(no subject)
To sound ridiculously trite, I wish life was simple.
Of course, I don't really. Otherwise, where would individual growth occur? Self-realizations, self-deprecations.
I've these dreams I'm walking home
Home when it used to be
And everything is as it was
Frozen in front of me
John Mayer -- 83
I listen to John Mayer, who spun round and round in my cd player last summer in Houston mainly because it was one of the few cds I had (courtesy of who else? None other than Jenn and her extensive "Where's John Mayer?" trips...except he's not wearing a red-and-white striped shirt or goofy glasses like Waldo and she can easily find out on Pollstar). I remember the heavy humidity of Texas and the frustrated hours lost in my car and the lonely nights in my apartmentthatwasn'tmine and the nights traveling to Austin and the feeling that I was invincible in one little house tucked in a corner of a street called Bahia.
I wonder if I will spend the rest of my life wanting to be somewhere other than where I am. I wonder if I will spend the rest of my life painting my past in soft, nostalgic pastels or living a future similar to Vanilla Sky where the skies have a heady, Monet haziness and I dream of events that might happen but probably won't.
I listen to Robert Earl Keen to take me back to A&M and all the moments I thought I hated, the places and people I couldn't get away from fast enough. I listen to the Benjamin Allen Band and think of one early morning driving from College Station in the Miata convertible towards the Guadalupe with a caravan of rugby boys, spring soaring through our bandannas, blubonnets dotting the side of the highway. I listen to Dave Matthews to take me back on a trip two Augusts ago in an un-air-conditioned car with a still-unfamiliar friend when we sat on a crowded patch of lawn in the middle of a raging thunderstorm.
I can't listen to Canvas yet. The first notes of any Canvas song rushes my mind through a startling rewind of so many scenes, some still too close to watch. A drunken day at the lake in Austin where the stickiness of sweat hid behind our knees while we sat in our little dresses or cute tees with shoes off or dangling from a toe towards grey, weather-beaten planks. Early morning awakenings with the tinge of a hangover. Corpus. Dallas. Austin. Houston. San Marcos. San Antonio. Odessa. Those days, I journeyed towards my future memories at 80, 90 miles a hour down long stretches of Texas highway.
Lift my head, I'm still yawning
When I'm in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
The Beatles -- I'm Only Sleeping
I had a dream last night about you. Your hair looked different, but it was still you. You were at the entrance of a venue and your friends had all already walked in and you were paying at the door. I called for you to wait...and despite the fact that those were the first words I had spoken to you in months, you wordlessly did. And I said, "Let's go in together just to see the looks on their faces."
We walked in, down stairs in a venue similar to Gordo's, and the old familiar faces that I thought I had known and loved so well didn't even recognize me. They walked right past. Him, him, Him, her...didn't know me and didn't care.
I woke up...not heartsick because I've known and realized this truth for many months now, but a little sad. And then I laughingly remembered the first time you went there with me and how we all sat on that sad little salmon couch and you just wanted to go home. And now "home" is where you never want to be and "there" is where you always can be found.
So I wonder when I will begin to miss New York. I will stay here a few years, inevitably rant and rave about the city's flaws and downfalls, long for warmer climes, grass lawns, beaches, flip-flops, slower living, the friendlier drawl of the West Coast. I will move to San Francisco where we will have a little place and can fall asleep to the whisper of the ocean every night (at her insistence). Then I will put in my Norah Jones cd, or my Joseph Arthur cd, or Calla or The Walkmen or any other New York-infused band whose show I can remember attending and I will think about how much better it was where all you can see is miles and miles of sidewalks and in winter the snow blankets the entire city with a new-claimed virginity and the city noise becomes muffled. I will miss the dirty streets of Williamsburg and its venues tucked into warehouses and the Indian cafes in the village and the picturesque movie-like quality of Central Park in summerfallwinter and probably spring. I will think about my boy and the long hours on the couch and wonder where he is now and how one day he said to me, "Honey, let's say this summer we pack up the car and move out to LA." and how instead of saying, "Baby, I hate LA", maybe I should've said yes.
Of course, I don't really. Otherwise, where would individual growth occur? Self-realizations, self-deprecations.
I've these dreams I'm walking home
Home when it used to be
And everything is as it was
Frozen in front of me
John Mayer -- 83
I listen to John Mayer, who spun round and round in my cd player last summer in Houston mainly because it was one of the few cds I had (courtesy of who else? None other than Jenn and her extensive "Where's John Mayer?" trips...except he's not wearing a red-and-white striped shirt or goofy glasses like Waldo and she can easily find out on Pollstar). I remember the heavy humidity of Texas and the frustrated hours lost in my car and the lonely nights in my apartmentthatwasn'tmine and the nights traveling to Austin and the feeling that I was invincible in one little house tucked in a corner of a street called Bahia.
I wonder if I will spend the rest of my life wanting to be somewhere other than where I am. I wonder if I will spend the rest of my life painting my past in soft, nostalgic pastels or living a future similar to Vanilla Sky where the skies have a heady, Monet haziness and I dream of events that might happen but probably won't.
I listen to Robert Earl Keen to take me back to A&M and all the moments I thought I hated, the places and people I couldn't get away from fast enough. I listen to the Benjamin Allen Band and think of one early morning driving from College Station in the Miata convertible towards the Guadalupe with a caravan of rugby boys, spring soaring through our bandannas, blubonnets dotting the side of the highway. I listen to Dave Matthews to take me back on a trip two Augusts ago in an un-air-conditioned car with a still-unfamiliar friend when we sat on a crowded patch of lawn in the middle of a raging thunderstorm.
I can't listen to Canvas yet. The first notes of any Canvas song rushes my mind through a startling rewind of so many scenes, some still too close to watch. A drunken day at the lake in Austin where the stickiness of sweat hid behind our knees while we sat in our little dresses or cute tees with shoes off or dangling from a toe towards grey, weather-beaten planks. Early morning awakenings with the tinge of a hangover. Corpus. Dallas. Austin. Houston. San Marcos. San Antonio. Odessa. Those days, I journeyed towards my future memories at 80, 90 miles a hour down long stretches of Texas highway.
Lift my head, I'm still yawning
When I'm in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
The Beatles -- I'm Only Sleeping
I had a dream last night about you. Your hair looked different, but it was still you. You were at the entrance of a venue and your friends had all already walked in and you were paying at the door. I called for you to wait...and despite the fact that those were the first words I had spoken to you in months, you wordlessly did. And I said, "Let's go in together just to see the looks on their faces."
We walked in, down stairs in a venue similar to Gordo's, and the old familiar faces that I thought I had known and loved so well didn't even recognize me. They walked right past. Him, him, Him, her...didn't know me and didn't care.
I woke up...not heartsick because I've known and realized this truth for many months now, but a little sad. And then I laughingly remembered the first time you went there with me and how we all sat on that sad little salmon couch and you just wanted to go home. And now "home" is where you never want to be and "there" is where you always can be found.
So I wonder when I will begin to miss New York. I will stay here a few years, inevitably rant and rave about the city's flaws and downfalls, long for warmer climes, grass lawns, beaches, flip-flops, slower living, the friendlier drawl of the West Coast. I will move to San Francisco where we will have a little place and can fall asleep to the whisper of the ocean every night (at her insistence). Then I will put in my Norah Jones cd, or my Joseph Arthur cd, or Calla or The Walkmen or any other New York-infused band whose show I can remember attending and I will think about how much better it was where all you can see is miles and miles of sidewalks and in winter the snow blankets the entire city with a new-claimed virginity and the city noise becomes muffled. I will miss the dirty streets of Williamsburg and its venues tucked into warehouses and the Indian cafes in the village and the picturesque movie-like quality of Central Park in summerfallwinter and probably spring. I will think about my boy and the long hours on the couch and wonder where he is now and how one day he said to me, "Honey, let's say this summer we pack up the car and move out to LA." and how instead of saying, "Baby, I hate LA", maybe I should've said yes.