(no subject)
Warren's intros just kick my ass. I kept attempting to commit them to memory but each ensuing song would just blow them right out of my mind. next time I see them I'm bringing a tape recorder for the interstitial expostulations.
and you realize
that you are
exectly where you ought to be
Zak Sally, dirty fourth, mobile and expressive in a way I've never seen him with Low. I would be, I suppose, playing with them. my thighs hurt the day after. just from standing still so tautly.
when I walked in after the show, Jonathan laughed: you look like you just got laid.
at some point, I look down to find Mario low to the ground, slowly winding his way around listeners' feet. they look to me anxiously, backing up to give him room. he's alright, I tell them, he's just... dancing.
but no. Mario had indeed lost his glasses.
isn't it great, though, that this assumption seemed so completely plausible to me?
for all I knew, they'd tapped into your inner B-boy, and you were answering the call. in concentrated slo-mo.
i love the fact that I cannot put it past you to behave like that. i admire it.
noone's idea of me includes the possibility of drastic abandon in public.
the exes were there (ex-boyfriend, ex-so-called-best-friend, encoupled, hence the sheer ex-ness of them) and I attempted polite and awkward conversation, when forced to, and this with a man who barely mutters, then fled them quickly.
but the songs paved over the irritation in no time.
it has suddenly become obvious to me that John Ellis, whom I know only from his strange bluegrassy contributions to the Praise soundtrack, the meat of which is Dirty Three tunes, is Warren Ellis' pa. family album. and for whatever reason, one of my favorite films.
and you realize
that you are
exectly where you ought to be
Zak Sally, dirty fourth, mobile and expressive in a way I've never seen him with Low. I would be, I suppose, playing with them. my thighs hurt the day after. just from standing still so tautly.
when I walked in after the show, Jonathan laughed: you look like you just got laid.
at some point, I look down to find Mario low to the ground, slowly winding his way around listeners' feet. they look to me anxiously, backing up to give him room. he's alright, I tell them, he's just... dancing.
but no. Mario had indeed lost his glasses.
isn't it great, though, that this assumption seemed so completely plausible to me?
for all I knew, they'd tapped into your inner B-boy, and you were answering the call. in concentrated slo-mo.
i love the fact that I cannot put it past you to behave like that. i admire it.
noone's idea of me includes the possibility of drastic abandon in public.
the exes were there (ex-boyfriend, ex-so-called-best-friend, encoupled, hence the sheer ex-ness of them) and I attempted polite and awkward conversation, when forced to, and this with a man who barely mutters, then fled them quickly.
but the songs paved over the irritation in no time.
it has suddenly become obvious to me that John Ellis, whom I know only from his strange bluegrassy contributions to the Praise soundtrack, the meat of which is Dirty Three tunes, is Warren Ellis' pa. family album. and for whatever reason, one of my favorite films.