A Merry Christmas, a Happy Birthday and a wonderful dream I hope will never die.
I'm at my mom's house. Here in Westlake. I'm going back to London tomorrow, I've got my tickets and luggage all squared away, leaving in the morning. But for now, I'm here with my mom and my brother, and wonderful friends I've seen these last couple days. Today was my 32nd birthday. It seems weird that I'm this old. So unreasonable. I feel SO young inside. I've never settled down, I've never wanted to. I think Claire did, just a little bit. I asked her to come out for Christmas, and be with my family, but she declined. We got on different planes at Heathrow, or however you spell it, and I haven't heard from her since, let me be blunt: I had THE BEST sex in my life with her in London, and now she doesn't return my phone calls. So I'm sitting out here North of LA drinking a Triple Black, writing in my notebook, on my lj at the same time. It won't be a song, enough people have written songs about their girlfriends and their fathers, thats not what my art is about. But speaking of such I've got a show at the Roxy in February, so i'm fucking stoked about that. I wrote a lot of shit while in Morocco, intersting new lyrics I'm hoping the Echelon will completely understand.
We all speak a language, but it is not our own, language can exist without us, it can be anything, anywhere, with anything, for all we know rocks have language, we are just not fluent in, that we do not speak. And then i wonder about the language of love, and how we all say I love you, and how that means something different to everyone else. So how does a language take root in a word that has six billion translations? Love is only a word. The most indescribably absent feeling from our storehouse of "emotions" what ever those are, more things with six billion translations, none of us are on the same page and We'll never catch up until we finish the Human Race. We're always dying, we're never living, because within the womb we are a part of our living dying mother, and the moment we crown, we die, ever so slowly. We come into the world to die.
Keep Breathing, keep biding your time, keep saying not yet, you're only slowing yourself up.
We all speak a language, but it is not our own, language can exist without us, it can be anything, anywhere, with anything, for all we know rocks have language, we are just not fluent in, that we do not speak. And then i wonder about the language of love, and how we all say I love you, and how that means something different to everyone else. So how does a language take root in a word that has six billion translations? Love is only a word. The most indescribably absent feeling from our storehouse of "emotions" what ever those are, more things with six billion translations, none of us are on the same page and We'll never catch up until we finish the Human Race. We're always dying, we're never living, because within the womb we are a part of our living dying mother, and the moment we crown, we die, ever so slowly. We come into the world to die.
Keep Breathing, keep biding your time, keep saying not yet, you're only slowing yourself up.