to Omaha and back

If life is meant to be a clusterfuck of misguided choices and bad decisions, then I feel I'm safe in saying that I'm winning at it.

"who goes berry picking anymore, honestly?!"

Yesterday was your birthday. You may be 27 now, or even 28. It's harder to keep track after all these years. It's something I say as if it weren't only yesterday. The more time that I put between us, the less I think of you. But it was your birthday yesterday, and you're 27-ish now, and I'm feeling like the world's biggest asshole on account of the fact that I thought of you. The more time that I put between us, the worse I feel when I actually do think of you.

I thought of the way you tried so hard to talk me through one of my worst days, and how graciously you handed the baton to a perfect stranger when he passed me with eyebrow gestures that suggested a quicker and more self-destructive route. I thought of our long talks every night, conspiring against Beth or telling our innermost secrets, even if we had to make them up. I told you about Sunny, and you held me every time he or any of the other guys that I tried to replace him with broke my heart. You were the one to tell me that Adam and I were over, and I think he knew it would be easiest on me that way. It made me crumble into even tinier pieces and scatter myself to the winds. Then you ran out and collected each and every piece, and lovingly glued them back together with your infinite patience and motherly tongue-clucking.

You did so much good for me, and I gave you so little in return. I taught you to read the Tarot, to smoke pot like a true stoner, and to build your walls so high that no one could reach the top without being too exhausted to bother with the journey down the other side. The second time around, you'd changed. You had become a mirror held up in front of me, showing me everything I was scared of in myself.

Still to this day, I miss each and every thing about you. The way a hug from you embraced me completely, your soft and sexy phone-operator voice, your infectious and brutally honest laughter, the way you packed a bowl better and quicker than even I could and always let me know it, your sound advice, your patient sighs, your smile, your brown eyes exactly the same shade as my own, and above all else, the way you appreciated drastically over-priced hair and skin products and luxury fragrances as much as, if not more than I do.

    i.                                                                              <3.                                                           you.

Amongst the vending machines 

and year-old magazines
In a place where we only say goodbye
It stung like a violent wind 

that our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds
And I knew that you were a truth 

I would rather lose
Than to have never lain beside at all...

"What Sarah Said"
[Death Cab For Cutie]

So what exactly is the point of global communication anyways? All it does is create a bunch of scattered and fragmented conversations, none of which amount to anything substantial. It's a global clusterfuck. Seriously. And yet...

I'm trying to be positive, but the cosmic joke of it all is kicking in. Obstacles are thrown in every meter, and I've been doing enough hurdles to justify a handful of Vicodin.

hung out to dry on the end of my rope

We spent the Summer making a list of excuses and smoking ourselves deep into debt. Every pill swallowed was bringing us closer to something, or so we thought. Each knock at the door shocked us awake and made us hold our breath until the visitor had given in. We traded our furnishings piece by piece for small amounts of whatever we could barter for.

By Autumn, we had both lost our spirit of adventure. School was starting soon, and we were out of furniture to barter away. We took more walks, memorizing the river and the lesser-known landmarks. I don't think either of us ever expected to come back again. Down at the old abandoned paper mill, we smoked our last joint in Ypsilanti and talked about all the great things we had to look forward to. As you plotted our next big adventure, I thought back to Iowa and for the first time, I kicked myself for having ever returned for you.

A few weeks later you were gone, and I began answering the knocks at the door again. Every pill I swallowed was carrying me further away from something, or so I thought. I kept secrets instead of making excuses, and began my own adventure further into myself.

It'll break again, because people are careless.  The issue isn't really in the damage, it's in the repairs. For so long, I've just been sweeping the pieces under the rug, expecting them to disappear on their own. I figured it was easier than gathering them and gluing them all back together again. But now, all that I've managed to accomplish is the wanton destruction of a perfectly good rug.

album of the day [09.11.09]

Blood Bank

Bon Iver

* * * *

It's obvious that Bon Iver's work is inspired by the seasons. It's no wonder, with writer/vocalist/guitarist Justin Vernon being a native of Wisconsin [where the seasons are just as harsh and unforgiving as they are here in Michigan]. In 2008's For Emma, Forever Ago, the songs had an Autumnal feel, the cover art depicting dead trees through frosted windowpanes. For their follow-up 4-track album, Blood Bank, they chose cover art that depicts an old rusty car covered with a blanket of snow, and the songs - with their soft melodies and nearly whispered, haunting lyrics - have the distinct echo of Winter.
 

This album is short [unlike Winter], but lacks nothing in the way of quality content. The songs are intelligent and beautifully written, and Vernon sings every line in top form with his raspy, organic vocals. The title track is the real stand-out song of the album, with lines such as "ain't this just like the present, to be showing up like this? As a moon waned to crescent, we started to kiss..."
 

If you enjoy low-key and well-written Indie-folk songs, this album is a vital addition to your media library.

Listen to it, bitches.

we mowed down the saplings to plant new trees

"You know I'm only using you, don't you? That it won't last?"

" I know that, yes."

"And you don't care?"

"A part of me does care."

"And the other part?"

"You should never start sentences with "and," you know. It's grammatically incorrect. I do it all the time, though, too..."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Does it really matter?"

"It does matter, because I want to know."

"The other part of me likes the comfort in it. The other part likes having a warm body to sleep next to, because it's easier than sleeping alone."

"Will you hate me for it when it ends?"

"Would it be easier for you if I did?"

"No, it wouldn't be easier. I'd miss having you as my friend if you hated me."

"I think I may hate you, but part of me won't."

"You and your parts."

"I like my parts."

"I like your parts."

"You like the wrong parts."

"I like all of them."

"That's obviously not true."

"It is."

"It's lip service."

"You're being bitter."

"I do what I'm good at."

"You're not bitter."

"And you're contradicting yourself."

"I don't know what that means."

"I figured as much, and it would have ended on that basis eventually, anyways."

"Huh?"

"You're very pretty, you know."

album of the day [09.10.09]

Tallahassee

the Mountain Goats

* * * * *

This album was the one that made me fall head-over-heels for John Darnielle as a writer. The album tells the story of a recurring subject from many of his other albums, the Alpha Couple. In Tallahassee, the Alpha Couple love one another a great deal, and are happily moving in together. As the album progresses, the songs become darker, sadder. The couple begins to hate one another, and attempt to drink away their unhappiness. The album resolves with them making amends, until we next hear from them, at least.

What I love most about this album is the brutal honesty with which Darnielle tells this couple's story, and his own. I used to say that Darnielle's music mostly appealed to recovering drug addicts, but I've found that there is at least one song on this album for everyone who has emotions, no matter how seasoned and snobbish with music they may be. The album covers so many different stages of a relationship: the bright-eyed hope in "Southwood Plantation Road" (I am not gonna lose you, we are gonna stay married, in this house like a Louisiana graveyard, where nothing stays buried), to the spite and hatred of "No Children" (and I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say... and I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way...), and the old-college try in, well, "Old College Try" (our love has never had a leg to stand on... but I will walk down to the end with you, if you will come all the way down with me...).

This album will rip your soul in half, and mend it all over again.

Listen to it, bitches.

o'er amber waves of grain...

It usually takes a while before it truly sinks in. I allow myself a window of numbness, and then all of a sudden it comes screaming at me like a Mack truck with cut brakes. Each impact sends me flying back into myself, vowing never again to step outside my cozy little walls. And each time, it takes about a week for me to come poking my head out, assessing the situation.

I've been thinking of Iowa again; specifically, Autumn in Iowa. They make a big deal out of harvest time there, so much so that in the days before the Great Floyd River Flood and the economic downfall of Sioux City, they would build sprawling palaces of corn in the middle of the city. The palaces were so large that they hosted actual theaters, mosaics, fountains, and colonnades, all made entirely of corn (and wood, of course). Though the tradition has since died out, the harvest time is still a huge happening. People wander the place in such an upbeat and cheery mood that it's enough to make any outsider feel as if they're outside of humanity as a whole, looking in on the way it should be.

I miss it so much sometimes that it physically hurts. Sometimes, when I close my eyes and breathe in deep, I can still smell the scent of fertilizer, stockyards, and Alpo dog food being cooked. It may not appeal to all, but it's managed to leave an Iowa-sized hole in my heart.

Steampunk, My New Calling

Steampunk Pinocchio [unknown artist, anyone who knows lemme in on the secret!]

Assorted Pendants

Ring

BAMF Goggles

Wristwatch Cuff

Spider

SteamBlaster

Portable Computing Mechanism

Stationary Computing Mechanism