Archive for August, 2010
it starts with a subtle tug. a missing familiarity. solving the equation of what you are; meaningless quotidien happenings that, when put together coherently, are the only identity we really have. morals are negligible. they come and go faster than ailments of the heart. divinity is a fantasy of the omniscience we innately seek. what lasts is a repertoire of actions and aspirations, dynamic and unpredictable. the moment we feel a shift, a glimpse of difference; the tug, is the moment we are unsettled. like intestinal gas to be hidden from acquaintances in a silent room.
i was previously comfortable with a life of hedonism. my thoughts echoed the ‘about me’ section of one too many preteen emo artists’ myspaces. but really. every trashy pop song since the 1960′s has lamented it–living for today. for now. and it has worked fine so far. yet i wonder at times like this; sparking something heavenly and unmentionable on a balcony with a family member of no biological relation. i see true hedonism as impossible. i even question its existence. to discard everything aside from what is in front of you and inside you at any given moment. such as a headache you must pretend to ignore. supposedly we are to tune in and feel it. like dissociative pain management inverted, is it really ideal to immerse ourselves in current misery when it’s so easy to.. detach? i wonder what factors of the now are relevant enough to satisfy this. and how divided attention fits in. sounds, visuals, tastes, feelings. it seems unfair to cherry-pick the stimuli that we find enjoyable and weed out the residue. it seems like cheating. and it changes. thoughts that i used to appraise with satisfaction have lost their appeal. it’s the tug. i am no longer content to let things be. i find myself thinking excessively about worlds that aren’t even present, still waiting for the end result while beginning to fear the journey.
i need to sit down with matthew arnold.
iglesias; that is.
with all due respect good sir; i believe it is high time you retire.
after several weeks of absentmindedly tuning out your most recent; repugnant aural heathen whenever it cursed my range of earshot; i sat down today in a rare moment of compassion and took the time to really listen.
the name of the song is “i like it.” enrique; darling… i really; really don’t. as a matter of fact; i expect some sort of compensation for the emotional trauma resulting from your hideous noise pollution. i will never; ever regain those 3 minutes and 49 seconds of my finite fleeting life.
generic retro-esque synth introduction in a 3-2-4-3 chord progression. standard upbeat 4/4 tempo. a feel good track indeed. one meant to evoke a sense of carelessness and induce a will to party; correct?
now; the tragedy lies not in your song’s failure to arouse my excitement; but in my awareness of the fact that it’s supposed to. a confident; knowing ‘whoop’ at 0:05. token pitbull introduction; foreshadowing his verse that is yet to be heard but will hopefully render you; sir iglesias; slightly more relevant to the pop music world of 2010. i regret to inform you that no; it does not.
i believe what upsets me most about this attack on my hair cells is the voice you are putting on. i have yet to hear it in any other song of yours. it lies in an awkward place between barney and bill lumbergh. silly computerized effects applied to your voice do not mask your age; dear fellow; and your awkward accent does nothing but leave the unfortunate listener direly uncomfortable and confused.
what on earth has happened here? i was a fan; enrique. i went to your concert back in 1999. i slipped off my lavender training bra and threw it towards the stage. such was my passion for you and your music. you have deeply offended me and rotted my very image of you and your bald colleague. you have stolen precious minutes from me. i feel almost… violated
you’ve had some decent tunes in your day; haven’t you? shame on the liars who deny sighing fondly when hero came on during chubby 8th grade dances. on girls who claim they never tried sobbing coquettishly in their mirrors after hearing love to see you cry. shit; on any straight girl or homosexual male who won’t admit to unorthodox fantasies of you and antonio banderas sword-fighting. on horseback. in the sahara. indeed you’ve had your moments; you really have.
so please. take your mole; and go home with whatever dignity you have left.
make a vein bouquet
From when the sleep syrup drains him of perception and desire for apple pie. From anything that will keep his head fixated in one place. From the surprise he so desperately wishes to filter through her tired veins. From his weathered bathroom and the crack in the toilet seat. From the friend that introduced him. From the tragic pictures saved on his desktop; just in case he needs a reminder. Although he never does. From poison visuals he can’t seem to suppress. The ones that wrack his very consciousness with their repulsive impulses in spite of their lack of discretion. From the balcony where he’s pursed his lips and waited. From the initial disinterest. From the ineffective busywork. From nancy drew. From his paralyzing fear of the end entity. From abandoning charity. From the hollow space he has reserved. From waves of sound that trigger his dopamine imbalance. From the termination of the night. From his inability to see.
and is none too pleased about it
in times appreciated and times dreaded; in times of plaintive mediocrity; he visits me. he grabs onto my muscles and crevices and makes me ache. he is the unprecedented and the other half. the dormant infection tamable by diversion while easily roused by locations and moments that he has sullied. a song or the table in that bar. the lights i was caught dimming. blowing smoke out of my kitchen window; tucking away the tremors in my hands and chest. a tiny red light jauntily blinking in the corner of my eye. pointless throw-pillows. keep driving.
despite frequent periods of refractory relief i’m left with a guttural oil spill of vocal vibrations unabashedly and incessantly permeating the walls of my body. a peculiar breed of doppelganger that tempts rather than mimics. watching every internal process cyclically restart; insisting i ruminate and crave. an absolute curse upon my depleted limbic system.
because jeeves has my hair+blood+nails+secrets stitched up inside of him