1. What a disappointment it is to be one of the many...?
A. In love with the spectacle
B. At a loss for words on her birthday
C. Pretending not to care
D. Paying attention to the attractively dull
2. What a mess it is to be one of the few...?
A. Who knows and yet chooses not to believe the truth
B. Who is understanding enough to benefit from the doubt
C. Who decides to leave the scene early, so as to avoid latter day collapses of good judgement
D. Who falls hard for the one person that everybody else is obviously in love with
3. What a shame it is to be at the beginning...?
A. Of the ride and already nauseous
B. Stages of an expected heartbreak
C. Of a future headache, hangover, and disconnected phone call
D. Of another cold seasonal trend
4. What a time it is to be overly influenced...?
A. And electrically charged when she walks into the room
B. By the friends we both couldn't help but make part of our daily routines
C. Considering corporate ideals and underground souvenirs
D. Depending on what drugs are available
5. What a mind it is to be constantly thinking...?
A. About what is still left unsaid
B. Of what little there is left to say
C. That the words will make any kind of difference
D. When to remain quietly somber in the middle of a riot
6. What a heart it is to be forcibly beating...?
A. Itself up over a failure to act accordingly
B. All by its lonesome, in a room full of programmed alarms
C. Blood through thin and uninspired veins and vessels
D. In time with corruptible minds
7. What a chance it is to be falling...?
A. From grace with a grinning face
B. In love on the run
C. Like leaves underneath the trees
D. Apart from the start of the show
8. What a line it is to be walking...?
A. Away from the scene moments before an explosion
B. Dignified, by the act of fucking somebody over
C. Toward the smoke and crowded bedrooms
D. Humbled, by the time they all realize how late it really is
9. What a sign it is to be at the end...?
A. Accomplished, tired and surrounded by all those who spoke highly of your presence
B. Of your next enlarged leap towards indifference
C. And at the beginning, and behind on the act of catching up
D. With no one at your side
10. What a task it is to be the person saying...?
A. This matters regardless of what everyone's been saying
B. I'm sorry, I didn't bother to notice this, but now I can see that it's something
C. This is healthy, destructive and makes me stay awake later than usual, thinking...
D. I'm so disappointed to be one of these many, asking myself...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Almost Gone
They were all friends. Some were in love. Some were confused, out of sorts, lonely, conceited, spiteful, drunk, stoned, delusional, dumbfounded, distant, warm and scratchy, cold and fuzzy. Some weren't talking, while other couldn't help but get offended by the inclination of shutting the fuck up for once. Just to fully listen for a moment, to the sound of the words as they repeated softly in everyone's blue head.
"This is the end of this for now and possibly forever..."
And from here the ad space varied depending on the person and what they were still content with holding onto.
Those who had beds upstairs or close by thought "But at least I can pass out and forget about this mess tomorrow morning."
Those who had already slowly re-guided the tape across the top of multiple cardboard boxes thought "But at least I don't have to come back for any special guest appearances."
And finally those who had since moved on and yet returned for one last hurrah thought "But at least there's some piece of me that will still be here, some minor nick in the plaster, some shattered ego staining the carpet, some final stomp/clamp combination."
This last group co-founded the last gasp of 111 Freeman Avenue in the best way they knew how, considering all past and future limitations; their watermarked degrees and letters of recommendation sitting tiredly in top desk drawers. It began with a shattered bottle of red win in the basement; the sound only slightly eclipsing the distorted rumble of punk rock. Then came the moshing, those in sandals and open-toed shoes cutting themselves on crimson glass. Fists and shoulders, knees and knuckles became like thorns on roses as soon the lowered ceiling was slowly but surely getting punched up, up and away at from underneath. Dirt, sweat and sentimental indifference flew around the space as bass lines thumped the circling hearts of the connected few and filtered many.
Fluids and temporary illnesses were exchanged. Hairs were tugged or annoyingly spit out. Smoke assumed the role of mediator; water drunkenly left aloof in coffee mugs, half-full. Smudges formed on bruises. Lights flickered on counter tops. Alarms were re-set, appliances unplugged. Saliva soothed wounded perceptions of the incoming warm months. All silences eventually took comfort in the scratchy remains of an inexperienced era that was finally realizing just how quickly time could pass itself by.
And then there was Jim, who had missed out on the communal destruction, choosing to get high on the roof and watch the sky. There was Jim who had previously fallen hard for Amelia before his psychedelic phase, followed by a much better understanding of how the world never stopped speaking just to hear its own melodic voice. There was Jim who couldn't turn down the final invitation before a much needed retreat, later re-dubbed an escape, away from those he knew too well and yet still managed to somehow surprise him.
There was Jim, who fell asleep next to somebody, who could have very well changed the course of things to come in his life. There was Jim who thought, "This is the end of this for now and possibly forever, but at least the sound of her breathing is enough to help me forget about tomorrow." There was Jim who already had the majority of his bags packed.
And finally there was Jim who woke up alone, after dreaming about millions of things to say to her, and yet unfortunately was at a complete and total loss for words at the sight of her sweaty and claustrophobic imprint on the sheets. His original promise had expired along with those of all his tunneling friends.
"I will continue to spin somewhere within this crush I have on you until it becomes unhealthy for the both of us."
There was Jim forgetting to wave goodbye.
"This is the end of this for now and possibly forever..."
And from here the ad space varied depending on the person and what they were still content with holding onto.
Those who had beds upstairs or close by thought "But at least I can pass out and forget about this mess tomorrow morning."
Those who had already slowly re-guided the tape across the top of multiple cardboard boxes thought "But at least I don't have to come back for any special guest appearances."
And finally those who had since moved on and yet returned for one last hurrah thought "But at least there's some piece of me that will still be here, some minor nick in the plaster, some shattered ego staining the carpet, some final stomp/clamp combination."
This last group co-founded the last gasp of 111 Freeman Avenue in the best way they knew how, considering all past and future limitations; their watermarked degrees and letters of recommendation sitting tiredly in top desk drawers. It began with a shattered bottle of red win in the basement; the sound only slightly eclipsing the distorted rumble of punk rock. Then came the moshing, those in sandals and open-toed shoes cutting themselves on crimson glass. Fists and shoulders, knees and knuckles became like thorns on roses as soon the lowered ceiling was slowly but surely getting punched up, up and away at from underneath. Dirt, sweat and sentimental indifference flew around the space as bass lines thumped the circling hearts of the connected few and filtered many.
Fluids and temporary illnesses were exchanged. Hairs were tugged or annoyingly spit out. Smoke assumed the role of mediator; water drunkenly left aloof in coffee mugs, half-full. Smudges formed on bruises. Lights flickered on counter tops. Alarms were re-set, appliances unplugged. Saliva soothed wounded perceptions of the incoming warm months. All silences eventually took comfort in the scratchy remains of an inexperienced era that was finally realizing just how quickly time could pass itself by.
And then there was Jim, who had missed out on the communal destruction, choosing to get high on the roof and watch the sky. There was Jim who had previously fallen hard for Amelia before his psychedelic phase, followed by a much better understanding of how the world never stopped speaking just to hear its own melodic voice. There was Jim who couldn't turn down the final invitation before a much needed retreat, later re-dubbed an escape, away from those he knew too well and yet still managed to somehow surprise him.
There was Jim, who fell asleep next to somebody, who could have very well changed the course of things to come in his life. There was Jim who thought, "This is the end of this for now and possibly forever, but at least the sound of her breathing is enough to help me forget about tomorrow." There was Jim who already had the majority of his bags packed.
And finally there was Jim who woke up alone, after dreaming about millions of things to say to her, and yet unfortunately was at a complete and total loss for words at the sight of her sweaty and claustrophobic imprint on the sheets. His original promise had expired along with those of all his tunneling friends.
"I will continue to spin somewhere within this crush I have on you until it becomes unhealthy for the both of us."
There was Jim forgetting to wave goodbye.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Fly Pretty Bird, Into A Windshield
Ladies and gentlemen prepare yourself for what is most likely going to be the bumpiest of rides. We are drinking to forget about the taste, and hopefully avoiding all imploding egos as this inevitable drift starts and stops once the first click of the track echoes upward. We are passing by previous shades of our former selves, those that were stuck or halted by one of life's less than complimentary moods, and instead feeling the breeze as it thins around us.
What's that you say? You're not ready for this kind of illusive spin yet? It isn't time to forget, but rather remember how and why and when and where and what in the hell we were all thinking.
Well fuck you for being this way. You know who you are. So deeply rooted in new ideas or at least the recycled regurgitation of past ones, but at the same time, lacking any substantial motivation to critique yourself in this bubble. You expect for us to stop whenever you start to feel nauseous, to simply hang upside down in the middle of loop and look at the distorted faces of friends from the past and simply understand that you're not ready for the slips to continue.
You call us too adventurous, and yet hate yourself for not enjoying life enough. You judge the perfect before yourself, and will never understand why you won't ever get past this feeling of absolute melancholy. You let the fickle branches and thorns from your fingers pierce those around you, to the point where they hate the same things, and rely on the same disappointments.
You never stop to think about leaning forward to make the car go faster, and this is why we don't talk to each other anymore, and no one says anything about it simply because they know themselves well enough to understand where they fit. We used to feel sorry for each other, but now we just let it fly straight into the space around us. But let there be no mistakes made about this incoming ride, this rocket of thought. It has nothing to do with you, and yet we can't help but feel the smallest sense of satisfaction in knowing that it will be yet another reason for you to hate yourself.
What's that you say? You're not ready for this kind of illusive spin yet? It isn't time to forget, but rather remember how and why and when and where and what in the hell we were all thinking.
Well fuck you for being this way. You know who you are. So deeply rooted in new ideas or at least the recycled regurgitation of past ones, but at the same time, lacking any substantial motivation to critique yourself in this bubble. You expect for us to stop whenever you start to feel nauseous, to simply hang upside down in the middle of loop and look at the distorted faces of friends from the past and simply understand that you're not ready for the slips to continue.
You call us too adventurous, and yet hate yourself for not enjoying life enough. You judge the perfect before yourself, and will never understand why you won't ever get past this feeling of absolute melancholy. You let the fickle branches and thorns from your fingers pierce those around you, to the point where they hate the same things, and rely on the same disappointments.
You never stop to think about leaning forward to make the car go faster, and this is why we don't talk to each other anymore, and no one says anything about it simply because they know themselves well enough to understand where they fit. We used to feel sorry for each other, but now we just let it fly straight into the space around us. But let there be no mistakes made about this incoming ride, this rocket of thought. It has nothing to do with you, and yet we can't help but feel the smallest sense of satisfaction in knowing that it will be yet another reason for you to hate yourself.
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