again i had paused just long enough to realize that i had said what i said not to put him off, but because i meant it. I was listening to honest proof that i am a singer, and was singing along. I am a singer.

Half a block later he waved again for me to take off my headphones. “I didn’t mean to be smart with you or anything, i just think you have a nice voice. You should sing.”

I replied with just as much ease as the first time: “I know. It’s just… that i am. I do. But, thank you.”

I am miles away right now, but she’s got my essence on paper right in front of her face.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85103545/