ILOVECONOROBERST
I just realized, I've gone for about 2 months with a rediculous, uncontrollable conor oberst obsession and i haven't said anything about it on livejournal. And seeing as I am rediculously high on tea and folk music right now, it seems like it is the perfect time to get it over with... Besides, What happens when i'm 80 years old and looking through my LJ? I won't remember my addiction to cape canaveral and sausalito and souled out and milk thistle and eagle on a pole and... the whole album!
And I can simply not let that happen. :P *toothy smile*
I love how you can hear him laughing through this, and people messing with the recording, and it's just so happy! Ah! But meaningful. It's the perfect combonation of meaning and happiness and I LOVE IT.
Besides, by watching this video continuously, I not only get to witness the unfaltering perfection which is this song, but i also get to experience conor laughing- which I swear to god, did not happen befor 2007, AND as an added bonus: I also get to watch him brush his teeth.
*80 year old buries face in hands and wonders why she was such a stupid girl*
YAY. Obsession documented.
I'm going to store the edited process on livejournal because i hate having a bunch of files on my computer. You don't have to read them. I wouldn't if i were you. hahaha
Maria was a skippy girl with big black eyes and tiny red lips that crumpled like tissue paper when she spoke.
Five year old Maria was sitting on the steps of the house on Dearborn street when I saw her for the first time. She kicks her black mary-janes against the wooden steps and watches the light blue paint flake off in chunks.
“1...2...3...” She says, ramming her foot to the panels with each count:
“4...5...6.” She listens to her heels hit the hollow steps and giggles. It’s a Tuesday morning and she’s waiting for the bus. She’s got a backpack on her back with a lunch in a lunchbox and she’s wearing a shirt that she’d just bought on Sunday.
“I like the collar,” she had said to her mother, as she walked her to my house (her bus stop) “It makes me think of a princess dress.”
Her mother smiled, and swung their held hands before she knocked on my door. The door didn’t have much solid to knock on, and still doesn’t. Just a peeling wooden frame and a sunken pillow of meshed wire.
“Mrs. Clearborn!” She screamed, “It’s Stacy. I need a favor!” It was a long time ago, the first time I’d heard Stacy Brierley’s voice through my walls. Maria’s grown, now. And Stacy doesn’t walk her here anymore. “Mrs. Clearborn?” She’d said as I pulled the stop from the door, and felt my fingers falter over the handle of the deadbolt. I cracked the door just enough that she could see my face through the opening, and was consequently hit with a stream of chilly October air. It smelled like chai tea and dirt. I coughed, and nodded:
“Yes. I hear… that you are Stacy.” I smiled a dry kind of smile and pushed the door open wider.
“Stacy Brierley. You know my husband?”
“Cameron?”
She nodded, grasping for her pin straight hair, hoping to hold it from the wind. “Can I ask you a favor?” Her face twisted in a knot. I could have been able to tell her whole story, just from that face- it was so stricken.
“Of course, honey!”
“You see that girl, there?” She pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes and pointed to little Maria, who was sitting on the steps and swinging her feet. “She’s my daughter. And I just…I need some help.”
“Mmhhmm.” I turned to the pile of shoes near the door, and pulled on a pair of slippers. I picked the matted pink ones with the holes in the bottoms. They were the best.
“I’m just having a very busy morning and I was hoping you could watch her from a window until the school bus comes. It won’t be more than fifteen minutes. And she’s just so small-” She looked over to Maria, little pink bow tied to the bun on the back of her head, and playing with her fingernails like they needed sawing off. “I just can’t bear to leave her.” She looked up, anxious- like she was crossing her fingers in her head.
“Awh, Hell. I’d be happy to help!” I smiled and told her to move fast and get to work. Not to be late.
She grinned back, an anxious grin, and I told her that everything was going to be alright. I watched as she gave her daughter a nervous hug and walked away. She looked back about five times before she broke into a hurried jog.
“Mrs. Clearborn!” Maria screamed, her tiny voice puncturing the October breeze like a pin.
“Yes, Honey.”
“ What did my mom tell you?” She was still sitting on the steps, hunched over and looking at her fingernails, and I was still all the way at the door.
“She wanted to make sure that I watch you before you go to school.”
“Oh.” She kept her head down, staring at her hands.
I propped the door with a brick, and waddled a few old-person waddles towards Maria. Her face jumbled up the same way her mother’s had just a moment before- all panic and worry and misgiving. She didn’t say another word, her eyes bulged so wide. “Did you know that I knew your father when he was your age?” I pulled the words out of my mouth like you pull a petal off of a flower. A little too much care, a little too much deliberation.
“No. I didn’t.” Her lips folded in on themselves and she twisted them around on her face.
“I can tell you a story about him.”
“I… I don’t think so.” she said, voice small and quivering.
“Why not?”
“I don’t really like stories.”
“What? I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl your age that didn’t like a good story.”
Her eyes bulged like she had a secret. “I just… don’t like them.” She turned around, and started up with the swinging her feet, and I shuffled my way into the house, and watched till the bus came.
* * *
There is nothing like smell of the fall. Nothing in the world. Some days I hate it. I open my window and for some reason I’m so frustrated with the breeze. But other days, It hangs itself just so over the still air- the perfect garnish with all it’s sweet, oaky flavors. It makes me want to swallow it whole. I was looking out the window today. I find that when I don’t have much to do, I like to look out the window. Fall is especially nice. The leaves are all fragile and worn like fabric, and the sun-shine runs through them with a sort of cantaloupe-glow. It breathes life into the matte cornflower blue walls.
The windows are some creaky old wooden things. The paint flecks off of them and falls into the room. I’ve got a decent pile brewing under this one from all the times I’ve opened it these last few days. I suspect with the peeling paint and all that, this place looks like a bit of a haunted mansion from the outsides. Like bats should come screeching out of the windows and doors at night. And me, the cranky old owner of the haunted house. Me, who stays cooped up in my third story bedroom and watches the world pass by from above. With my little pen in hand, my little journal on the crooked window ledge.
I wonder what the kids think of me. The little ones. I would have given me a fright when I was their age. I would’ve dared my brother to run up to the house and knock on the door, and hide behind the bushes until I came down, bickering and mumbling my old-person way. And I would have laughed when I closed the door and screamed toward the bushes: “Damn Kids! Get off the lawn!”
But I would scream that. I promised to myself that I would never become “that old lady”. Even though, in a right, there was no stopping that.
* * *
LASTPARTOFSTORYVOICE:
I felt the cool metal of the key in-between my fingers The house on Dearborn street. And it was all mine.
I snapped the handle of the door, and took two tiny steps through the threshold. It smelled like dust and old people and books. But in the best way.
There were heavy cotton tarps over everything. They were covered in dust. I wondered how many mice had found their way in here so far. I wondered how many I would find. The sunshine drove in through the curtains like arrows hitting the ground and bouncing back. Everything was reflective here- mirrors on the wall, pictures framed in glass. Everything sparkled. Everything carried a memory, a time period, an era. I had no idea what I was going to do to this place. But I couldn’t let them tear it down. The poor place was as much apart of this city as the ground it’s standing on. For god’s sakes, this place has a presence. I can feel it in the hallways- warm and knowing and ever-present. Not haunting and cold. No, none of that.
This place has a soul of it’s own. It’s independent and wise, and beautiful. It’s got teal walls and old books- journals, stories. People poured their life into this place! Those colors on the wall, the molding of the door, the scratches in the floorboards. They might as well be whole people. They might as well be years themselves.
I started ripping tarps off of things. Pulling them off like there was gold underneath of them. Couches, newspapers, magazines, letters like dusty gold.
.
And I can simply not let that happen. :P *toothy smile*
Click to viewI love how you can hear him laughing through this, and people messing with the recording, and it's just so happy! Ah! But meaningful. It's the perfect combonation of meaning and happiness and I LOVE IT.
Besides, by watching this video continuously, I not only get to witness the unfaltering perfection which is this song, but i also get to experience conor laughing- which I swear to god, did not happen befor 2007, AND as an added bonus: I also get to watch him brush his teeth.
*80 year old buries face in hands and wonders why she was such a stupid girl*
YAY. Obsession documented.
I'm going to store the edited process on livejournal because i hate having a bunch of files on my computer. You don't have to read them. I wouldn't if i were you. hahaha
Maria was a skippy girl with big black eyes and tiny red lips that crumpled like tissue paper when she spoke.
Five year old Maria was sitting on the steps of the house on Dearborn street when I saw her for the first time. She kicks her black mary-janes against the wooden steps and watches the light blue paint flake off in chunks.
“1...2...3...” She says, ramming her foot to the panels with each count:
“4...5...6.” She listens to her heels hit the hollow steps and giggles. It’s a Tuesday morning and she’s waiting for the bus. She’s got a backpack on her back with a lunch in a lunchbox and she’s wearing a shirt that she’d just bought on Sunday.
“I like the collar,” she had said to her mother, as she walked her to my house (her bus stop) “It makes me think of a princess dress.”
Her mother smiled, and swung their held hands before she knocked on my door. The door didn’t have much solid to knock on, and still doesn’t. Just a peeling wooden frame and a sunken pillow of meshed wire.
“Mrs. Clearborn!” She screamed, “It’s Stacy. I need a favor!” It was a long time ago, the first time I’d heard Stacy Brierley’s voice through my walls. Maria’s grown, now. And Stacy doesn’t walk her here anymore. “Mrs. Clearborn?” She’d said as I pulled the stop from the door, and felt my fingers falter over the handle of the deadbolt. I cracked the door just enough that she could see my face through the opening, and was consequently hit with a stream of chilly October air. It smelled like chai tea and dirt. I coughed, and nodded:
“Yes. I hear… that you are Stacy.” I smiled a dry kind of smile and pushed the door open wider.
“Stacy Brierley. You know my husband?”
“Cameron?”
She nodded, grasping for her pin straight hair, hoping to hold it from the wind. “Can I ask you a favor?” Her face twisted in a knot. I could have been able to tell her whole story, just from that face- it was so stricken.
“Of course, honey!”
“You see that girl, there?” She pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes and pointed to little Maria, who was sitting on the steps and swinging her feet. “She’s my daughter. And I just…I need some help.”
“Mmhhmm.” I turned to the pile of shoes near the door, and pulled on a pair of slippers. I picked the matted pink ones with the holes in the bottoms. They were the best.
“I’m just having a very busy morning and I was hoping you could watch her from a window until the school bus comes. It won’t be more than fifteen minutes. And she’s just so small-” She looked over to Maria, little pink bow tied to the bun on the back of her head, and playing with her fingernails like they needed sawing off. “I just can’t bear to leave her.” She looked up, anxious- like she was crossing her fingers in her head.
“Awh, Hell. I’d be happy to help!” I smiled and told her to move fast and get to work. Not to be late.
She grinned back, an anxious grin, and I told her that everything was going to be alright. I watched as she gave her daughter a nervous hug and walked away. She looked back about five times before she broke into a hurried jog.
“Mrs. Clearborn!” Maria screamed, her tiny voice puncturing the October breeze like a pin.
“Yes, Honey.”
“ What did my mom tell you?” She was still sitting on the steps, hunched over and looking at her fingernails, and I was still all the way at the door.
“She wanted to make sure that I watch you before you go to school.”
“Oh.” She kept her head down, staring at her hands.
I propped the door with a brick, and waddled a few old-person waddles towards Maria. Her face jumbled up the same way her mother’s had just a moment before- all panic and worry and misgiving. She didn’t say another word, her eyes bulged so wide. “Did you know that I knew your father when he was your age?” I pulled the words out of my mouth like you pull a petal off of a flower. A little too much care, a little too much deliberation.
“No. I didn’t.” Her lips folded in on themselves and she twisted them around on her face.
“I can tell you a story about him.”
“I… I don’t think so.” she said, voice small and quivering.
“Why not?”
“I don’t really like stories.”
“What? I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl your age that didn’t like a good story.”
Her eyes bulged like she had a secret. “I just… don’t like them.” She turned around, and started up with the swinging her feet, and I shuffled my way into the house, and watched till the bus came.
* * *
There is nothing like smell of the fall. Nothing in the world. Some days I hate it. I open my window and for some reason I’m so frustrated with the breeze. But other days, It hangs itself just so over the still air- the perfect garnish with all it’s sweet, oaky flavors. It makes me want to swallow it whole. I was looking out the window today. I find that when I don’t have much to do, I like to look out the window. Fall is especially nice. The leaves are all fragile and worn like fabric, and the sun-shine runs through them with a sort of cantaloupe-glow. It breathes life into the matte cornflower blue walls.
The windows are some creaky old wooden things. The paint flecks off of them and falls into the room. I’ve got a decent pile brewing under this one from all the times I’ve opened it these last few days. I suspect with the peeling paint and all that, this place looks like a bit of a haunted mansion from the outsides. Like bats should come screeching out of the windows and doors at night. And me, the cranky old owner of the haunted house. Me, who stays cooped up in my third story bedroom and watches the world pass by from above. With my little pen in hand, my little journal on the crooked window ledge.
I wonder what the kids think of me. The little ones. I would have given me a fright when I was their age. I would’ve dared my brother to run up to the house and knock on the door, and hide behind the bushes until I came down, bickering and mumbling my old-person way. And I would have laughed when I closed the door and screamed toward the bushes: “Damn Kids! Get off the lawn!”
But I would scream that. I promised to myself that I would never become “that old lady”. Even though, in a right, there was no stopping that.
* * *
LASTPARTOFSTORYVOICE:
I felt the cool metal of the key in-between my fingers The house on Dearborn street. And it was all mine.
I snapped the handle of the door, and took two tiny steps through the threshold. It smelled like dust and old people and books. But in the best way.
There were heavy cotton tarps over everything. They were covered in dust. I wondered how many mice had found their way in here so far. I wondered how many I would find. The sunshine drove in through the curtains like arrows hitting the ground and bouncing back. Everything was reflective here- mirrors on the wall, pictures framed in glass. Everything sparkled. Everything carried a memory, a time period, an era. I had no idea what I was going to do to this place. But I couldn’t let them tear it down. The poor place was as much apart of this city as the ground it’s standing on. For god’s sakes, this place has a presence. I can feel it in the hallways- warm and knowing and ever-present. Not haunting and cold. No, none of that.
This place has a soul of it’s own. It’s independent and wise, and beautiful. It’s got teal walls and old books- journals, stories. People poured their life into this place! Those colors on the wall, the molding of the door, the scratches in the floorboards. They might as well be whole people. They might as well be years themselves.
I started ripping tarps off of things. Pulling them off like there was gold underneath of them. Couches, newspapers, magazines, letters like dusty gold.
.