the young
Holy shit, this song breaks my heart--I overheard it at a bar,
I wrote down the chorus lyrics,
I came home and obsessed over it
and over and over and over.
How great is it to have these little conflicts with reality
where music is playing and you feel like you could
close your eyes and be diving into a sea filled with
cranberry juice
and you're naked and your company is naked too.
but the catch is that neither of you are looking at each
other in romance,
not tangling limbs
not catching eyes and lips.
You're swirling around in that red water because
your body is so present.
The great body of the ocean
is holding you like a widow
and you'll weep because your mind for once
is all at once here.
And I think about the fiery stage lights
burning holes in all of us.
Don't lock your knees they say...
don't lock and keep on breathing
because you'll fall
in front everyone.
It'll be hot up there when you're heaving out notes,
and you'll want to tug at your shirts,
but you'll also feel the tingle of adrenaline pumping,
only the stares of the first two rows show up,
daunting you with their mild shifting,
and when you take that final leap and bow,
your body sweating, big fat tears,
your smile quivers from standing for so long.
And that, sir, is what I think of songs like this. Those that make you re-evaluate your relationship with the performing arts.
At least those of us who care enough to ruminate.
I know there are others out there who enjoy the feel of their bodies
moving and bending
to beats.
Maybe it's November doing these things to me and Tony was really onto something.
Reasons to survive.
I woke up this morning with my thoughts all in the wrong places,
whatever dreams were with me, left me so cut open
and I hate that and love it all at the same time.
Paul was there and I was saving my cat from the storm
but there were others I couldn't save, so I saved neither them
nor myself.
I just cradled the empty, drowned creatures,
so much like a dish towel half-wrung.
It was a dream where I couldn't cry
and I've been on the verge of it all day.
Sean and I spent too much time talking about the past last night, I pulled too much out.
We were talking about what it meant to be young.
I hate that conversation more, the older I get,
as I become more aware of what I lack
control over.
When I began this thing, we had one computer in the whole house next to the dining room window,
and when I wrote, I looked out that window, sometimes it was open, and if my parents were gone,
I would be smoking.
I might be listening to Hall and Oates or "Kiss the Rain" or Jefferson Starship.
But I would be looking out that window, and the dirty metal edges of it,
perfect for storing the butts.
Fuck it,
I like crying too much.
I wrote down the chorus lyrics,
I came home and obsessed over it
and over and over and over.
How great is it to have these little conflicts with reality
where music is playing and you feel like you could
close your eyes and be diving into a sea filled with
cranberry juice
and you're naked and your company is naked too.
but the catch is that neither of you are looking at each
other in romance,
not tangling limbs
not catching eyes and lips.
You're swirling around in that red water because
your body is so present.
The great body of the ocean
is holding you like a widow
and you'll weep because your mind for once
is all at once here.
And I think about the fiery stage lights
burning holes in all of us.
Don't lock your knees they say...
don't lock and keep on breathing
because you'll fall
in front everyone.
It'll be hot up there when you're heaving out notes,
and you'll want to tug at your shirts,
but you'll also feel the tingle of adrenaline pumping,
only the stares of the first two rows show up,
daunting you with their mild shifting,
and when you take that final leap and bow,
your body sweating, big fat tears,
your smile quivers from standing for so long.
And that, sir, is what I think of songs like this. Those that make you re-evaluate your relationship with the performing arts.
At least those of us who care enough to ruminate.
I know there are others out there who enjoy the feel of their bodies
moving and bending
to beats.
Maybe it's November doing these things to me and Tony was really onto something.
Reasons to survive.
I woke up this morning with my thoughts all in the wrong places,
whatever dreams were with me, left me so cut open
and I hate that and love it all at the same time.
Paul was there and I was saving my cat from the storm
but there were others I couldn't save, so I saved neither them
nor myself.
I just cradled the empty, drowned creatures,
so much like a dish towel half-wrung.
It was a dream where I couldn't cry
and I've been on the verge of it all day.
Sean and I spent too much time talking about the past last night, I pulled too much out.
We were talking about what it meant to be young.
I hate that conversation more, the older I get,
as I become more aware of what I lack
control over.
When I began this thing, we had one computer in the whole house next to the dining room window,
and when I wrote, I looked out that window, sometimes it was open, and if my parents were gone,
I would be smoking.
I might be listening to Hall and Oates or "Kiss the Rain" or Jefferson Starship.
But I would be looking out that window, and the dirty metal edges of it,
perfect for storing the butts.
Fuck it,
I like crying too much.