Caveat emptor, a bit of a throwaway here (aren't they all?).
Tuesday could only be described as a
big streaming pile of excrement. I walked through the dismal halls
of my day not entirely feeling like myself. Apathy and forced
compromise threatened to overtake me at any moment. I desired an
escape from everything and experienced moments of sheer panic where I was
reminded once more of the vast pointlessness in nearly all aspects of
life. I’m still unable to play the game. If I can only keep focus on the magenta and
black, mixing and swirling before my eyes, maybe that will be enough to get me
through at least one more week.
Near the end of the day I shuffled
my way to one of my favorite conglomerates where I purchased the new Bruce
Springsteen album, High Hopes. Dare I say it? I
myself had pretty high hopes for this release. I am still a
relatively new fan of the boss and as such have not fully absorbed the entirety
of the man’s discography. However the releases of his which do
occupy my impressively eclectic music collection receive regular and
affectionate rotation. High Hopes is another reliable
slab of sweaty, blue-collar rock and was just the tonic I needed to cure me of
the day’s disease. I won’t go into a full-fledged review of the
album here but perhaps someday in the future…some place where a warm hand waits
for mine. The title track, Harry’s
Place, Like Fire Would, and Frankie Fell in Love are immediate standouts. The latter two in particular sooth my
tortured soul.
I remember seeing the Mars Volta
live years ago and being mostly bored out my skull (which provides ample
support for my fat ugly face). This revelation will no doubt cause
all kinds of insane and hip musical fans to come out of the woodwork and
savagely beat me to death with pipe wrenches and tire irons but I am okay with
that. I could and can handle uninteresting music. However,
what really grinded my gears about their performance was how sense shatteringly
loud it was. Loud enough to cause one’s ears to bleed and one’s
brain to liquefy and ooze out their nostrils. I am not sure when
artists decided the best way to ensure sound quality and a great concert
experience was to turn the volume on everything up as much as possible but this
was a grave turn in the live music world.
I was at the table with a few other
contemporaries and people were talking and some were asking me questions and I
had responses for everything but I was blinking back hot tears and fighting the
urge to drive a BIC (nothing writes like a BIC) pen into my upper thigh and
twist so the wound won’t close and then watch as the life drains out of me in
staining red spurts. How could all this meaningless information be
so important to so many people? I realized recently if I were a
smoker I would smoke Kools or Camels because I have always been an animal
lover. Sometimes I think about taking up smoking just so I can have
more things to carry around in my pockets. I love utilizing my
pockets. Back in the nostalgic days of yore I had a beloved friend
who nicknamed me “Pockets” and we frolicked endlessly around town, running from
stray dogs, jumping fences, listening to classic albums, discussing cinema and
art and dreaming about the future. This friend would eventually
become a bitter enemy and our hatred for one another would nearly consume us
like raging forest fire. But the memories before that happened are
still pleasing to recall.
I went home and cried and watched The American Friend 17 times in a row
and then Repulsion 19 times in a
row. I also put on the album Una
Pequena Parte Del Mundo by Amaral and listened to the song Cabecita Loca 114 times in a row while
curled up in the fetal position and grinding my teeth through a banality
induced migraine. I often cry at the sheer waste of life I see in
every corner of every room of every place I enter. Yet there are
strange and wonderful colors in her eyes which I have still been unable to
identify and this is what is keeping me alive for the time.
I am down in a deep, dark place and
I have no idea how to climb out. Often, I only feel good in the
middle of the night when I am lying on the floor or bed or sofa and I start to
detach from everything. In wonderful darkness I can forget about my
innumerable failures as a human being. I am never happier than when
asleep.
“The government gives people drugs
then makes big money then has to fix their own earth created people”. Someone
told this to me very recently. I had no facts on my side with which
to argue these points so I accepted it as the truth. I have been
seeing strange and horrifying things out of the corner of my eye these past few
weeks. I wonder if they are from another dimension. I
wonder where they are going to take me. Please God I am so scared
please don’t let them take me please fuck I’ll do anything I’ll fucking do
anything just please don’t let them take me away oh God please I don’t want to
go with them please (please)
Lucinda Williams self-titled
(eponymous for all you highbrow folk) 1988 album was re-released on Tuesday and
included remastered sound, incisive liner notes and an extra live disc. Knowing
nothing about this artist I decided to purchase it along with Springsteen’s new
disc. I am very happy I took this bold chance. The album
is yielding intense and unexpected pleasures. Her voice is rich and
her lyrics often excellent. “Changed The
Locks” is a fantastic song and momentarily makes me forget what an ugly,
disgusting failure of a man I am. I look forward to further exploring
this artist and album. I loathe myself
so much. Art is my only waking escape, the only thing that’s worth a
damn. And Nigella Lawson.
The other day I took my invisible
dog (you can see a picture of him below) for a four mile walk and on the way back I thought about making a lightly
seasoned slow roasted pork for a mid-afternoon snack. However, my
plans were swiftly curtailed due to the recipe calling for the juice of nine
freshly squeezed lemons which I did not possess. I sat in darkness
for quite some time afterward, pondering the strange occurrences which led to
my own bizarre and tortured existence.
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