(no subject)
I've gotten incredibly angry with a former friend of mine. His name is Punk Rock. I think I want to bash his face in.... then again, no. I'll send him indie music and dandelions and watch his head implode.
I’m not sure what it means, but I officially hate punk rock. I mean, hate, Hate, that’s a strong word. I don’t know if I mean “hate”. It’s just, it’s frustrating - It’s immature. I think I’m getting old. I do not yet feel my cheeks wrinkling or my smile fading; I do not yet clip coupons or shop for rocking chairs in varnished woodplace shops. But I do not understand the anger or the violence. I do not understand the holierthanthou, I do not do not quite get Atheism, not anymore, I don’t know if I ever will. I mean, your god, this god, that god, I’m not really sure what god is THE god, and maybe god isn’t anything more than a tiny cluster of cells in my brain, switching on and off, longing for understanding and completion. I can accept that. I still don’t like punk rock. I remember purple hair and safety pins, and I remember hating the world THAT world, the only world we’ve got unless science figures out how to ship us to Mars. I don’t feel that’ll make a difference. Same world, different planet. So. I’m not sure about mohawks or beat-up falldown guitars. I just wonder if they slap on their individuality out of a bottle and call themselves a title to make themselves feel better. And that’s cool, that’s fine. But the business man wakes up every morning and slaps on his business suit attire, probably not out of a bottle, maybe a bottle, cologne, and boxes, Rolex, Raisin Bran. If you want to run free with your mind run through the fields, through the trees, run through city streets and downtown parks. Run until your heart is beating, bleeding, and your feet are doing the same. But it’s not “punk rock”. I’m not “punk rock”. Peace and brotherhood is bullshit, I’m sorry to say, I really hate to say, but it doesn’t exist there, did it ever? but not anymore. You get fucked up you get fucked up you get fucked up stop feeling numbnumbnumbnumb….and I’ll still collect my flowers and I’ll still put on my smart girl attire and sometimes my sultry attire, but it’s all clothing, defining, refining - if I wear my fishnets with argyle sweaters to luncheons with Business Suits they will not accept me. If I wear pink and silver bangles. nono. I must wear my business suit attire and leave the flower-picking-dancing-twirling suit at home. Why do we care so much about our clothes in the first place? If I can find acceptance in plaid here and grey suits and silk there, I mean, what am I missing out on? I am still wildchild fae thing in my heart, mind, fingertips, toes, and that does not leave me. I can dress up in grey and grey or black and limegreen and hot pink and blue, but my voice, my body it resonates. It never leaves me.
So fuck punk rock. I’m done.
I’m not sure what it means, but I officially hate punk rock. I mean, hate, Hate, that’s a strong word. I don’t know if I mean “hate”. It’s just, it’s frustrating - It’s immature. I think I’m getting old. I do not yet feel my cheeks wrinkling or my smile fading; I do not yet clip coupons or shop for rocking chairs in varnished woodplace shops. But I do not understand the anger or the violence. I do not understand the holierthanthou, I do not do not quite get Atheism, not anymore, I don’t know if I ever will. I mean, your god, this god, that god, I’m not really sure what god is THE god, and maybe god isn’t anything more than a tiny cluster of cells in my brain, switching on and off, longing for understanding and completion. I can accept that. I still don’t like punk rock. I remember purple hair and safety pins, and I remember hating the world THAT world, the only world we’ve got unless science figures out how to ship us to Mars. I don’t feel that’ll make a difference. Same world, different planet. So. I’m not sure about mohawks or beat-up falldown guitars. I just wonder if they slap on their individuality out of a bottle and call themselves a title to make themselves feel better. And that’s cool, that’s fine. But the business man wakes up every morning and slaps on his business suit attire, probably not out of a bottle, maybe a bottle, cologne, and boxes, Rolex, Raisin Bran. If you want to run free with your mind run through the fields, through the trees, run through city streets and downtown parks. Run until your heart is beating, bleeding, and your feet are doing the same. But it’s not “punk rock”. I’m not “punk rock”. Peace and brotherhood is bullshit, I’m sorry to say, I really hate to say, but it doesn’t exist there, did it ever? but not anymore. You get fucked up you get fucked up you get fucked up stop feeling numbnumbnumbnumb….and I’ll still collect my flowers and I’ll still put on my smart girl attire and sometimes my sultry attire, but it’s all clothing, defining, refining - if I wear my fishnets with argyle sweaters to luncheons with Business Suits they will not accept me. If I wear pink and silver bangles. nono. I must wear my business suit attire and leave the flower-picking-dancing-twirling suit at home. Why do we care so much about our clothes in the first place? If I can find acceptance in plaid here and grey suits and silk there, I mean, what am I missing out on? I am still wildchild fae thing in my heart, mind, fingertips, toes, and that does not leave me. I can dress up in grey and grey or black and limegreen and hot pink and blue, but my voice, my body it resonates. It never leaves me.
So fuck punk rock. I’m done.