Good Morning, Midnight
Thank you Anil for getting us that slot. Thank you Raine, Raj, Rusydi & band, Nad, Khairi, Carrie, Mandy, Deej, Su, Beck, Neek, Randall & Jem Tailford for supporting us on Monday. I love you. Thank you papa, for inviting so many people the place was too packed and for spending five hundred bucks though you didn't have to. Thank you mom for being nice to my friends. Thank you godbro Colin & wife for bothering. Thank you godpa and extended family and papa and mom's friends and colleagues for coming. Thank you Uncle John for offering us another gig to play at. Even though 90% of the people here will never read this, I'm grateful to them. And to Naz, jaan, I wished with all my heart you could've been there but I totally understand why you weren't, and I played you 311 over the phone anyway so that's all settled. =) Thank you Jenewenewemy for working so hard and Annas for apologizing when you fucked up. Oh well, it was only a small show anyway.
All I want to do right now is pluck the strings of that guitar and sing into that microphone. I want to be playing in that nameless band at the bar again. I want people to close their eyes over their ales and wines and fall into the sweet dreaminess that comes with melancholy serenades. I do not want to be sitting on a fucking train, fucking scenery going past in a blur, a too-slow blur, sandpaper tears corroding the filth (and I need you now somehow, I need you now somehooow). I do not want to hang out again in the cosmopolitan central of this superficial island city, mindlessly breathing in death sticks and sipping on caffeine with no umbrella to shelter me from the saccharine laughter encompassing me from all sides. Give me an umbrella for all that noise. Or a tall glass of warm honey-milk. I guess that would make things a little better.
I am not saying hanging out with my girlfriends and talking for hours about nothing is not fun. I'm saying. I want to do something substantial, that I love, with my life, and I feel that I have the key but at the same time I am useless, because I can't find the right door. And for some reason, I feel that time is running out.
Forget the noise of the living. Oh, give me a blanket for this goddamn noise in my head.
I am suffering in the complete absence of throes in which you grapple, futile, in the half-light for the moment your heart is in your throat with sheer orgasmic delight and you know inside you that you have created a leaf of precious memory for lonely nights and perhaps caused a speck of a ripple in the spectrum of colours that makes up an audience's satisfaction.
I miss the stage already. I miss crazily groping for that moment. The huge bubble of happiness you feel when you know your message has been delivered through your music and you've played a great show. When you know you have touched just one person, and even (perhaps) more than that.
"Like watching a maiden or a siren from the seven seas weaving her aches out. Torn heart bled and carcassing her feeling towards amenity."
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Last Friday's gig was the first Raphael ever watched me at.
Not counting the musical, and that hotel family gathering thingie I sang at when I felt fat in the yucky black dress.
I want him to stay my baby brother, my baby boy forever.
Anyway, this is random, but I think I prefer full-cream milk to low-fat milk. Low-fat has that vanilla taste that I totally dig, but full-cream milk is just nicer.
I need to head down to Borders or Kino. Eddy recommended that I read 'House of Leaves' by Mark Z. Danielewski. Even though I have three new others I haven't even opened yet. And speaking of Eddy, here's a shoutout to him. Sup, Eddy? Hahahahahaha. Someone actually reads my journal! =)
I have a small and furry puppy. Do you?
All I want to do right now is pluck the strings of that guitar and sing into that microphone. I want to be playing in that nameless band at the bar again. I want people to close their eyes over their ales and wines and fall into the sweet dreaminess that comes with melancholy serenades. I do not want to be sitting on a fucking train, fucking scenery going past in a blur, a too-slow blur, sandpaper tears corroding the filth (and I need you now somehow, I need you now somehooow). I do not want to hang out again in the cosmopolitan central of this superficial island city, mindlessly breathing in death sticks and sipping on caffeine with no umbrella to shelter me from the saccharine laughter encompassing me from all sides. Give me an umbrella for all that noise. Or a tall glass of warm honey-milk. I guess that would make things a little better.
I am not saying hanging out with my girlfriends and talking for hours about nothing is not fun. I'm saying. I want to do something substantial, that I love, with my life, and I feel that I have the key but at the same time I am useless, because I can't find the right door. And for some reason, I feel that time is running out.
Forget the noise of the living. Oh, give me a blanket for this goddamn noise in my head.
I am suffering in the complete absence of throes in which you grapple, futile, in the half-light for the moment your heart is in your throat with sheer orgasmic delight and you know inside you that you have created a leaf of precious memory for lonely nights and perhaps caused a speck of a ripple in the spectrum of colours that makes up an audience's satisfaction.
I miss the stage already. I miss crazily groping for that moment. The huge bubble of happiness you feel when you know your message has been delivered through your music and you've played a great show. When you know you have touched just one person, and even (perhaps) more than that.
"Like watching a maiden or a siren from the seven seas weaving her aches out. Torn heart bled and carcassing her feeling towards amenity."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Last Friday's gig was the first Raphael ever watched me at.
Not counting the musical, and that hotel family gathering thingie I sang at when I felt fat in the yucky black dress.
I want him to stay my baby brother, my baby boy forever.
Anyway, this is random, but I think I prefer full-cream milk to low-fat milk. Low-fat has that vanilla taste that I totally dig, but full-cream milk is just nicer.
I need to head down to Borders or Kino. Eddy recommended that I read 'House of Leaves' by Mark Z. Danielewski. Even though I have three new others I haven't even opened yet. And speaking of Eddy, here's a shoutout to him. Sup, Eddy? Hahahahahaha. Someone actually reads my journal! =)
I have a small and furry puppy. Do you?