Almost-kisses are some of the worst things in the world, but generally not a terrible idea in retrospect. Bodies twisted with hands braced against each other and noses touching in their own tiny eskimo kiss so that you can feel the breath pass from her mouth to yours and then you feel that cellular-level inertia telling you that this is supposed to be a kiss but your brain maintains control of your locomotion and a minute later you are just talking again.
I don’t know how much i like my brain. For every almost-kiss i’ve participated in there’s been some pretty shitty consequences to be had in exchange for a kiss, but sometimes it might be worth consequences. However, sometimes almost is enough. And sometimes i might just be an idiot. But, at least i’m an idiot with a brain.
thoughts
Today was the slowest and most intensly boring day of my life and i got nothing done. Nothing. Not a single iota. Blah. I’ve been sitting here for hours doing nothing and wondering about what i could be doing, but that amounted to just doing laundry, and i wasn’t too pleased about that. Of course, i won’t be too pleased if i have to go commando tomorrow for lack of clean underwear, but i’ll burn that bridge while attempting to cross it (and i’m sure that the burning process will involve an automatic hand-dryer on the 2nd floor of the main building the men’s room and a very wet pair of underwear. but, seriously, i have underwear for tomorrow, so don’t worry).
By the way, i’ve whored out all of my musical opinions to other places, but that can’t stop me from telling you that the Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs: Vol. 1 is the most totally confusing, unexpected, and utterly perfect album i own. And, i don’t even really need the whole thing, just 2/3 of it. Even more frighteningly, Rabi and several other credible witnesses claim Vol. 3 is the one that will change my life, and i don’t think i’m ready for any further alterations at this point so i’m sticking with Vol. 1 with some occasional flirtations with Vol. 2 (kisses without any tongue, at the most…).
Incidentally, 69 and the eclecticism therein was one of the main inspirations for 25/24… not that i’m going to be eclectic in any way shape or form, but i’d like to think i’m capable of it. And there might be a surprise or two in there somewhere. But, yes, i just realized i have a whole album of new songs and i’m making an unalbum with them. You’ve heard them all mentioned here at one time or another save for the first and last songs, “Atlas Girl” and “Necessary Evil.” The latter i wrote last week and fell instantly in adoration with, and i debuted it to my happy little mailing list to absolutely zero reaction. Yay for happy little captive mailing lists that don’t talk back unless you tell them they should probably talk back. Meanwhile. “Atlas” was a song i wrote for Gina (and i don’t know if i mean that i wrote it for her to sing or if i wrote it for her, but it’s definitely one or the other) the first week we were living at Drexel and it’s pretty and simple and i haven’t played it for well over a year and a half or even thought of it and when i saw it on Saturday i knew that it was a good thing i had saved it. Simple and pretty wouldn’t have stood up to the Crashing/UMS combo i had going a little later that year, but it fits in nicely right now.
Rambling on into the sunset we go. I wrote a song in my head while walking home today but scrapped it because it was clearly a pop song because i could hear its tinny little drum machine percolating in my head. I have written 125 songs that i am willing to count as songs, and that leaves quite a few tinny misfires. And it’s been four years? I wonder if i’ll even know the (three) chords to Under My Skin in four years? I’m sure i’ll have had a wonderful devestating crush to replace UMS by then, though.
Ha, devestating crushes. Teri off at boot camp where i can only send her flat little packages, Laurel in Belfast where she doesn’t like me any more than when she’s here in Philly, and some other people. Bleh. At least they make me write songs… as if i have these girls walking back and forth in my brain in a terrible parody of Herman’s Head and every so often they dislodge a tiny idea just like when you unwedge the water from your ears after a particularly long swim. Songs have been like that lately… falling out of my mouth as if i had just swallowed them by accident and now i’m coughing them up again. Ahh… songs as hairballs… there’s an image to stick with you.
I obviously need to go to sleep, but first i will listen to the romantic masterpieces known as “Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits” and “Fido, Your Leash is Too Long.” Love songs aren’t so horrible when they’re vaguely bestial, i suppose. And, after all, nibbling on your ears and doing what bunnies do isn’t the most unromantic suggestion in my entire music collection.
Wow, i needs me some sleepies. night.
a-hem
. We’ll now return you to your regularly scheduled angsty silence.
I think it’s a good thing to have so many idols, because i don’t make them unreal. Garrison Starr is still very much a person to me, and not some sort of god. When i met Shirley Manson she talked to me about writing personal songs and i talked about going to college. But, i feel like having so many people i honestly admire as artists and as people somehow is helping me triangulate to who i want to be and why. One of the people who has just as much influence as any rock star he’s ever written about is Glenn McDonald, and Rabi just pointed out a rare look at him outside of the context of his page where he talks about criticism as an art and profession. Also, there’s apparently a MetaFilter thread somehow related to all of this, but i haven’t quite found my way over to MeFi yet today. But, anyway, it’s all worth a read, to be sure.
I don’t really even need to be a rock star, and, you have to understand that a rock star in my book is much nearer to Ani DiFranco or Tori Amos than it is to Aerosmith or even Dave Matthews. Last night i saw Garrison Starr play to less than 200 people, and despite the fact that the majority of the audience seemed to be there more to drink and chatter than to listen to her play she made a point of being worthy of attention. That… standing up there under randomly shifting spotlights sweating to death and pounding away at her guitar… that is something i want to do. Hilary seems to think performance is all about being an applause junky, but you get something better than applause when you perform something the way it was meant to be heard.