f-stop blues
I am staring out an uneven slice of window pane. I walk by this uneven slice of window pane at all times of the day half worrying about whether someone else is looking in. I'm too tired to get up and pull the shade down. I feel like this might be a metaphor for my life. While I can't really see out, I tend to look in. If anyone cared to look in, they'd only catch a glance, an exposure so small they probably couldn't tell my ass from my elbow.
as I go
as I go, I count empty seats on the train.
daylight fades quietly, but the night has plenty to say.
a man with a big red beard sits down next to me.
his shirt is dirty and covered in leaves and
when he sees my guitar, his smile shows a few teeth
he tells me, "I know Aersomith, if I had a car I'd take you with me.
we'd listen to electric guitars with a sky full of stars, under the trees."
his best friend tried to kill him, over a girl, back in the 80's.
they rode together each day, to and from work, in Braintree .
the accident left him with a trick hip and a head injury.
his best friend, unharmed, fled the scene
he told me, "I know Aerosmith, if I had a car I'd take you with me.
we'd listen to electric guitars with a sky full of stars, under the trees."
as I go, I count empty seats on the train.
I'm not sure if it's really as lonely as it seems.
I stare into the eyes of strangers, for something to believe.
when he got off at the next stop, he stole my loneliness from me,
i looked out the window and stole a few of his beliefs.
he told me, "I know Aerosmith, if I had a car I'd take you with me.
we'd listen to electric guitars with a sky full of stars, under the trees.
bands with managers
wow. please have a seat. you are about to experience my first drunk blog. i really never thought blogging would come to this, but hey, when your drunk, it just seems okay. i jsut got home. i spent the night at this amazing bar listening to amazing bluegrass music. I just want to say (and this is really all I want to say) I fucking love music. i love watching live music. (and i want this next part on record) I think music is my equivalent of sex. or at least it is basically sex for me. or at least all i want to do is have sex with musicians? or at least the two (sex and music that is) are intrinsically linked. I refuse to be ashamed of this. Tonight, i am embracing it. So what if I am aspire to be Penny Lane. I love music. I want to have sex. i think that about sums it up.
movie script ending
I still have trouble believing that I live here. I still constantly ask myself, as I did when I visited in April, can you see yourself living here? Strangely, my response is still "no, not really". This is probably because I am living inside a movie. By this I mean, I have completely abandoned reality. It's too hard to decipher these days. For example, today I went to the park. There were hundreds of people there. The way the large buildings tower over the grassy center made me feel like I was an ant in a tiny green house and people were peering through all the windows. I tried to pretend I was in the woods (which is ironic considering I'm not really a fan of the outdoors). I was still, as usual, distracted by all the people. First, I pass four men sitting on the grass meditating. There was a small crowd watching. I felt a chill as I stopped to watch. Their intense relaxation was so cleansing and pure, I felt like I had just taken a shower. The breeze was as soft as the two old men sitting on a bench playing the accordion and bagpipe. The music was amazing. I look to my right and I see this man standing (sideways to me) facing a playground full of laughing, playing children. Something seems strange. This is because he is fixated on the playground, smiling and jacking off (his hand is in his pocket, but the motion is unmistakable). A few more steps and I walk by a man sitting on a bench screaming ( I mean singing) at the top of his lungs to his Van Halen CD. No one notices any of this (or if they do, they remain completely undistributed and unconcerned). This doesn't really happen. These things just don't coexist in the same park on the same Saturday afternoon. I am forced to conclude I am only in a movie.
something with my friday nights
It's not raining, but it might as well be. The sky is sullen, I've spent the day in bed, and reading a book was only partly to blame. (I stopped reading hours ago upon the realization the author used to word "inexplicable" roughly 60 times in the first 100 pages) The word inexplicable is pretentious. I have no explanation for that one, it just is. Overcast days make everything look poverty stricken and moldy. Today was no exception, except, the air was wet and warm and unlike most rainy days here, and so, it reminded me of home. (this inadvertently explains why I took 3 naps today) It's not that I even miss home all that much, it's the idea that my new reality (which I only accept in small temporary doses) is my only reality. And so, reality is unfamiliar and uncomfortable and suspiciously lonely. And this is the reason I am blogging. I wish I had a cooler reason. But now it seems I always have more thoughts in my head than people to tell them too. And this too is unfamiliar. A blank page though, this makes sense. And typed words are so anonymous their entirely personal. And anyway I have this odd feeling that no one really knows me. Especially that no one else sees things like this. And I am strangely preoccupied with the fear that I will step on a pin and it will travel through my veins to my heart and kill me. (my grandma fills my head with such stories) So now that I have stopped sewing, I have to do something with my friday nights.
pink moo moo
I was on my way out of the city today, having ignored the advice of a friend. She told me not to leave here until I am in love with this place. If I do, she says, I'll never want to return. Honestly, I was contempating whether or not I really would return, when a lady got on the subway and stood in front of me. She was wearing (for lack of a better term) a pink moo-moo with large yellow and green flowers. Thin whisps of hair were pulled back away from her face and fastened behind her head with a barrette. She looked to be about 55. As she held on to the railing above me, her face was heavy with concern. A couple of times, her black purse, with a large sticker that said WAR with a red line through it, bumped me. She didn't say a thing. Her feverish face was obviously concerned with thoughts other than her purse smacking me in the arm. It made me smile, and I loved her for the reassurance.
