You'd think so, wouldn't you?
Whenever the going gets tough, when I start to forget who I am, when I'm not sure what comes next or what I want to be or what I want the world to look like... I turn to Jamie Hewlett.
I turn to the Gorillaz, I turn to Tank Girl, I turn to the shit that's been turning me on like a light switch for as long as I can remember. There's a lot of other artists that've come into my world since then, but that's where I turn when times get tough. That's where I go to when I want something to springboard off of. When I want to try to get myself to another place that I'm having trouble imagining.
That world beyond, the higher world, the realm of pure mystical understanding and imagination. And fucking whatever.
Here I am. There I was. Point to it. Think about it. Boxes of photos tucked around the corner and on-line. And who fucking cares? Me? Do those dead scraps of paper and digital code make up my prehistory? My life? Is it just what I remember? What I choose? How hard to I have to fall before everything shakes loose? And what'd be left?
What part's me, and what part's the void?
Was it the drugs bringing these feelings back? What am I reaching for here? What do I want out of all this? HA - That's the question for sure. What the fuck do I want out of all this? This life? This realm. Where am I going? What will I do when I show up?
I think about those perfect moments, and I want to try to strive to replicate them. I experiment, and I repeat the successes, and avoid the failures. But nothing's ever a failure, it's just a stumbling moment along the way to something else. Isn't it?
I love you. But what are we going to do? Seriously, what are we going to do? When the music gets to that fevered pitch and we're locked in this embrace that I can't comprehend and everything just melts away, what's going to be left? You and me and what else? Those dirty punk kids? That beautiful man in the long dress? Where does it all have to happen after this?
I'm just trying to say that when I want you, I guess I want a larger wanting that goes along with it. I want the feel of the endorphins that pull me towards you. I want the heady madness and uncertainty and the feeling like the pit of my stomach just got kicked in. I want to savor that shit. I don't want to completely upset our little dollhouses, but I want to knock some furniture around.
Deeper. Darker. Dripping with sincerity. Compassion. Warm murky feelings of abandonment. A hug, a kiss good-bye. We could have a few of those moments together, you and I. We could go to an uncomfortable place where we'd question who we'd been before. Where we'd forget who we were before. Our old lives burnt away by a passion for the new. My past is nothing but trash and unmarked boxes. A bomb left in a forgotten place. An old scar you can't remember getting.
I turn to the Gorillaz, I turn to Tank Girl, I turn to the shit that's been turning me on like a light switch for as long as I can remember. There's a lot of other artists that've come into my world since then, but that's where I turn when times get tough. That's where I go to when I want something to springboard off of. When I want to try to get myself to another place that I'm having trouble imagining.
That world beyond, the higher world, the realm of pure mystical understanding and imagination. And fucking whatever.
Here I am. There I was. Point to it. Think about it. Boxes of photos tucked around the corner and on-line. And who fucking cares? Me? Do those dead scraps of paper and digital code make up my prehistory? My life? Is it just what I remember? What I choose? How hard to I have to fall before everything shakes loose? And what'd be left?
What part's me, and what part's the void?
Was it the drugs bringing these feelings back? What am I reaching for here? What do I want out of all this? HA - That's the question for sure. What the fuck do I want out of all this? This life? This realm. Where am I going? What will I do when I show up?
I think about those perfect moments, and I want to try to strive to replicate them. I experiment, and I repeat the successes, and avoid the failures. But nothing's ever a failure, it's just a stumbling moment along the way to something else. Isn't it?
I love you. But what are we going to do? Seriously, what are we going to do? When the music gets to that fevered pitch and we're locked in this embrace that I can't comprehend and everything just melts away, what's going to be left? You and me and what else? Those dirty punk kids? That beautiful man in the long dress? Where does it all have to happen after this?
I'm just trying to say that when I want you, I guess I want a larger wanting that goes along with it. I want the feel of the endorphins that pull me towards you. I want the heady madness and uncertainty and the feeling like the pit of my stomach just got kicked in. I want to savor that shit. I don't want to completely upset our little dollhouses, but I want to knock some furniture around.
Deeper. Darker. Dripping with sincerity. Compassion. Warm murky feelings of abandonment. A hug, a kiss good-bye. We could have a few of those moments together, you and I. We could go to an uncomfortable place where we'd question who we'd been before. Where we'd forget who we were before. Our old lives burnt away by a passion for the new. My past is nothing but trash and unmarked boxes. A bomb left in a forgotten place. An old scar you can't remember getting.