On the Subway - Brian Reitzell & Roger J. Manning Jr. / Busride Neon

A morning busride in songs

I've been listening to the same playlist of 50 songs on my ipod for nearly two weeks now, which is a record for me, I think. Anyway, I put the playlist on shuffle during my morning ride on the 76; here are the songs that played, along with some thoughts and observations..my morning, etc. No comments towards the end because someone sat next to me and made me uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable anyway, knowing that I was watching my own thoughts..it was like the inquisition or something.

6:41 am
Busride Neon

Reflection of the sunrise on the window beside me, and McDonalds passing by on the other side..

Coffee & TV - Blur
The florescent lights are strange when it's dark out. Sort of artificial. The sun is rising in the outside world, on the other side of the windows, and the thickness of its warm oranges and purples is making the buslight seem thin..airless, even. Like cold turkey. Shaking and withdrawn. But Coffee & TV is playing and it's so upbeat and optimistic..well, for a Graham Coxon tune, it is. This is the song that really calmed me down when I was stuck in Toronto.
Everyone on the bus is sleepy and quiet.

Nevertheless - The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Writing on the bus has always made me feel awkward. It's a shame. This is one of the few songs that I can literally feel swim through my veins.
We just passed Black and Read and I want to buy records and used books.

Girls - Death in Vegas
Oh this is nice, very calming--especially after a soulshaking song like Nevertheless. Well done Cedric (my ipod)!
It's already so much brighter outside. That is really unfortunate.

Far Out - Blur
The beginning of this song sounds like it would be a tune in a weird avant-garde puppet horror-film. Damon Albarn is clearly from Essex (technically he’s from Whitechapel, but whatever).

She's Gone - The BJM
It looks much colder than it actually is outside, and I just realized I should be very tired, but I'm not.
A really good-looking boy just got on the bus. I think he might be going for a Jude Law look.
Olde Town Arvada is boring. When he was 18, Morrissey spent the summer in Arvada; "there is no sex in Colorado" is what he had to say about it.

Anemone - The BJM
It's a real coldwater blue out right now, and I was just thinking about how much better everything would be if we were all under the ocean, in a big submarine.

Trainspotting - Primal Scream
My life begins and ends when the beat starts kicking during this song. It's too much of a flat whitegray outside for such a tuuune.

Kicking Jesus - The BJM
Bye Jude Law.

He Thought of Cars - Blur
There's panic at London Heathrow everybody wants to go up into the blue but there's a ten year queue...he thought of planes and where, where to fly to and who to fly there with...

Spoons - Damon Albarn
Just Like Honey - The Jesus and Mary Chain
Loomer - My Bloody Valentine

..And so goes an hour on the 76.


Damon says, "Here comes that panic attack. My heart stops... and then it starts.
Give me a drink; I'll drink your round. I'll take you round the pole. It's cold up here (I can see the universe waiting by a minibus); you'll catch flu or you'll catch the city. Either way, you'll catch flu...or you'll catch the city."

How Soap feels about revision:

You're clever--everybody's clever nowadays. You're clever. Everybody's clever nowadays. Hear my voice in your head, and think of me kindly.

There is no doubt that writing style is important. ‘It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.’—I don’t remember where that quote is from but it rings so true. Finding or creating your own voice is, I think, the hardest part of writing. It’s all been done before! Well, it seems like it’s all been done before, all been said before and in every way there is to say it.

I struggle with my written-voice a lot. I tend to emulate my favorite authors’ voices, or the voice of whomever I’m reading at the moment. Once and while I’ll think I’ve finally found it..finally found that certain style that is my own, only to read a book a month later written in the same style—and the real kick in the teeth, done far better than how I did it.



I love how before finishing a sentence, I can tell it’s Genet; or, even though his style tends to vary a bit, a few pages in I know it’s Kerouac.

I love how I can recognize Graham Coxon’s guitar playing almost instantly, even though I know nothing about music; or how when I discover a new band, I can usually pick out who influenced them—like when I got into Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and knew without looking it up that they loved the Stone Roses as much as I me.



I wanta be like a Graham Coxon guitar riff.

All art is quite useless / satanic reptiles from outerspace! / 'cos I'm feeling so Bohemian like you

I painted Oscar Wilde! I did it for theatre. I haven’t painted in four years, and goddamn! It felt good! I forgot how relaxing painting can be (except, of course, when you mess up—UGH!). That relaxation was definitely what I needed to clear my head after a super strange couple of weeks topped off by an unbelievably (and quite unnecessary) stressful fall break. He’s not finished yet, but he doesn’t really need to be. Well, Oscar himself is—I don’t paint people because I don’t know how to.. I need to figure out what to do at the bottom, because if I just do it solid green in the bare spots it’ll look like crap. The flowers are from the artwork for Salomé (one of his plays), so I might add more artwork from that or maybe paint it green and then do paisley with pen over it? I’ll be sure to show the finished product, unless it looks like utter crap. Ha.







http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTcF-7opGLU
-hahahaha oh my god. I know I'd call my cult 'the Bohemian Club'. My only reason for sharing this video is so that we can all collectively laugh at 'the Bohemian Club.' Hahahaha--

So what do you do?
Oh yeah I wait tables too.
No I haven't heard your band,
Cause you guys are pretty new.
But if you dig on Vegan food,
Well come over to my work,
I'll have them cook you something that you'll really love,

Cause I like you,
Yeah, I like you,
And I'm feeling so Bohemian like you,
Yeah, I like you,
Yeah, I like you,
And I feel wahoo, wooo

That cult is as fierce Courtney Taylor-Taylor.

Free Masons used to freak me out. Oscar Wilde was a Free Mason; so was Aleister Crowley.

Me White Noise and drugs that I've never done nor seen in person with me own two eyes

A Blog Entry in which your humble narrator responds to whatever she pleases, however she pleases!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/7094764.stm
-Anyone who pays for virtual furniture deserves to have it stolen.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/cbbcnews/hi/newsid_7070000/newsid_7077700/7077795.stm
-This is freaking disgusting. Not the petrified body, but the lack of morals the living have nowadays. It is so..disgusting and inhumane to mettle with someone’s body…to dig one from his grave. I don’t care who it is, or how long ago they were buried. If they dug up John Lennon to be put on display there would be all kinds of nastiness..no support whatsoever. It is so wrong. I’m too lazy to look right now, but from what I remember much was put into mummification and whatnot in Egypt, as I believe it was all a very important part of the soul’s journey to heaven (or whatever have you..or had them..) UGH!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/imagine/episode/damon_and_jamie.shtml
-When I went to Manchester, I had a really good time. Oh! When I went to London last October, I met Jamie Hewlett! There were Gorillaz posters everywhere, by the Thames, and he was at the end of them! I’ll have to post about that sometime.



Quotes from the book I'm reading at the moment, Diary of a Drug Fiend by Aleister Crowley

You bet we sniffed! And then we danced all round the suite for several years--probably as much as eight or nine minutes by the clock--but what's the use of talking about clocks when Einstein has proved that time is only another dimension of space? What's the good of astronomers proving that the earth wiggles round 1000 miles an hour, and wiggles on 1000 miles a minute, if you can't keep going?
It would be absolutely silly to hang about and get left behind, and very likely find ourselves on the moon, and nobody to talk to but Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and that crowd.
-I really love how simple yet flow-y this is, and surreal and funny. And it’s basically my thought process--when I'm tired in an awesome way--taken out of my head and put in a book that was written way before I was born by a super famous guy. Pretty sweet.

Thinking of days makes you think of years, and thinking of years makes you think of death, which is ridiculous.
Lou and I were living minute by minute, second by second. A tick of the clock marked for us an interval of eternity.
We were the heirs of eternal life. We had nothing to do with death. That was a pretty wise bird who said, "To-morrow never comes."
We were out of time and space. We were living according to the instruction of our Saviour: "Take no thought of the marrow."
-No idea why I liked this one. Yes, that was just a little facetious.

I think what I've found most interesting about the book so far is the realization I understand/can follow Crowley's cocaine-prose better than normal writing; it's as if my brain functions as if were always on cocaine. Maybe that's why I can't sleep.





Here, have some poetry courtesy of Phil Daniels:

Oi,
You're a little mug ya little tart,
No education,
Everybody comes in and out the room,
They're out the room, they're in the room, they're out,
That's right, no-one's hurt,
You know they're not comin' in with a pair of maracas are they?
Doin' a fuckin' bit of maraca and stuff,
Like, you know what I mean,
Don't ya, you know, you know well what I mean,
But I ain't moaning about it or complaining about it or anything like that,
'Cos like that's what it is you know, you know and you kick a football,
You kick a football, everybody kicks a football,
I don't wanna rant and rave, yeah alright, at all, fair enough innit,
Fair enough,
And like you're going like "Sorry, sorry mate,"
You know you get down now, and you look at the wall,
And what does the wall say to ya?
I ain't a mirror, fuck off,
That's the way it goes,
It's true though innit?
Think about it,
Don't stall man, I've got houses to build.

"To which I replied, 'I sneeze and hits come out!'"

Crumb Begging lives at 210 Waller Street, in a bedsit not fit for a mouse let alone a human being. He spends his days recording sounds on a modular synthesizer apparatus from Radioshack, and writing the most beautiful poetry, not with words, but with his existence...and with words. He has no job because he needs all the time the universe has to offer to make his music because otherwise his soul, and all other souls in the world, would parish. He lives on the dole and looks it, too, and everyone thinks he must be on the brown or the white because of his dirty fingers. His jacket is torn, his jeans have holes, and his brown leather shoes have flappy soles (which give the comical impression that they are always laughing). Crumb Begging went to an Ivy League school and his brain is bigger than a basketball and filled with much more than air, but he gave up the life of a scholar for one of an artist.

Servo lives in SoHo, a block away from Crumb Begging. He lives with his wife and daughter in a fancy place made of window-walls that face the river and there are chandeliers in every room of their home. He only wears the best suits, and even though his office is only a mile from his home, he takes a cab there everyday. Servo grew up in a poor working class family, and he has worked hard all his days so he could one day provide his family with what he couldn’t have growing up. There is nothing he cherishes more than his daughter, and he holds no accomplishment higher than that of being her hero.

Every morning both Crumb Begging and Servo go into the same coffee shop for their morning brew, and each morning they pass disapproving looks.

Finally, after years, it happens--Crumb Begging bumps into Servo, causing a cascade of coffee.

Servo: You worthless gutter rat! You are a symbol of everything that is wrong with society!! You spilled my coffee!!
Crumb Begging: Easy, it was an accident! And what’s wrong with not working a typical job; with living on the dole if you’re comfortable with it, eh??
Servo: Your hair is what’s wrong with it, I don’t like your hair! You have dirty hair!
Crumb Begging: Well pardon me, I didn’t realize my filth was such a bane on the men and women of this country. It would probably be seen as a great contribution to society if you’d donate some of your trust fund money to the cleansing of my hair. I’m sure you’d be honored by the highest power for buying me shampoo. You’d get a statue, I’m sure!
Servo: I’ve earned everything I own, thanks. Education--have you heard of it? If you had I’m sure you wouldn’t be in such a poor state. Shame, that. We really must take more pity on our under-educated.
Crumb Begging: …apparently so. Perhaps teach them about what it is to love and have a soul, etc.

Meanwhile, Sally Cinnamon sits alone in the corner watching it all unfold, and thinks to herself, “they’re all either insane and dumb on crack or soulless swine in good threads!”

Sleep (is a) pillow Come ___

Sleep. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. I never get much sleep, I haven’t for a long time, that’s just how it is. But it’s been worse for the past three weeks or so. Usually I’ll average about 4-5 hours a night, but it’s been 2-3 and sometimes none at all, and no naps! I used to take naps. Anyway, it’s really doing me in right now, everything everything. My mind. My school work. When I don’t sleep I act irrationally. For example, I had to write an analytical paper for lit, and so I did, and I e-mailed it to myself so I could print it up, but the e-mail didn’t send because I was a dumb zombie when I sent it… So I rewrote as much as I could in the hour I had free before class, handed that in, told my prof. not to take it seriously because it wasn’t the real one and it’s important that he knows that..and a lot of nonsense later, I’m at home reading over the essay one last time before e-mailing it (for full credit!!) when I decide I hate it and delete it. Like that. And rewrite the whole thing in a night and get 10% marked off for it being late. I would have gotten an ‘A’. And now I’m going to rewrite it again, to try to get that ‘A’ back. Repentance.

And today, it was almost like I woke up as I was getting off the bus. I don’t really remember falling asleep last night, it was a light sleep, for maybe an hour, I think. And then I’m at school? That’s when things became fully..when things took their proper shape and began to exist, anyway. I wasn’t asleep on the bus, and I bought my Earl Grey as usual at Lakewood Commons with no troubles..but it’s all a bit hazy. Like in movies..with that ominous, pulsating white-noise in the background, and everything is slightly blue-tinted. But that’s not how it is really, that’s just how I remember it.

I’ve seen a doctor about my sleep issues before, don’t think I’m irresponsible, but I hated what those sleeping pills did. And to be honest, I like getting little sleep because I get more done and because it makes things more interesting. (Oh, and I have tried cutting out the caffeine completely..it does nothing.)

But this. It’s getting to be a bit much. I can’t even write a coherent blog. But could I ever? Yes I could…but could I really? Yes… Tommy Nooka.

And the dreams! I’ve been having these amazing dreams that are subsequently becoming the disappointment of my life. I dream that I’m writing amazing poetry..and I have to sleep for five more minutes so I can finish the poem I’m working on. And there is actually a poem there, I can see it! But it’s hazy, and I can’t remember a word of it when I awaken fully. It’s probably an epic poem sent to me from Rimbaud, one that would have me set for life…my life’s achievement. Or whatever. I don’t really believe that.

And!!! I keep having near anxiety attacks about death. Not that I feel it’s just around the corner or anything like that, but the realization that I’ll die before having a chance to read all the amazing books in the world. What kind of freaking fear is that? And I seriously freak out about it.

I’m being very honest right now. If this non-sleep thing keeps up I’m definitely going to have to see a doctor.

Everything; all of that and this and non-that and this-that, is all okay though, because my life is nearly complete:






Dr. Anton Fjordson says, 'bring me Paul McCartney's head on Heather's peg leg!'

The prices of textbooks make me consider dropping out almost everyday, no joke.

A vision of students today… Rather than helping promote learning and making learning material more accessible, technology is helping students waste time during and after class. It is a tool which is meant to be used to cut down on cost, less textbooks, etc....

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what the direct, singular point of the video was. The bit about how much time kids waste in class on sites almost seemed like a thesis, but there was so much more (and unrelated) information throughout. Maybe the point was that college is handled haphazardly on both sides of the spectrum; how major universities make their students feel minuscule and unimportant (except when it comes to money), and how students don't always realize that even though they are in an unfortunate situation (in my opinion, the cost of education today is absolutely ridiculous), they are also privileged, and that while they're there, they might as well use their time wisely.

I do think that if students were made to feel more important, or at least human, then maybe they'd put more effort into their studies..but. No. That distance between student and educator isn't an issue at Community College, and yet I see the same things go on here.

The video made college seem hopeless and pointless and a waste of time and money, which is something that always lingers in the back of my mind. However, those feelings are strictly towards my own situation. See, I'm a lit major (or going to be when I get to a university..if I don't quit first) but I don't want to be a writer, I don't want to be a teacher..I just don't know. I think that's the problem with a lot of college students actually, they don't know what they want. It's too soon to know what you want out of the rest of you life, but then again, it'll always be too soon. Anyway, I love learning, so that's why I keep on keeping on. I just wish this 'hobby' wouldn't cost my parent's, and eventually me, so much.
…I'm only trying to get a degree so I can get a student visa in England. True story. But if that does happen, it'll be for a master’s program..years and thousands upon thousands of dollars away.

Oh! Oscar Wilde said: "Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught."

And he knew everything. Also, all the information about me is essential in the quest for you to know everything. Ever. Like Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde.

I'm tired.

Darwinian Replicant I Don’t Like the Word Meme‏

I didn't really feel like pasting all of the rules and that, but I did feel like playing along, so here are my answers to the Darwinian game that Amy or Ms. Amy or Ms. Braziller or Ms. Amy Braziller or maybe Professor Amy Braziller posted in her blog:

The Questions and Answers:
• The best subtitled movie in modern pop culture is: Y Tu Mama Tambien (WORD!!) It would have been The Dreamers if Michael Pitt’s lack of talent wasn’t so irritating and distracting.
• The best breakfast food in American cooking is: Toast and orange juice!!!
• The best queer novel in 20th century fiction is: Our Lady of the Flowers by Jean Genet!!
• The best 1960s song in avant-garde rock music is: “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground
• The best British novel in gothic fiction is: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

This I Believe: Life is a Four Letter Word / Joyride Neon

My friend, Brian, is filled to the brim with madness, with a pure and utter love of life and he lets nothing get in the way of his vivid vision of what life should be like, no matter what that vision may be at any given moment. He once moved to Texas to live in the back of a van just because there was an offer and because he could and so he did. Soon after he returned from his van-life, three or so months later, he left for Portland to live on various couches and to build mega-bikes, huge bikes stacked two-high and welded together. Brian is twenty-one years and human flesh of my belief.

I believe life should be beatific madness. I believe life should be spontaneous prose. (spoken quickly after, as if there is no period) Life should be Kerouac’s spontaneous prose; life should be On the Road. (short pause) I believe in wandering around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and going (emphasis on going), leaving no broken hearts*; I believe my life should be lived in between the lines of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl.

Easier said or read than done, however. It is so easy to get caught up in the fear of unknowns. (short pause) What will happen to me if I leave? Where will I end up? What will my family think, and (normal paced until about here, then spoken quickly as if there are no semi-colons) who will take care of my cat; what will I eat; where will I work; where will I live; will I have a home; what will become of my future; what does future even mean; will I die, and by that I mean will I die a horrific, premature death?

(pause a couple of beats)

Would a long life not fully lived be better than a short one of soul and rapture?

(pause a couple of beats)

I have been able to bury my fears long enough to undertake a couple of adventures, the most spontaneous being one to Manchester, England to see a Chinese Opera. Not four days after the mere thought had entered my head I was there; and never before had I felt such gratification, such happiness and delight, and all other emotions on the scale from good to bad. Never had I felt so complete and real and alive.

No, a long, consistent, and tedious life is not for me. But I’m not quite ready to let go of my comforts yet, to take that plunge into madness. Until I am though, I will follow those who already have, like my friend Brian. Until I am ready (beat pause) ‘the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "AWWW!"’**

The maddest person of all time, Neal Cassady, his last words were supposedly, “sixty-four thousand nine-hundred and twenty-eight,” the number of ties he had counted on the railroad line in his mad-life travels. Maybe, (beat pause) if I keep at it, (beat pause) those will be my last words as well, and (beat pause) even if they do come prematurely, they’ll be worth it.

* ‘..who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts..’ from Howl by Allen Ginsberg
** ‘But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after the people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the sky and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “awww!”’ -On the Road, Jack Kerouac

don't try to tell me kate moss ain't pretty

What I saw in the video we watched today was a lot of truths and maybe half-truths, and a line so blurred between the two that I couldn’t tell the difference. The filmmaker did an excellent job of backing up her arguments, but a couple of the make-up ads’ deeper meanings were stretched a bit, I think. There was one about muting or something, and she said the subtext was women shouldn’t speak, but I think what it really meant was that it was light make-up, unnoticeable make-up. I can’t remember now exactly what was said, which is ruining my whole argument. There were many ads, though, she showed convening the same message of silence, and I agreed with her on most of them.

Another thing that really stood out as a possible half-truth was the argument designed after the ad with the blond girl looking down on the black boy. I could definitely see what she was talking about in the photo, don’t get me wrong; the only issue I had with that argument was that she only had that one advert to back it up.

Anyway, the bottom line is women are mistreated in the media; they are objectified and portrayed unrealistically, and it puts pressure on those of us not living in the pages of magazines or the static of TV screens.

Oh! And I thought that the ‘objectification of women in the media leads to violence against women’ argument was really interesting. I don’t solidly agree with it because I haven’t looked into it, but what she said made a lot of sense.

The thing that struck me most was how much I agreed with what she was saying, but how little I cared about it. I wasn’t enraged, and I feel I should have been. It’s like I’ve been beyond desensitized by it—‘it’s normal, it’s no big deal.’

Also, semi-unrelated, runway models are that thin for an actual reason (they’re not selling bodies, they’re showing clothes, and curves would be distracting. They are human hangers. And they make that choice.), so people really need to calm down about that. And why is it okay to tell one they’re too skinny, but it’s not okay to call one fat?

Q. anton, did you sell your soul?

For the 'This I Believe' essay, I did a straight up and down Kerouac Tristessa-style stream of consciousness to get things flowing; so I thought that might be cool to see. The soil or something...before roots there was soil. And MS Paint art, too!!



I BELIEVE IN DIGGING SERVO BEATIFIC BEAUTIES OF INNER TRUST AND B.E.ING
I believe in living fully and freely! I believe in running at it shouting--whether it be an angry bull life death art music life! I believe in Anton Newcombe, Neal Cassady, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac's spontaneous prose in life and love and holy buddha of writing. Brian E. and moving to texas to live in a van. I believe we should not be for sale! The Beatles were for sale. I believe we should find our path and stick to it, not become slaves or drones to society, but the Anton way of sitars being more important than homes or tiny comforts. I don't believe in half-assing life. Life is not an essay. I believe in digging things and digging them fully and to the extent of bursting them and yourself until there is nothing but Jack's kitcat's golden thoughts in Mexico hanging in the air in particles like a dream and like those little tv people in Willy Wonka. I believe in letting yourself go completely, as mad as you like. I believe I need to follow my own advice more closely. I believe we are all genius all the time and that should be golden rule in all rule book of time. I believe in the power of love though I do not believe in love. I believe there is no yin or yang but I might not really believe that I wish I could. I believe we need to be free from ourselves before we can be free from anything else. I believe in closing my eyes and jumping, in doing what you like. In never questioning yourself or anything if that's what you really want. I believe in Joel Gion and servo and free and easy take 2. Dig yourself. Dig words. I believe in experience if you want it. I believe in not believing anything, if that's what you dig. I believe in speeding on the highway of life on reallife streets in a speeding jag bill bones bill bones knows what I mean! (Metaphor right there, for what, I don't know). I believe in chasing dreams. I believe in poetry--in joyride neon I don't care if it's not realistic I like it that way and that's the way it should be always forever and ever. It's all possible if you're willing to let yourself go that far (but you won't, it's a shame). Beatific angelhaired hipsters boxcars boxcars boxcars the madness by itself and flowing flowering stand next to my flower the madness of a speeding green automobile Cassady and daisies flowers flowing like Rimbaud and it was like he was not even there and they did not see him. A season in hell une saison en enfer
connais-je encore la nature? me connais-je?Plus de mots. J'ensevelis les morts dans mon ventre. Cris, tambour, danse, danse, danse, danse! Je ne vois même pas l'heure où, les blancs débarquant, je tomberai au néant.
Faim, soif, cris, danse, danse, danse, danse! DO I KNOW NATURE YET? DO I KNOW MYSELF?--NO MORE WORDS. I WILL BURY THE DEAD IN MY BELLY. YELLS, DRUM, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE! I CAN'T EVEN SEE THE TIME WHEN THE WHITES WILL LAND AND I WILL FALL INTO THE VOID.
HUNGER, THIRST, YELLS, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, DANCE!
the insanity of addiction (not a good thing) of Crowley of blushing and rushing. rushing into the literature of life of living in and through words and nothing else--ever. beat beat like a heart beats it doesn't stop it doesn't think it just is life should be love life should be spontaneous prose a buzz of flies between the pillows and it's written no small surprise you might wanna stick one on his nose around his teeth down this drug hole of him with nowhere else to go

But when you're happy and you're feeling fine then you'll know it's the right time..it's the right time to shake along with me!

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Q9zgT3WzTVA



The advert begins with a young woman holding a classic glass bottle of Coca Cola standing in a dark-green living room. The tone is surreal, and is set by the vibrancy of her red dress and matching red hair, and the blue bird perched on her shoulder. The bird flies out of the window prompting her to follow it which leads to many a good act. Outside, she sees a parched jogger (he’s black, by the way (I’d say Afro-American, but this ad was aired in Australia, and I don’t know the PC term there. Already I’m losing my cool Coke points.)) and gives him her Coke; he then grabs and apple off a tree for a child who then gives the apple to a homeless man who then gives his umbrella to a businesswoman when it begins to rain who then attracts the missing bird with crumbs from her sandwich and finally the bird flies to the red girls shoulder and all is well.

If you drink Coca Cola, you’re stylish, original, socially conscious, culturally conscious, and probably even environmentally conscious. If you drink Coca Cola you are peace and love. Coca Cola is the elixir of peace and love.

It’s almost convincing, really. With all the bright colors and the clear air and the dream-like apple tree. You want that. I want that. The light and frilly advert gets us revved up and ready for a personal revolution, we are going to be helpful to those around us, we are going to hold open doors, and share what we have with those who don’t, and smile all the time. But first we’re going to have a Coke. For energy. And, we are going to look good, too. While doing good deeds.

We will be hip if we do these things. How do we know? The nice original penned-for-Coke song by Jack White tells us so. Jack White is hip. The color red is hip. We want to be hip. But we also want to be helpful..and hip. We want to be helpful if it’s hip.




*** I'm going to finish this as soon as I can figure out either how to write it or how to quit taking it so seriously

Writer-Director of Earthy movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

I don’t really know what to write about for this blog, so I’m just going to do a sort of stream of consciousness ramble type deal. Jazz blogging. My feet are cold right now and it’s probably because it’s freezing outside, but I think that it could actually mean a lot of things. Things I won’t go into because they’re not very interesting. But ambience comes to mind right after that..which is weird. I don’t know how it fits in. Visual ambience, like the way Sofia Coppola films look. Now I have Sometimes by My Bloody Valentine stuck in my head. And it makes me want tea? This is seriously what I think about all day. All the time. My math class started Thursday, and I was so upset about it I couldn’t concentrate at all in Literature (which I have before math), so I spent much of the class time doodling miso soup bowls. Literature is my favorite class because I think it might be my favorite thing ever. That might not be true, but it is true that I think about miso soup a lot at school. Nowhere else though, just at school. I don’t know why. I’d love to be able to bring miso to school, but I’m so paranoid about getting seaweed stuck in my teeth. That’s a fact. There are other facts... Neal Cassady was a fact. He was..matter. “FORK IT!!” I lent my favorite movie out which was a stupid thing to do because right now I’d like to watch it. I’d like to forget about the things that I must get done and just watch that movie. I don’t have that much to get done, but I’d rather forget about it anyhow. Just like I’d like to forget about my cold feet. Now my arms are cold too, and I have no idea what that might mean. But it is rising to my scalp and it feels funny. I think it might sound like I’m on drugs, but I’m not. “Your mom freaked me out..” If I could tour with any band I know who it would be. It probably wouldn’t be fun at all. It would be terrifying, I’m sure. I wish I knew how to play the sitar. I wish I knew someone who owns a sitar..I just want to see one in person. George Harrison is my favorite Beatle. OH! I bought The Magical Mystery Tour dvd this weekend, and it is hands down my number one favorite movie along with like five other movies. “No, don’t knit for me.” I want to paint The Beatles. Are you awake? I’m not. I wish I could sleep.

The Northern Whale: Part Two (the end)

You looked like a Polaroid; you were hazy lights and sharp darks. You were so tall too, I remember thinking I’d only come up to your knees if we were to stand side by side.

The first time you came to my garret

You said: I like your stacks of books.

I wanted to ask if you enjoyed climbing the tree to get inside.

But I said: I hope all the stairs didn’t bother you.

You sat down and picked up a dusty book and I made us some plain black tea. You stayed the night and read out loud until the sun came up; and I climbed down the tree and swam to the shop while you slept.



I didn’t think you’d be there when I got back. You were in the bath singing an old jazz number. I fixed us some tea while I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. You asked if it bothered me to make tea after serving it all day.

I said: no.

It started to rain and the town folk put away their cars and got out their boats.

You said: I’ll go when it stops raining so hard.

It didn’t stop raining for a long time though, and you stayed with me. You sang old songs and read out loud to pass the time, and sometimes you would paint pictures of my stacks of books. We didn’t talk very often but you would always smile at me and I would always make the tea.



I remember your brown eyes would sometimes look black.

You said: I don’t know why no one sees me.

I ran my hands through your brown hair as your head rested on my lap. You were so sad.

I said: they only see you in a dream.

And you went to sleep. I thought maybe you were trying to see yourself.

Sometimes you would kick and scream and curse the rain and me and my tea; and I would leave the garret for the city and float in my umbrella like everyone else on the street. Every time I came back I would find you hiding and crying under the covers.

I said: your whale won’t leave until your tears are done.

But you didn’t understand me and fell asleep. When you awoke, you awoke singing. I liked you best when you sang. You liked me best when I spoke. When I did you’d say I had such a sweet voice, like a tiny chocolate chip.

I said: sing on love your melody.



The rain went away and with it your tears. All the grey turned into yellow and white and you finally went back outside. You left during the afternoon on September 1st while I was away. I didn’t see you leave but I imagined you were carried off by a great big bird, and I idly wondered if your whale would bring you back next summer while I fixed myself a cup of black tea.

England's Dreaming

I often experience a present-nostalgia, so I’m going to describe that a bit; I'll use my trip to London as an example.

Dream London:

It’s beautiful here, and nothing can ever go wrong. There is life everywhere, and the city is pulsating with a million brilliant creative minds flowing at once, all meshing together and forming a flow of something bigger than the Thames. A dream state maybe, a beautiful golden gaze haze. No, not golden..grey, but a grey as good as gold because it is London and in London nothing can ever go wrong. At Kings Cross there are crackheads and whores, but they’re not sad and they’re not really twitching, they’re dancing. They’re not really sad because in London no one is sad. And in London biscuits are better than the finest meal created (this is actually true, I swear, English biscuits are the best thing anywhere and everywhere.). In London ones feet do not get wet, and one does not get cold, one does not get hungry, and one has the entire world..the entirety of everything at his or her feet. When one is in London one is everywhere at once and nowhere at once..because in London everything is perfect, always.

Real London:

It’s probably not beautiful to many people, because London is dirty. London is old and dirty and always wet and covered in moss (I find the moss quite charming, though). And I don’t think you’ll find any more creative minds in London than you will anywhere else. Londoners are mostly moody and glum..probably because of the near constant grey skies and the ridiculous prices of everything. Things aren’t at ones feet when in London, but stuck behind a glass and staring you mockingly in the face. Unless you’re one of the few snotty business peoples or famous everything is just out of your reach. Maybe all you’ll have to look forward to are a freezing bedsit and pot noodles. And if you don’t have the right shoes (which I didn’t) your feet will be constantly wet and cold and blistered.

When I was in London I felt I was walking on clouds, but the truth is I was walking on wet pavement for nearly ten hours a day in ballet flats. When I was walking the streets of London I could have sworn I was hearing music constantly, what it really was, though, was sirens. When I was walking around Topshop I felt as stylish as Kate Moss, but the truth was I looked like a homeless American kid trying to look like Kate Moss in Target clothes…etc.

I think that nostalgic view of London was created by my dreaming of it for so long. I had made a London of my own up and I refused to see anything else. Or it could have been delirium from eating the hostel’s free oatmeal breakfast and almost nothing else for 10 days (so I could have enough money for the tube and Topshop). Anyway, whatever it was, it wasn’t the real London. And the London I remember now is even less real than the London I experienced. The memories of the blistered feet and hunger pangs have nearly faded now, and almost all that’s left it the poetic beauty of the stuffy and dirty underground, moss, and my hostel-friends.

The Northern Whale: Part One

You lived a summer of songs. You arrived at the island at half past four on June 1st; you arrived on the back of a great big whale. I remember it well. You were soaked from head to foot and you stumbled blindly because you could not see through the specks of water that had taken up residence on your glasses. The thick brown frames were charming on your thin long face.

And you said: it’s awfully wet out there.

I watched you settle onto your set and wanted to laugh and say, that’s because it’s the ocean and you were on a whale, not in a submarine. But instead

I said: yeah..tea, coffee…?

You smiled at me like you’d read my eyes, and then turned towards the window. You were so captivated by the world on the other side of the glass that I wondered why you bothered to leave it in the first place, and I wondered why you decided to come into the shop, but most of all I wondered whether it was tea or coffee you wanted. I hoped tea because I preferred it, myself.

You said: Does it rain like this often? It sure is coming down hard..black tea, please, no milk or sugar.

I didn’t move to speak or prepare your tea right away because I was drunk on the impossible future. I didn’t take milk or sugar in my tea, either and the combination of your yellow paisley scarf and tweed suit was making me giddy or dizzy or

I said: hm..oh yes, it rains. Yes..I like your suit, it’s brown like your glasses…but um..lighter.

And I stumbled while fixing your tea and spilled water all over the counter. I felt hurried and stupid. I remember you just smiled, shy, and even blushed a little. You tried to help me clean the mess with your napkin but it was too far from your reach, despite the length of your bony and bonewhite fingers. I could tell by your nails that you played guitar. You asked my name and I lied. I asked yours and

You said: Patrick.

But that summer I would always call you Molly, though neither of us knew why, and you’d always call me by a lie.

Let me ride with you in your BMW, you can sail with me in my Yellow Sub...urbia?

Houses in suburbia are becoming too big, too impractical and too impersonal, and that is the central point of Cathleen McGuigan’s essay, The McMansion Next Door: Why the American House Needs a Makeover.

The purpose of the essay is to discuss the awful state the housing market is in at the moment, and how ‘house’ no longer means ‘home’. It also discribes how housing used to be and why it was better then, and why the size of suburbia today is impractical when compared to the size of families today. It’s also a rally cry, letting people know they’re not alone in being sick and bored of New Suburbia.

Thus, this essay is addressed to people who live in suburbia and are tired of what it has become; or addressed to those who, in some way, have to deal with the suburbs, like city dwellers who have to pass through and are freaked out by it.

When I think of suburbia Edward Sissorhands comes to mind: The solid colored houses with the appropriate contrasting-in-color car in the driveway; all the neighborhood men leaving for work at the same time, as if in a practiced dance, and the bored house wives meeting at the corner to gossip. It is creepy and it has no personality, and McGuigan is right, it’s getting worse. I find myself relived to be living in a suburban area that was built in the seventies, where the houses aren’t over-sized and ‘convent controlled’ has lost its meaning. The area is still monotonous but at least it has a little character, and isn’t nearly as wasteful.



Sort of unrelated: I hate the term McMansion. It’s like the sound of fingernails down a blackboard; it’s not a word, it has no purpose, and it’s not clever. For all of our sakes, say mini-mansion or big house, please.

the tale of the boysaint who had fallen into the gutter but looked up at the stars

I’d like to tell you a story about a faraway boy
With shadowed stainedglass eyes
Who loved everything a little too much
And tried to cure his heavy heart
With things he knew he ought not to do
Like cloud his mind with bluegrey smoke
And fill his veins with fields of red flowers

I’d like to help you hear the hollow sound
His battered, worn-down shoes
On the wet footpaths of the city’s alleyway streets
Added to London’s pulsating, thunderous beat
As he’d feel his way along the brick and grime
To places not above nor under ground
Where he’d do things he’d rather never have done
As a means to do the things he ought not

I’d like to help you better see his tracingpaper skin
That transparently let secrets be shown
His blueveins were like train tracks under harsh florescent tube-lights
And lower, his bones that had met too many bones rattled & shook
Though the borrowed ride was really quite calm

I’d like to help you understand that there was more for that boy to mind
Than the gap between the train and the platform
Like how his stomach would disappear
Or how sometimes he could hardly stand for the sakes
And how cold it got late at night
When stolen leather, threadbare cotton, & ripped jeans were not enough
Because all else there was, was a flee-bitten, bare mattress
In desolate blackness with broken glass & holes in the roof

I’d like to help you feel what he felt
While threading the needle that stitched his fate
Listening to the sound of his mate putting the kettle on for cups of Earl Grey
That they knew would go cold—untouched
When smokehaze began to feign pure steam & the seed had been sewn

Everything was beautiful though could not be seen
Because his stainedglass eyes had rolled back & hid
Guarded behind long & heavily-pieced black lashes
Just like a doll’s when laid on its back

a spy in the house of descriptions

It is chilly out here, but I don’t want you to think that it is at all bothersome, because it’s not. There is a slight sting sent from the cold, laced metal, which I’m sitting on to my senses, but that too is not unwelcome. I can even feel the air in my nose, it prickles a bit because of the cold, but it’s crisp and light, and I like it.

The scents in the air aren’t as pungent as the feeling of the air itself but I can just make out the smell of moisture, damp brick (which really is very different from moisture alone, I promise), and my fading vanilla perfume (just passing through).

A loud resounding and obnoxious voice will boom out at random; but just as soon as it comes, the cooing breeze (a breeze that I cannot feel for the air down here is still as iced water) sweeps it away again. There is the lulling pitter-patter sound of slow-falling water drops; and there are birds chirping politely and the soft sound of their fluttering wings, but my ears hear them in stillness.

I am surrounded on all sides, except for above which opens to the heavy gray sky, by stories-high concrete and brick. I do not feel enclosed. There are windows all around me as well, each exhibiting yellow-warm and cookie-doe-sweet light and smiling faces. The warmness contrasts greatly against the stony, cold, and muted grays and blues of my space, but I don’t feel unprivileged and I don’t regret my place. I do not feel like the orphan looking in with hungry eyes, but more like the traveler just passing through.

I am a lone human in this secluded area, but I’m not alone: the birds are here, and there are plants growing in the cracks between the bricks beneath my feet; and I feel whole and weightless.

The Importance of the Green Tea Soy Latte

The fuzzy warmness going down my throat, the lingering sweet-but-not-too-sweet sweetness on my tongue. Just like that tune my stuffed rabbit used to play to me as I slept, or like staying in bed on a snowy school day. That is a Green Tea Soy Latte.

I didn’t know it until this summer when I was stuck overnight at the Toronto Airport. It shouldn’t have been a big deal as I have spent many a night in airports, but I had just gone through the traumatic experience of leaving the city where I belong, I had to get back to Colorado in time to leave for my cousin’s wedding in Montana, and I was sick like I hadn’t been since childhood. I just wanted to sleep in a bed. And I wanted to stop crying. See, I never cry in private, let alone in public, so I was in a state. So out of my mind was I that I spent the money on a green tea soy latte from Starbucks (if you can imagine the already outrageous Starbucks prices combined with being in an airport).

Everything was magically better.

What I need right now, as I realize for the first time that I can’t write an essay, is a Green Tea Soy Latte. Most of the distress is because of the fact that I cannot do such a simple task: how can I not write an essay? Am I really so daft? But another big monkey on my back is the fact that I, the girl who cannot write a proper essay, graduated from high school. How is that so? What is the point of the education system if it lets things like essay writing go, if it lets people like me slip though the cracks?

Oh I really, really need a green tea soy latte.

1984 is not the year I was boooooorn

A songwriter has a tattoo on his (I think) right wrist: 1974. I have no idea why, but ever since seeing it I've wanted one to match. I really dig him; and if I believed in cosmic things I'd think we came from the same star or something (grain of salt, ladies and gents), but I don't, and I don't adore him enough to want to pay tribute to him on my body. I'm not that crazy. His 1974 is thick and serious, and you know it means business, because it does: that is the year he was born. I'd want mine small and flimsy, in my handwriting, maybe even in white ink. Small and insignificant, because it would be: that date means nothing to me--I wasn't even close to being an idea in my mother's head yet.

Because 1974 means nothing to me, and because I'd feel like a creeper if I did get it, I've been thinking about 1984--the year The Smiths' first LP came out. Again, I'm not so crazy (I might be) that I'd get an actual Smiths tattoo, but it ends in four. I don't know. It's sticking though, and I can't let it go.

In a small way, if I did get that tattoo, it would show a small bit of my identity or personality: I'm a person who tends to act on whims. I try not to question myself and can't always stop myself from doing something once I’ve got the itching in my head. But that’s it, it’d just be a symbol of my carelessness.

I don’t believe tattoos or piercings can solve personal issues, or make a person’s identity, but I do think they can symbolize a part of a person’s identity. Someone might get a tattoo of the Star of David if they’re Jewish, but a person doesn't become Jewish because they got a tattoo of the Star of David, etc etc.

Story of Manchester: chapter one: The tale of the Big Issue Vendor and Shaun Ryder

I went to Manchester this summer and met Shaun Ryder. (If you don’t know who Shaun Ryder is..that kinda sucks. He’s the singer of the Happy Mondays, but knowing that isn’t enough to understand what it all means, if it means anything. Which it really doesn’t.)

Alright, so down Portland Street, my first day in Manchester, with the McDoldalds right across the street and Morrissey’s Central Library to the right and down a block. There’s a Big Issue vendor there because they are everywhere, but this is the first time I notice it’s the Mondays on the cover. I can’t really remember how it all happens, but I am having trouble getting my money out, so we start talking to pass the time. Colorado comes up, and the vendor (Douglas) starts telling me a bunch of stuff about Colorado that I don’t know and some stuff that I do know; and then through this and that and all kinds of things literature comes up and I mention Oscar Wilde. This is the moment I realize that Manchester is better than everything: he starts reciting The Ballad of Reading Gaol to me like a trained actor. It is a great moment, one of those crazy great moments. A homeless man reciting Oscar Wilde on the streets of Manchester!

Anyway, day two: I’m doing this Morrissey tour thing with a Canadian boy from my hostel who doesn’t really know much about Morrissey or The Smiths but knows a lot about environmental issues and Wu Tang Clan. His name is Nathaniel. As we’re going from the library to the Hacienda I hear someone shout, “Neal Cassady!” It’s Douglas, of course! We talk about On the Road and Kerouac and I tell him that the Denver Library had and might still have the scroll, and we freak out about it together. Then I remember that I have my little book of Howl and other poems on me and ask if he’d ever read it; he hasn’t so I give it to him and say he can keep it. He says no dice, come back here before you leave and I’ll give it back. (It sounds dull, but that bit’s important!)

Day three: the Mondays are playing at the Ritz and Douglas is nowhere to be found.

Day four, my last day: I bump into Douglas outside of the McDonalds at the end of Portland. We go in for coffee and he tells me about how he met Bez and got him to sign his last Big Issue and about how he got into the show. We start talking about me again--when I leave and all that, and he gives me the Big Issue as a going away present (and because he didn’t finish Howl and really wants to). And then, out of nowhere and as excited as a child, he tells me to come with him to meet Shaun Ryder. He whips out this huge camera, right, better than the one I have, and tells me about how he’s sort of like a polite paparazzi type thing, but he’s only doing it until he gets a flat and a proper job, then he wants to take only artistic photos or something. It is all really strange. So we go to this hotel and stand outside for a bit, and then wham! Shaun Ryder. He is really nice and very…fragmented, maybe? The drugs took their toll. But he is still very clever. And he has the shiniest and whitest dentures ever. I can’t stop staring at them. Most of the time he and Douglas talk about Manchester in the eighties and the new smoking ban while I just watch. (I don’t feel right bothering celebrities (is Shaun Ryder a celebrity?) when they’re not doing the whole, ‘hey come meet me because I’m famous’ bit.) Then Douglas and I leave.

So it goes, and as it goes, so it went. Shaun Ryder.

We live in an empire of images and there are no protective borders...(random and fragmented responses)

I agree with Susan Bordo's view that we live in an empire of images with no protective borders. Images are constantly thrust in front of our eyes, whether they be advertisements, tv shows, or a random person's personal views. A lot of the time one can pass by an image and not realize they're taking it in, and therefore cannot guard themselves against it. For example, you could be driving down a road and pass numerous billboards advertising Taco Bell, and by the fifth advert you start to crave Taco Bell. Or say you hear the same song numerous times on the radio within a short period of time, chances are you'll have that tune stuck in your head.


An interesting point Bordo brought up in her essay, "The Empire of Images in Our World of Bodies," was the association of certain things to a specific sex. I've often questioned the boys = blue girls = pink debate, but I've never thought about it in terms of Happy Meal toys or boys exclusively liking gritty things and girls exclusively liking shiny things. I've always accepted that girls tend to play with dolls (though I played with both dolls and cars, etc) and boys play with magnifying glasses and ants; and I've never questioned why. I think I've always thought like that because that's what I've always seen, that is what's always being portrayed--little boys have always played with the toy soldiers on tv, and the girls always with their dolls. Or boys will play war and girls will play house.


When trying to think of a community in which images wouldn't penetrate as deeply the Amish community came to mind. But, if you think about it, even they are modeling themselves based off an image (although it's not the same image the majority of America/the western world model themselves after).
Really, even the blind are not protected from the Empire of Images Bordo speaks of. They constantly hear the audio connected to the images and the people around them discussing what the images are of.

The power of images and how they shape and reshape people (without their control or even knowing it) is distressing, but what would society be like without them?

Dear Johnny Marr (whatever, if you know what I mean)

What! Do you not remember 1982-87!? Do you not remember that awkward and quiffed lyrical genius without whom you’d be nothing? Fair enough, your guitar-magic could probably be accredited to 45% of The Smiths success, but the remaining 55% was all Morrissey’s lyrics and vocals (sorry Andy and Mike!). To be honest, I doubt you’d have been signed without Morrissey; and you’ve even said yourself that his words were the reason for The Smiths’ strong following.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Modest Mouse well enough, but:

You are so hot

I would like to steal your digits

And I'm so hung up on it

I would like to

Move away from it

We are so caught up with things

We should pull each other's triggers
(Lounge (Closing Time), Modest Mouse)

Could never hold a candle to:

Fifteen minutes with you
I wouldn’t say no
People see no worth in you
Oh but I do

I dreamt about you last night
And I fell out of bed twice
You can pin and mount me
Like a butterfly
But take me to the haven of your bed
Was something you never said
Two lumps, please
You’re the bee’s knees
But so am I
(Reel Around the Fountain, The Smiths)

You said Isaac’s lyrics were surreal, and that they are, but anyone with enough drugs in their system could come up with (that might not be true..probably isn’t true.):

I just got a message that said

"Yeah, hell has frozen over"

I got a phone call from the Lord

Saying, "Hey, boy, get a sweater right now"

So we're drinking, drinking, drinking, drinking Coca, Coca-Cola

I can feel it rolling right on down

Oh, right on down my throat
(Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes, Modest Mouse)

If food needed pleasing

You'd suck all the seasoning off

Suck it off!

Bang your head like a gong

Because it's filled with all wrong

A ha ha!Clang, clang, clang!

Well, discard whom you please

Like the leaves of a tree A ha ha!A ha ha!
(March into the Sea, Modest Mouse)

I can’t think of one living person who can even come close to touching the beauty and earnestness of Morrissey’s lyrics. Have you seen his following (of course you have!)? I have. And I’ve seen him make a big brute with a Denver Broncos tattoo tear up. I’ve seen grown men and women claw at a steel barricade because of the pure and utter emotional state his voice singing his words (and with such honesty and agony!) put them in.

A tough kid who sometimes swallows nails
Raised on Prisoner’s Aid
He killed a policeman when he was
Thirteen
And somehow that really impressed
Me
It’s written all over my face
(I Want the One I Can’t Have, The Smiths)

The devil will find work for idle hands to do
I stole and I lied, and why? Because you asked me to
But now you make me feel so ashamed
Because I’ve only got two hands
Well, I’m still fond of you
So what difference does it make?
So what difference does it make?
It makes none, but you have gone
And your prejudice won’t keep you warm tonight
(What Difference Does It Make?, The Smiths)

Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It just wasn’t like
The old days anymore
(Still Ill, The Smiths)

I will admit that Isaac Brock is a far better lyricist than I’ll ever be, and Cowboy Dan is an amazing song, but no one on earth can match Morrissey.

(You kicked and cried like a bullied child
A grown man of twenty-five
He said he’d cure your ills
But he didn’t and he never will
So, save your life
Because you’ve only got one

The dream has gone
But the baby is real
Oh you did a good thing
She could have been a poet
Or, she could have been a fool
Oh you did a bad thing
And I’m not happy
And I’m not sad )

That’s all I’m saying. You’ve worked with Morrissey.

But…now that I’ve really thought about it, you probably didn’t even mean it. You were probably just being Northern. And for that I love you. I’d love you even if you did mean it, though. (The sad thing is, is I’m one of the tamer Smiths/Morrissey fans.)



** It might be a good idea to add that I’m not nearly as familiar with Modest Mouse as I am with The Smiths/Morrissey; and that I unfortunately have this very ignorant belief (for lack of a better word at the moment) that most Modest Mouse fans are up-themselves annoying twats and am therefore slightly annoyed by Modest Mouse (and very annoyed by Johnny Marr (Johnny freaking Marr!) now being an official member of the group).

All the people, so many people, and they all go hand-in-hand, hand-in-hand through their...textlife!

Text: anything deliberately fashioned by human beings to convey an idea, a message, or even a feeling.

According to the definition of text above, I am faced and interact with text in all ways, everyday.

- I see and hear thousands of advertisements everyday--in magazines, in newspapers, on the internet, on billboards, on TV, at bus stops, on the bus, on the radio, on flyers, etc; and I react to every single one of them. I'll firstly acknowledge the advert, and sometimes it will do its job and I'll actually spend a moment's thought on the product, but most of the time I'll react with annoyance.

- I read, see, and hear bits and pieces of news everyday, which can affect my mood or influence my decision on what to wear, etc.

- I read for pleasure everyday.

- I see works of art everyday.

- I'm instructed by text everyday, whether it be for school, or how to make a meal, or whether to turn right or left.

- I listen to music daily (without doing so I'd be very unhappy).

- I paint, draw, write, etc. often.

Nearly everything I'm confronted with on a daily basis is text, and I interact with and react to it all in some way or another. Without text I would be a useless blob. I wouldn't think or know how to function properly. Without text my mind would be left...blank.