It turns out that life moves fast, kid. And that you've got to grab some living while you can.
And it sounds like you did, by most accounts. And that you did it mostly by laughing and with a smile. And by being so GD genuinely engaging. And you gained a lot of friends, more than most probably. And understood better than most that the really important things about life are those friends - family and friend.
But some of us weren't always there to enjoy it with you and some of us only remember you as the floppy-haired kid that you grew up and out of but hopefully never stopped being. And that's fine, I guess, but not really, because we missed out on the man that you were becoming. And there were many more things for you to teach us. But none more important than what you did impart - to smile always and to keep important those family and friend.
So rest easy, boy. Rest easy. Because Tuesday's gone.
13 July 2011
07 April 2011
09 March 2011
take a deep breath
And you need some outlet, don’t you? Some place to put that rage and worry and anxiety and those shitty thoughts. Some other place to physically put them out of your mind, if you could. Physically take them from the mind and place them elsewhere. Because if not, they’ll be the ruin of you; they’ll eat you alive and they’ll kill you. I mean, they will actually kill the man that you thought you were, that you have been to this point, and that you anticipate becoming; and will make you somebody / something else. It’ll be a slow transition and one that, ironically, you will recognize and actually appreciate to some extent - like the mild joy and wry smile that comes with the absolute silence and peaceful heightening of senses that come just before a car accident. Because you at that point are not actually anticipating the accident just yet, but you are instead enjoying the earth slowing down for you to observe it...and you just observe...but then it’s over, the car suddenly hits the tree and the embankment and the explosive immediacy of the departure of your soul is just that, immediate. And then there’s no turning back. And you’re different. And things are weird and half dead and awkward, like conversation is just painful and meaningless. And nothing is quite right and getting a grip on things is impossible and you’re an outsider to everything, which Venn diagram-wise is a bit difficult to imagine. And your right eye is not just getting lazy and drooping a bit but it’s actually now producing a pus that you under no circumstances will touch with your fingers for fear of spreading it and so it just sort of drips down over the flap of your turtle eyelids and onto your face onto the top of your cheek and...
...take a deep breath...
...and stop clenching your fists and look at the horizon for a minute and unfocus your eyes and let the twitch in your eyelid pass and get a tissue to wipe up and look at yourself in the mirror and promise to get a haircut before you go into public again and know that nothing is actually as bad as it is inside your shitty head. And if you have all these dreams, just know that they are useless until you try them out and you might find out that it is actually funny to see some of those dreams as realities and, fuck, without them, without those crazy dreams, how are you ever going to sleep at night anyway?
...take a deep breath...
...and stop clenching your fists and look at the horizon for a minute and unfocus your eyes and let the twitch in your eyelid pass and get a tissue to wipe up and look at yourself in the mirror and promise to get a haircut before you go into public again and know that nothing is actually as bad as it is inside your shitty head. And if you have all these dreams, just know that they are useless until you try them out and you might find out that it is actually funny to see some of those dreams as realities and, fuck, without them, without those crazy dreams, how are you ever going to sleep at night anyway?
01 March 2011
Le Open Mic
Do not come in here with any of those soft, singer/songwriter, acoustic guitar, major/minor chord originals. No. If you even step foot in this door here, be a GD musician. Preferably one of the following types: 1. the guy that plays his acoustic with a slide in an open tuning and throats out the White Stripes’ “Death Letter” and then re-tunes to standard by ear; 2. the younger dreadlocked pot-smoker with rasp instead of voice that strums wildly through Bob Marley classics and/or the Sublime catalog week in and week out, 3.the guy that says he plays the “harp” and means harmonica and actually plays the shit out of it, especially when other artists are on stage and he is not but is instead sitting at the bar sucking and blowing away and generally playing along with everything regardless of what it is and says things like, “Oh, hope you don’t mind I play along. I noticed you were in A, so I was doodling in D” and actually helps himself to a spot on stage for the next song; or 4. the guy that whispers his way through Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” and basically astonishes everyone and drops jaws because, “wow, that felt like the first time I‘d ever heard that.”
The Thursday night Open Mic at the Tahitian Moon BBQ in southeastern Massachusetts is “sick.” Just ask Shirley, the hand-shaking, back-slapping den mother who runs the show every week. This Thursday she opens the night with introductions and a basically in-tune version of “Welcome to the Machine” by Pink Floyd during which the sound guy, her husband Ben, has to navigate his way between Shirley (singing and strumming), numerous mic stands, a speaker or two, and a warming beer on the <30 sq.ft. stage to get to the sound board and adjust some volume levels to even out her vocals and guitar. Shirley by the way is either perpetually stoned to the gills or ridden with clinical-level anxiety. The Moon, as the locals refer to it, is not a large room and has the acoustics of a Buick, such that the range of acceptable volume for any given instrument is extremely narrow, like within tenths of decibels, which necessitates Ben’s constant navigation of and excuse-me-just-a-second’s onto the Moon’s small stage for adjustment while the artists play and sing. Artists take turns playing 3 or 4 songs each throughout the night and very often will play together and/or have a second shot on stage. Shirley spends her time off stage clapping just before is generally considered acceptable at the end of every song and glad-handing the waiting artists on the list (a chalkboard at the entrance to the bar) that are anxious because either (i) it is their first time here and they are afraid of negative feedback from those watching, something that is actually unheard of in open mic land (the negative feedback) because it is basically understood as pretty horrendous etiquette to grant anything but effusive praise to every artist after every song (see Shirley’s pattern of timing her applause) or (ii) they came here to get their turn playing some music and they are sick of waiting.
Oh, and it’s open seating with just those long general seating cafeteria tables. So if this is your first time coming in be prepared to sit at the same table and likely right next to a family of BBQ piranha. The BBQ is a 5 out of 10 at best. But the wait staff is perfect. Our kind waiter David was the type of individual that absolutely needed to work at a place like this (much like Shirley when I think about it). David has enviable sideburns, salt and pepper hair that is almost comically thick and that hangs not so much down off the back of his head as out like a piece of awkwardly folded newspaper, and a generally weathered Grateful Dead fan look that makes you wonder how exactly he enjoyed the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. The way his hair and the flat (i.e., as in of the structural integrity of a puddle of water) ball cap that he is constantly pushing down onto his head look you would almost think it was part of a sort of Halloween costume (the hair and hat). But it somehow works perfectly on him and there is really no other way to picture someone with his personality and mannerisms than exactly like this.
Musicians like the ones here tonight show up for these open mics almost religiously on these weekday nights in the suburban parts of all states because, “there is just something about jamming with good people” or “mmm, I don’t know, just for the music and killer atmosphere, you know?” or “just want to try a few new songs out.” And the folks that come to play at the Moon on Thursdays? They are not here for the BBQ or to hear Shirley screech through Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” in an octave until now unknown to man. They are here to play and to hear good music and to, if even for a brief moment once a week, massage those dreams that they have held onto from childhood.
“Play some of that 4 Non Blondes again, like last week, because that was sick,” says Shirley (whose sentences take 1.5 times the normal person’s to be spoken and appear to take maximum effort) to the next guy on the list, and I think she is actually at this point holding her cup at a 45 degree angle, spilling her beer all over herself but is either unaware or indifferent to the fact that she is dousing the crotch of her pants with stale Magic Hat. She then reaches out to touch my arm and I vomit wildly in a bucket of corn cobs.
The Thursday night Open Mic at the Tahitian Moon BBQ in southeastern Massachusetts is “sick.” Just ask Shirley, the hand-shaking, back-slapping den mother who runs the show every week. This Thursday she opens the night with introductions and a basically in-tune version of “Welcome to the Machine” by Pink Floyd during which the sound guy, her husband Ben, has to navigate his way between Shirley (singing and strumming), numerous mic stands, a speaker or two, and a warming beer on the <30 sq.ft. stage to get to the sound board and adjust some volume levels to even out her vocals and guitar. Shirley by the way is either perpetually stoned to the gills or ridden with clinical-level anxiety. The Moon, as the locals refer to it, is not a large room and has the acoustics of a Buick, such that the range of acceptable volume for any given instrument is extremely narrow, like within tenths of decibels, which necessitates Ben’s constant navigation of and excuse-me-just-a-second’s onto the Moon’s small stage for adjustment while the artists play and sing. Artists take turns playing 3 or 4 songs each throughout the night and very often will play together and/or have a second shot on stage. Shirley spends her time off stage clapping just before is generally considered acceptable at the end of every song and glad-handing the waiting artists on the list (a chalkboard at the entrance to the bar) that are anxious because either (i) it is their first time here and they are afraid of negative feedback from those watching, something that is actually unheard of in open mic land (the negative feedback) because it is basically understood as pretty horrendous etiquette to grant anything but effusive praise to every artist after every song (see Shirley’s pattern of timing her applause) or (ii) they came here to get their turn playing some music and they are sick of waiting.
Oh, and it’s open seating with just those long general seating cafeteria tables. So if this is your first time coming in be prepared to sit at the same table and likely right next to a family of BBQ piranha. The BBQ is a 5 out of 10 at best. But the wait staff is perfect. Our kind waiter David was the type of individual that absolutely needed to work at a place like this (much like Shirley when I think about it). David has enviable sideburns, salt and pepper hair that is almost comically thick and that hangs not so much down off the back of his head as out like a piece of awkwardly folded newspaper, and a generally weathered Grateful Dead fan look that makes you wonder how exactly he enjoyed the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. The way his hair and the flat (i.e., as in of the structural integrity of a puddle of water) ball cap that he is constantly pushing down onto his head look you would almost think it was part of a sort of Halloween costume (the hair and hat). But it somehow works perfectly on him and there is really no other way to picture someone with his personality and mannerisms than exactly like this.
Musicians like the ones here tonight show up for these open mics almost religiously on these weekday nights in the suburban parts of all states because, “there is just something about jamming with good people” or “mmm, I don’t know, just for the music and killer atmosphere, you know?” or “just want to try a few new songs out.” And the folks that come to play at the Moon on Thursdays? They are not here for the BBQ or to hear Shirley screech through Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” in an octave until now unknown to man. They are here to play and to hear good music and to, if even for a brief moment once a week, massage those dreams that they have held onto from childhood.
“Play some of that 4 Non Blondes again, like last week, because that was sick,” says Shirley (whose sentences take 1.5 times the normal person’s to be spoken and appear to take maximum effort) to the next guy on the list, and I think she is actually at this point holding her cup at a 45 degree angle, spilling her beer all over herself but is either unaware or indifferent to the fact that she is dousing the crotch of her pants with stale Magic Hat. She then reaches out to touch my arm and I vomit wildly in a bucket of corn cobs.
dog whistle
there was that story of the man that had nothing on his mind. literally zero. his skull was a cavernous tunnel with but a tiny pea in it.
the pea only has a dozen or so neural connections. and so his CNS, having to choose early on which bodily and cranial functions to allow and which to let waste away, chose, among myriad other things, to let the recognition of nonphysical mental sensations fade. emotions per se. and so he needs a mirror up to his eyes to watch the pupils dilate to "feel" that he is in love and he knows that when his palms are moist it means that he is either nervous or that it's summer and if his mirror reveals a reddened face then he acts mad which also sometimes helps out in his embarrassing red-faced situations, the madness, but is also sometimes extremely awkward.
and he cannot make decisions for himself and so he awaits orders in all situations. and has developed, surprisingly, all these keen little ways to get others to give him orders in situations where no one has yet given a direct order. and basically everyone can see that he is doing it, the second degree order seeking, but his pea cannot recognize recognition.
so anyway if he stands in a strong wind that is running from the left side of his body to the right or right side to the left as opposed to in his face or at his back the neighborhood dogs will go totally bat shit, howling mad.
the pea only has a dozen or so neural connections. and so his CNS, having to choose early on which bodily and cranial functions to allow and which to let waste away, chose, among myriad other things, to let the recognition of nonphysical mental sensations fade. emotions per se. and so he needs a mirror up to his eyes to watch the pupils dilate to "feel" that he is in love and he knows that when his palms are moist it means that he is either nervous or that it's summer and if his mirror reveals a reddened face then he acts mad which also sometimes helps out in his embarrassing red-faced situations, the madness, but is also sometimes extremely awkward.
and he cannot make decisions for himself and so he awaits orders in all situations. and has developed, surprisingly, all these keen little ways to get others to give him orders in situations where no one has yet given a direct order. and basically everyone can see that he is doing it, the second degree order seeking, but his pea cannot recognize recognition.
so anyway if he stands in a strong wind that is running from the left side of his body to the right or right side to the left as opposed to in his face or at his back the neighborhood dogs will go totally bat shit, howling mad.
23 February 2011
a different type of perfect
What would you be if you were not what you are now?
Wrap your head tightly in gauze, the gauze around the headphones. On the outside. And put this song on repeat. And enjoy that subtle change in melody or key or theme, that subtle drop from the first line of lyric to the second. Notice that first. Then the rest. Let it fill your potato-sac body. Engorging your brain basically all the way to encephalitis. Want encephalitis, desire it. Forget about that. Don't be an idiot. Focus on the song. Think about how it might actually be changing your life just then for an instant. Just that one instant. Stand upright but stare down at your shoes. Do not get caught listening to this in front of people who respect your current state. People at work, say. Do not listen to this and expect productivity. Appreciate that. Do...not...be an idiot. Consider for a moment the total number of times that you will probably listen to this song. Hundreds? Thousands? Is there any song that you have actually listened to one thousand times? Recall Gagging Order. And know that for this one each and every one of those hundreds will be alone. Alone you will listen to this. By yourself. This is not a song or an album to ever share with anyone else. Nod in acknowledgement when someone says how good they think it is. And let them know that you like it too. But know that it sounds different to them and impacts them differently - even your boys, they feel it differently. A different type of perfect, so to speak.
On Codex.
Wrap your head tightly in gauze, the gauze around the headphones. On the outside. And put this song on repeat. And enjoy that subtle change in melody or key or theme, that subtle drop from the first line of lyric to the second. Notice that first. Then the rest. Let it fill your potato-sac body. Engorging your brain basically all the way to encephalitis. Want encephalitis, desire it. Forget about that. Don't be an idiot. Focus on the song. Think about how it might actually be changing your life just then for an instant. Just that one instant. Stand upright but stare down at your shoes. Do not get caught listening to this in front of people who respect your current state. People at work, say. Do not listen to this and expect productivity. Appreciate that. Do...not...be an idiot. Consider for a moment the total number of times that you will probably listen to this song. Hundreds? Thousands? Is there any song that you have actually listened to one thousand times? Recall Gagging Order. And know that for this one each and every one of those hundreds will be alone. Alone you will listen to this. By yourself. This is not a song or an album to ever share with anyone else. Nod in acknowledgement when someone says how good they think it is. And let them know that you like it too. But know that it sounds different to them and impacts them differently - even your boys, they feel it differently. A different type of perfect, so to speak.
On Codex.
the de
his boy was standing face to face with the father of a girl. but staring past the father's face and actually at the daughter's behind who was some yards behind the father. and instead of nodding politely and in line with the dialogue that was supposedly happening with the father he was nodding satisfactorily with pursed lips and in line with his own vocalizations of "mmm mmm."
the father's face reddened as he looked over his shoulder behind him to see his daughter (or more specifically, his daughter's behind) as the object of the misaligned-with-dialogue-but-satisfactory nodding. and so his boy sort of begins to shift his gaze back to the father's red face and says "hey boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?" and then looking right at the father, "d'you know what I mean?" and flicks the father's ballsac with the back of his hand.
- the dick experiment
the father's face reddened as he looked over his shoulder behind him to see his daughter (or more specifically, his daughter's behind) as the object of the misaligned-with-dialogue-but-satisfactory nodding. and so his boy sort of begins to shift his gaze back to the father's red face and says "hey boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?" and then looking right at the father, "d'you know what I mean?" and flicks the father's ballsac with the back of his hand.
- the dick experiment
12 February 2011
strangers
they sat in silence, the two of them. him and her. and they were doing 'strangers' by the kinks on the record player, loud enough for them to actually be inside davies' vocal.
so they both had this love. and there was enough of this love that they wanted, no needed, to share it. pick it up and put it into something else. like squat the legs, wrap the arms and interlock the fingers on the other side and physically lift the love up and drop it into something else. just so that the something else knew what it was to feel it, the love. but alas, it was not very easy for them to find this something else. in fact, it was proving to be a virtual Jobian obstacle course. like a fucking cancan dancer whose legs have been shattered or something. but at least there were the two of them.
anyway, it was perfect, the song, well at least the refrain...
"strangers on this road we are on. we are not two, we are one..."
and so he got up from the silence and grabbed a shovel. he dug a hole in the garden soil and just climbed in and never came out.
"...and my mind is proud but it aches with rage..."
so they both had this love. and there was enough of this love that they wanted, no needed, to share it. pick it up and put it into something else. like squat the legs, wrap the arms and interlock the fingers on the other side and physically lift the love up and drop it into something else. just so that the something else knew what it was to feel it, the love. but alas, it was not very easy for them to find this something else. in fact, it was proving to be a virtual Jobian obstacle course. like a fucking cancan dancer whose legs have been shattered or something. but at least there were the two of them.
anyway, it was perfect, the song, well at least the refrain...
"strangers on this road we are on. we are not two, we are one..."
and so he got up from the silence and grabbed a shovel. he dug a hole in the garden soil and just climbed in and never came out.
"...and my mind is proud but it aches with rage..."
the dick experiment
oh, oh. and so his boy had come up with this real-life social experiment which is based on the fact that the majority of the american public is scared of nothing more than a good old fashioned confrontation and that when faced with a pending actual confrontation, 90% will go out of their way to exude niceties in hopeful avoidance of the confrontation. and whether he, his boy, heard about it or came up with the idea from the Intro Psych adult-education courses he was taking or whether he was taking the adult-ed courses as a fuel to keep his effed up, as you'll see, mind fresh, is a different story. and so for example, stepping in front of another person in line, is rarely something that is challenged and is usually extremely easy to get away with, so long as one can overcome the initial misgivings about doing so. his boy wanted to take it to "a-whole-nuthah" level and dubbed his social test the dick experiment.
and there are demographic considerations of course: for example, conducting this type of experiment in a locale such as "Southie" is unsafe and will skew results from hypothesis. the american south (nee confederate states) and other pride- or irishman-heavy regions are also poor for observation.
and so back in high school, this same boy in the backyard of a crowded house party screamed to him "Hey, watch this!" just before jumping off the top of an old rotting chevy to dunk a basketball. the hoop came crashing down on top him and amid all the "oh shits" his boy proudly wails, "DID YOU SEE ME SHAQ THAT HOOP?" and went down on one knee, head straight back to pour a can of beer into his asoph. they finished off that night ripping license plates off of police cruisers.
and also this same boy, when they were younger even than high school would hide in trees to beckon down to whomever passed under "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"...in an optimally annoying Yogi Bear voice.
this boy has a look best described as 'howling lab rat' by the way.
anyway, they're at the gym, our hero and his boy. working back to normalcy and adonisesque states of mind. his boy had just spotted him on the military but now is by the cardio machines telling the girl on the elliptical that she is very attractive but that it is a good thing that she is getting some cardio in and that he appreciates her doing that because there are just so many girls that balloon up around her age - he used that term, balloon up - and that she appears to be on the cusp of a very dangerous time in her life, a time when her body could just balloon up at any minute...he can just see it in her facial structure, that she could balloon up, he said...so keep at the cardio, walking away. this was the boy that he used to work out with back in high school and afterwards too; each of them bags of bones, soft skin just sort of laying on top of a skeleton, just four pointy straight arms jutting out of baggy T-shirts walking down the street, each of them with two thumb knuckles for ankles, body and shoulder structures like upright canoes...picture it, body-to-head ratios like someone drew a tether to the moon, standup oscillating fans the two of them. over in the corner his boy is caressing the sweaty forehead of a helpless balding man that is doing chest presses and at the same time pointing to the gentleman's shorts with his other hand, saying "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"
-the dick experiment
and there are demographic considerations of course: for example, conducting this type of experiment in a locale such as "Southie" is unsafe and will skew results from hypothesis. the american south (nee confederate states) and other pride- or irishman-heavy regions are also poor for observation.
and so back in high school, this same boy in the backyard of a crowded house party screamed to him "Hey, watch this!" just before jumping off the top of an old rotting chevy to dunk a basketball. the hoop came crashing down on top him and amid all the "oh shits" his boy proudly wails, "DID YOU SEE ME SHAQ THAT HOOP?" and went down on one knee, head straight back to pour a can of beer into his asoph. they finished off that night ripping license plates off of police cruisers.
and also this same boy, when they were younger even than high school would hide in trees to beckon down to whomever passed under "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"...in an optimally annoying Yogi Bear voice.
this boy has a look best described as 'howling lab rat' by the way.
anyway, they're at the gym, our hero and his boy. working back to normalcy and adonisesque states of mind. his boy had just spotted him on the military but now is by the cardio machines telling the girl on the elliptical that she is very attractive but that it is a good thing that she is getting some cardio in and that he appreciates her doing that because there are just so many girls that balloon up around her age - he used that term, balloon up - and that she appears to be on the cusp of a very dangerous time in her life, a time when her body could just balloon up at any minute...he can just see it in her facial structure, that she could balloon up, he said...so keep at the cardio, walking away. this was the boy that he used to work out with back in high school and afterwards too; each of them bags of bones, soft skin just sort of laying on top of a skeleton, just four pointy straight arms jutting out of baggy T-shirts walking down the street, each of them with two thumb knuckles for ankles, body and shoulder structures like upright canoes...picture it, body-to-head ratios like someone drew a tether to the moon, standup oscillating fans the two of them. over in the corner his boy is caressing the sweaty forehead of a helpless balding man that is doing chest presses and at the same time pointing to the gentleman's shorts with his other hand, saying "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"
-the dick experiment
03 February 2011
hd's and m&c
there was also this time, the adjective string in the prior post reminds me, when he was at college and would receive e-mails that read like this from his younger brother and sister who were still at home, at their parent's house, using their parent's aging computer and sticky keyboard:
hey.how.are.you.doing?nothing.new.around.here.just.eating.hot.dogs.and.mac.and.cheese.
and so on, so-annoyingly-on and not a single space to be seen in the entire correspondence because someone had used the bottom middle of the keyboard, i.e., where the space bar resides, to mix a hawaiian punch and vodka or some shit.
hey.how.are.you.doing?nothing.new.around.here.just.eating.hot.dogs.and.mac.and.cheese.
and so on, so-annoyingly-on and not a single space to be seen in the entire correspondence because someone had used the bottom middle of the keyboard, i.e., where the space bar resides, to mix a hawaiian punch and vodka or some shit.
considerations ad infinitum
It had always been tough for him to do anything without a second and sometimes third guess. Paralysis by analysis - some tool at work used to call it...and in many cases, he blamed this, his higher order thinking - as he called it, for his failings in life. There were times, now, as a married man that he sat in silence with his wife, whom he loved conversing with, because he did not want to say something that could be interpreted as incorrect under any light. Only truths and so on. And so he would sit, not talking, which means not responding to whatever she had said, question or not, and think carefully about the appropriate and most accurate next thing to say (e.g., like a mathematician) and by the time he actually had that next thing in the back of mouth ready to be uttered, it’d be over and just an afterthought and not worth saying at all. His entire life was slowing down, like this, and because of this and he notices it and watches it wash all over him and does nothing, except think about it of course...and the cycle continues because now his thoughts are not just contained within the realm of insecure justification of his next best thing to say but also are, the thoughts, considerations now of the fact that he is actually spending time considering whether he should say certain things in certain ways or not and this is a time consuming mental activity in and of itself. And efficiency is not so much just lost but eviscerated. And so faced with an opportunity to engage in conversation, he instead first, he turns the crank at the front of his brain to get it started but also considers carefully the very fact that he is actually turning the crank at the front of his brain in the first place which leads to a consideration of the question, “why must I turn this crank?” but also whether or not "crank" is the correct term to use in this context and then more broadly whether the analogical connection between automobile and brain is appropriate, etc. All the while his wife has by this time left the room, saying something like “I love talking to myself.”
Some catastrophic-,-oh-god-take-his-clothes-off-and-just-put-him-in-the-shower, retention failure during toilet training, we're sure of that at this point at least.
Some catastrophic-,-oh-god-take-his-clothes-off-and-just-put-him-in-the-shower, retention failure during toilet training, we're sure of that at this point at least.
24 January 2011
lain to waste
It's been a while since i can remember ever feeling this way,
seeing you in front of me delicately dressed by the moon.
I promise that I will try not to get carried away
but i cannot for the life of me think of anything clever to say...
...so, "let's get as naked as the day we came and see if the puzzle fits"
my head's a balloon. palms are sweaty and anxiety fills up the room.
my heart turns to dust, sits atop my other organs which are all gathering rust.
you've lain me to waste.
my muscle's atrophy. tongue is swinging somewhere down around my feet.
can hardly breathe. falling all over my self. just, just give me a seat.
you've lain me to waste
seeing you in front of me delicately dressed by the moon.
I promise that I will try not to get carried away
but i cannot for the life of me think of anything clever to say...
...so, "let's get as naked as the day we came and see if the puzzle fits"
my head's a balloon. palms are sweaty and anxiety fills up the room.
my heart turns to dust, sits atop my other organs which are all gathering rust.
you've lain me to waste.
my muscle's atrophy. tongue is swinging somewhere down around my feet.
can hardly breathe. falling all over my self. just, just give me a seat.
you've lain me to waste
02 January 2011
Cane West
he pulled his headphones on again. he was waiting for a new hero.
"oh my god, oh my fucking god" walking in the door. "i got sick today in public. physically sick. this untamed beast was barking at a friend of his for being ignorant. just repeating 'ignorant la la no no ignorant la la no no...' and sort of blocking his ears like a child that doesn't want to hear his sibling talk. what? oh yeah, it was rich with irony. that was cool, i guess. but seeing the fat-headed beast do this made me realize something terrible and then vomit into the back of my throat a little bit, burning the floor of my nasal passage."
he was doing Kanye West 'Monster' - a total departure of character but if you cannot appreciate the genius behind a lyric like, "have you ever had sex with a pharaoh? put the pussy in a sarcophagus," then...gosh you're fucked.
there was this time a few years ago during a trip to Chicago that his wife and his brother and sister were blasting Kanye's 'Stronger' throughout the loft they were renting for the weekend and all four of them were dancing like total assholes. his wife and sister both dancing like girls that can actually dance but are holding back a bit - dancing like they were trapped in a bubble or something. he doing this stupid bill cosby knee and hand transfer thing that he does. and his bro took the cake - on the second floor balcony doing some crazy thing with his arms moving up and down in front of him like a chomping crocodile while he turtled his head back and forth as he pretended to walk down an imaginary staircase behind the waist high ledge. one of his better memories. to this day it brings tears to each of them the second it's mentioned.
ah - music.
"oh my god, oh my fucking god" walking in the door. "i got sick today in public. physically sick. this untamed beast was barking at a friend of his for being ignorant. just repeating 'ignorant la la no no ignorant la la no no...' and sort of blocking his ears like a child that doesn't want to hear his sibling talk. what? oh yeah, it was rich with irony. that was cool, i guess. but seeing the fat-headed beast do this made me realize something terrible and then vomit into the back of my throat a little bit, burning the floor of my nasal passage."
he was doing Kanye West 'Monster' - a total departure of character but if you cannot appreciate the genius behind a lyric like, "have you ever had sex with a pharaoh? put the pussy in a sarcophagus," then...gosh you're fucked.
there was this time a few years ago during a trip to Chicago that his wife and his brother and sister were blasting Kanye's 'Stronger' throughout the loft they were renting for the weekend and all four of them were dancing like total assholes. his wife and sister both dancing like girls that can actually dance but are holding back a bit - dancing like they were trapped in a bubble or something. he doing this stupid bill cosby knee and hand transfer thing that he does. and his bro took the cake - on the second floor balcony doing some crazy thing with his arms moving up and down in front of him like a chomping crocodile while he turtled his head back and forth as he pretended to walk down an imaginary staircase behind the waist high ledge. one of his better memories. to this day it brings tears to each of them the second it's mentioned.
ah - music.
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