I'm Sorry I've Gone And Disappeared...
I'll try and catch you up with the writing nonsense. I get distracted by shiny things easily...and have a hard time keeping up too many internerd based things (so I've been on that other evil Murdoch owned place a lot more)....Forgive me. I'll try to keep this one up simply because it's much more condusive to the whole writing thing. Sooo, some of you may have read this one....
*******
The Piano Has Been Drinking, Just Not With Tom Waits
Current mood: uncomfortable
When I was in high school I had this boyfriend I was absolutely crazy about. You know the type of relationship that was sooo bad but felt sooo good? It was worse. I could blame it on being young and naive or some other empty fallacy, but even then I knew better. He was a man-whore to the upmost degree, he had "Restless Penis Syndrome." The crazy thing was: he was actually crazy about me. In any case, I don't think about him that often anymore. I mean, in a High Fidelity sense he's still on my Top Five list I suppose, but I rarely think of him. Except, that is, when I hear Billy Joel on the radio.
He loved Billy Joel in the most ridiculous sense considering he was a raver-cum-hippie who loved trance but not house (and of course the Grateful Dead). I somehow can't equate a love for music you like when on drugs to the Piano Man...maybe someone can explain it to me later. But this piece isn't about the first boy who broke my heart or gave me my first orgasm for that matter--it all comes down to Billy-f'ing-Joel.
One day (and you'll have to forgive me for forgetting the details and yes I know it's my story and that's utter blasphemy in the story telling world), I'm not sure if by chance radio encounter or a personal dedication via mix CD but a certain song came on. "This is my song about you," he said with genuine twinkle in those devilish green eyes. "Whenever I hear it I think of you."
Now that's the kind of line that would make the women of black and white melodrama swoon and leaves the modern romantic comedy heroine sighing. Not this pair of saucy muffins. I raised my eyebrows so far up onto my skull I must've looked like a nightmarish cartoon. "Always a Woman is your song for me?" My incredulous tone of voice stabbing the empty air. Yes people, of all the songs about women and love and other such sappy nonsense that could have been selected I got the one where Mr. Joel hums and makes statements like, "She'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding." When you are young and in love and your man candy turns to you and with deep purpose bestows a song upon you, you want it to be something that will remind you of that fond moment. A song about what seemed to be an awful wretch of a girl was certainly not what I wanted etched in the jukebox of my memory. But then neither was Everything I Do (I Do it For You), by Bryan Adams and that song made it's unfortunate musical debut in my melos centered memory while I was trying to keep warm one night by building a fire in a handsome man's bed.
---SIDEBAR: It's not that I have anything anything against Mr. Adams or songs from the Robin Hood soundtrack, and I know for many people who must have played that song it was instrumental in getting it on--just not for me. That is completely seperate from the fact that I have a soft spot for men with sometimes bad taste in music. It is absolutely adorable. SIDESHOW OVER!---
All digressions aside, the song Always A Woman served its purpose marvelously. And today while driving--or rather sitting in Tech Center traffic--Always A Woman came on the radio as I was frantically channel surfing, praying for Angus Young to guide me down Dry Creek Road. I caught it in the middle of the song and was immediately sorry that I hadn't heard it from the beginning. It's been years since I've heard the song in its entirety and I rather miss being looked at the way that eighteen-year-old boy did when he cursed me with it. The truth of the matter is, I resembled that remark even then.
I don't know if it's the rain, or the sudden period of introspection I've been in, but the words of pop songs on the radio are suddenly speaking to me. He got me. You have to imagine me as I was then: blonde and tiny; long waves and sad eyes; the songs of Ani DiFranco and Ben Harper my soundtrack then; marching into A.P. Bio at 7am armed with Bailey's spiked coffee believing that I was to be unleashed upon the world and not the other way around. (If you're still confused, the hilarious Andrew stole a blurry clandestine glimpse of that girl and posted it as a comment on the myspace. Yes, that girl in the cowboy hat is me and if you ask my mom nicely to see her keys you can see the photo in focus.) I miss my old face sometimes and I wonder if the me I am now would dissapoint in comparison to the me I was then. Until I realize that I'm pretty much the same as I ever was.
Certainly putting on some weight and embracing my true brunette roots has done me some good. I'm still bold and usually fearless, though to a different degree. I'm no longer shrouded in a glow of youth and love--the glow now replaced by a love of life and insatiable lust. I didn't understand then what the song meant: to him or in reference to me. And while it's still ridiculous, it has taken its proper place in the jukebox of my memory. I wish I saw myself through those wicked emerald eyes, as woman and child fiercely duking it out for the top spot. I can only see myself through my own soft brown ones, as woman and child duking it out in the game of unemployment coping skills and emotional intellegence.
Memory is important. Imperative even. And the soundtrack others choose for us is just as laden in rhetoric--ethos, logos, pathos, melos--as the one we choose for ourselves. Tell me about your soundtrack, chosen or chosen for you. Seeing ourselves through the eyes of others is a fascinating social study.
"And the most she will do is throw shadows at you..."
Authored March 23, 2007.
*******
The Piano Has Been Drinking, Just Not With Tom Waits
Current mood: uncomfortable
When I was in high school I had this boyfriend I was absolutely crazy about. You know the type of relationship that was sooo bad but felt sooo good? It was worse. I could blame it on being young and naive or some other empty fallacy, but even then I knew better. He was a man-whore to the upmost degree, he had "Restless Penis Syndrome." The crazy thing was: he was actually crazy about me. In any case, I don't think about him that often anymore. I mean, in a High Fidelity sense he's still on my Top Five list I suppose, but I rarely think of him. Except, that is, when I hear Billy Joel on the radio.
He loved Billy Joel in the most ridiculous sense considering he was a raver-cum-hippie who loved trance but not house (and of course the Grateful Dead). I somehow can't equate a love for music you like when on drugs to the Piano Man...maybe someone can explain it to me later. But this piece isn't about the first boy who broke my heart or gave me my first orgasm for that matter--it all comes down to Billy-f'ing-Joel.
One day (and you'll have to forgive me for forgetting the details and yes I know it's my story and that's utter blasphemy in the story telling world), I'm not sure if by chance radio encounter or a personal dedication via mix CD but a certain song came on. "This is my song about you," he said with genuine twinkle in those devilish green eyes. "Whenever I hear it I think of you."
Now that's the kind of line that would make the women of black and white melodrama swoon and leaves the modern romantic comedy heroine sighing. Not this pair of saucy muffins. I raised my eyebrows so far up onto my skull I must've looked like a nightmarish cartoon. "Always a Woman is your song for me?" My incredulous tone of voice stabbing the empty air. Yes people, of all the songs about women and love and other such sappy nonsense that could have been selected I got the one where Mr. Joel hums and makes statements like, "She'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding." When you are young and in love and your man candy turns to you and with deep purpose bestows a song upon you, you want it to be something that will remind you of that fond moment. A song about what seemed to be an awful wretch of a girl was certainly not what I wanted etched in the jukebox of my memory. But then neither was Everything I Do (I Do it For You), by Bryan Adams and that song made it's unfortunate musical debut in my melos centered memory while I was trying to keep warm one night by building a fire in a handsome man's bed.
---SIDEBAR: It's not that I have anything anything against Mr. Adams or songs from the Robin Hood soundtrack, and I know for many people who must have played that song it was instrumental in getting it on--just not for me. That is completely seperate from the fact that I have a soft spot for men with sometimes bad taste in music. It is absolutely adorable. SIDESHOW OVER!---
All digressions aside, the song Always A Woman served its purpose marvelously. And today while driving--or rather sitting in Tech Center traffic--Always A Woman came on the radio as I was frantically channel surfing, praying for Angus Young to guide me down Dry Creek Road. I caught it in the middle of the song and was immediately sorry that I hadn't heard it from the beginning. It's been years since I've heard the song in its entirety and I rather miss being looked at the way that eighteen-year-old boy did when he cursed me with it. The truth of the matter is, I resembled that remark even then.
I don't know if it's the rain, or the sudden period of introspection I've been in, but the words of pop songs on the radio are suddenly speaking to me. He got me. You have to imagine me as I was then: blonde and tiny; long waves and sad eyes; the songs of Ani DiFranco and Ben Harper my soundtrack then; marching into A.P. Bio at 7am armed with Bailey's spiked coffee believing that I was to be unleashed upon the world and not the other way around. (If you're still confused, the hilarious Andrew stole a blurry clandestine glimpse of that girl and posted it as a comment on the myspace. Yes, that girl in the cowboy hat is me and if you ask my mom nicely to see her keys you can see the photo in focus.) I miss my old face sometimes and I wonder if the me I am now would dissapoint in comparison to the me I was then. Until I realize that I'm pretty much the same as I ever was.
Certainly putting on some weight and embracing my true brunette roots has done me some good. I'm still bold and usually fearless, though to a different degree. I'm no longer shrouded in a glow of youth and love--the glow now replaced by a love of life and insatiable lust. I didn't understand then what the song meant: to him or in reference to me. And while it's still ridiculous, it has taken its proper place in the jukebox of my memory. I wish I saw myself through those wicked emerald eyes, as woman and child fiercely duking it out for the top spot. I can only see myself through my own soft brown ones, as woman and child duking it out in the game of unemployment coping skills and emotional intellegence.
Memory is important. Imperative even. And the soundtrack others choose for us is just as laden in rhetoric--ethos, logos, pathos, melos--as the one we choose for ourselves. Tell me about your soundtrack, chosen or chosen for you. Seeing ourselves through the eyes of others is a fascinating social study.
"And the most she will do is throw shadows at you..."
Authored March 23, 2007.