You're The Reason I'm Leaving.
The first announcements have been made for the Big Day Out, and it's a damn fine announcement too. The White Stripes, Franz Ferdinand, Sleater-Kinney, The Stooges, Kings Of Leon, with more to be announced. The Mars Volta are playing as well, but I don't think I could be fucked standing and listening to a forty five minute version of Televators. Can't fucking wait. Tickets on sale October 14. Gotta get them straight away.
The other day I had an idea for an amusing post about something I can't remember. I realised when I went to post it and the rich text function wasn't working that my poor brain couldn't retain the humour of the post. It leapt straight out of my head and into thin air. Thin air is an awfully large place to get lost in. And very easy to get lost in it as well.
I felt all The Gunslingery with this jawbone. It's awesome. I was playing around in the backyard and Dad was throwing stuff out of his shed and went to throw all this out (except the shoe horn, I've had that for a very long while now) when I said, no, I'll keep it. I did, and here it is, laid out on the bench. I will imagine the jawbone and myself will have many fun days recreating The Gunslinger.
Earlier this year my Dad's dad died. Now, my birthday was the first after his death and it was extremely weird not receiving an amusing card or cheque from my Papa. I kept on expecting to go to the mailbox and see one, only to realise that there wouldn't be one. I'm not greedy, I'm just dealing with acceptance is all. None the less, we had to chose something when Papa died that would be ours forever. I chose the record player unit and a television (I had in fact chosen all of his television's, but alas, I could only get one).
Now they are here and finding it nice and comfortable in my room.
The little calves probably didn't die some horrible death for their skins to be used as floor mats, I don't know how they died, but none the less, they're so nice and smooth and warm that I would like to be a cow.
The following is an excerpt from Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.
We talked about nothing in particular, but it felt like we were talking about the most important things, we pulled fistfuls of grass, and I asked her is she liked to read, she said, "No, but there are books that I love, love, love," she said it just like that, three times, "Do you like to dance?" she asked, "Do you like to swim?" I asked, we looked at each other until it felt like everything would burst into flames, "Do you like animals?" "Do you like bad weather?" "Do you like your friends?" I told her about my sculpture, she said, "I'm sure you will be a great artist." "How can you be sure?" "I just am." I told her I already was a great artist, because that's how unsure of myself I was, she said, "I meant famous," I told her that wasn't what mattered to me, she asked what mattered to me, I told her I did it for its own sake, she laughed and said, "You don't understand yourself," I said, "Of course I do," she said, "Of course," I said, "I do!" She said, "There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself," she saw through the shell of me into the center of me, "Do you like music?" Our fathers came out of the house and stood at the door, one of them asked, "What are we going to do?" I knew that our time together was almost over, I asked her if she liked sports, she asked me if I liked chess, I asked her if she liked fallen trees, she went home with her father, the center of me followed her, but I was left with the shell of me, I needed to see her again, I couldn't explain my need to myself, and that's why it was such a beautiful need, there's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself. The next day, I walked half an hour to her house, fearing someone would see me on the road between our neighbourhoods, too much to explain that I couldn't explain, I wore a broad-brimmed hat and kept my head down, I heard the footsteps of those passing me, and I didn't know if they were a man's, woman's, or child's, I felt as if I were walking the rungs of a ladder laid flat, I was too ashamed or embarassed to make myself known to her, how would I have explained it, was I walking up the ladder or down? I hid behind a mound of earth that had been dug up to make a grave for some old books, literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell on the floor he kissed it, when he was done with a book he tried to give it away to someone who would love it, and if he couldn't find a worthy recipient, he buried it, I looked for her all day but didn't see her, not in the yeard, not through a window, I promised myself I would stay until I found her but as night began to come in, I knew I had to go home, I hated myself for going, why couldn't I be the kind of person who stays? I walked back with my head down, I couldn't stop thinking about her even though I hardly knew her, I dind't know what good would come of going to see her, but I knew that I needed to be near her, it occurred to me, as I walked back to her the next day with my head down, that she might not be thinking of me. The books had been buried, so I hid this time behind a group of trees, I imagined their roots wrapped around books, pulling nourishment from the pages, I imagined rings of letters in their trunks, I waited for hours, I saw your mother in one of the second-floor windows, she was just a girl, she looked back at me, but I didn't see Anna. A leaf fell, it was yellow like paper, I had to go home, and then, the next day, I had to go back to her. I skipped my classes, the walk happened so quickly, my neck strained from hiding my face, my arm brushed the arm of someone passing - a strong, solid arm - and I tried to imagine whom it belonged to, a farmer, a stoneworker, a carpenter, a bricklayer. When I got to her house I hid beneath one of the back windows, a train rattled past in the distance, people coming, people leaving, soldiers, children, then window shook like an eardrum, I waited all day, did she go on some sort of trip, was she on an errand, was she hiding from me? When I came home my father told me that her father had paid another visit, I asked him why he was out of breath, he said, "Things keep getting worse," I realised that her father and I must have passed each other on the road that morning. "What things?" Was his the strong arm I felt brushing past me? "Everything. The world." Did he see me, or did my hat and lowered head protect me? "Since when?" Perhaps his head was down, too. "Since the beginning." The harder I tried not to think about her, the more I thought about her, the more impossible it became to explain, I went back to her house, I walked the road between our two neighbourhoods with my head down, she wasn't there again, I wanted to call her name, but I didn't want her to hear my voice, all of my desire was based on that one brief exchange, held in the palm of our half hour together were one hundred million arguments, and impossible admissions, and silences. I had so much to ask her, "Do you lie on your stomach and look for things under the ice?" "Do you like plays?" "Do you like it when you can hear something before you can see it?" I went again the next day, the walk was exhausting, with each step I further convinced myself that she had thought badly of me, or worse, that she hadn't thought of me at all, I walked with my head bowed, my broad-brimmed cap pushed low, when you hide your face from the world, you can't see the world, and that's why, in the middle of my youth, in the middle of Europe, in between our two villages, on the verge of losing everything, I bumped into something and was knocked to the ground. It took me several breaths to gather myself together, at first I thought I'd walked into a tree, but then that tree became a person, who was also recovering on the ground, and then I saw that it was her, and she saw that it was me, "Hello," I said, brushing myself off, "Hello," she said.
I excuse the unbroken, unparagraphed text, but that's the way the majority of the text appears in the book.
From one of threedimensions replies in his journal:
Black added: "It isn't always about the money for me or for the Pixies - we do have an aesthetic. Anyway, we've left it in the hands our agent. So Big Day Out or on our own tour, the Pixies will be in Australia early next year."
The other day I had an idea for an amusing post about something I can't remember. I realised when I went to post it and the rich text function wasn't working that my poor brain couldn't retain the humour of the post. It leapt straight out of my head and into thin air. Thin air is an awfully large place to get lost in. And very easy to get lost in it as well.
I felt all The Gunslingery with this jawbone. It's awesome. I was playing around in the backyard and Dad was throwing stuff out of his shed and went to throw all this out (except the shoe horn, I've had that for a very long while now) when I said, no, I'll keep it. I did, and here it is, laid out on the bench. I will imagine the jawbone and myself will have many fun days recreating The Gunslinger.
Earlier this year my Dad's dad died. Now, my birthday was the first after his death and it was extremely weird not receiving an amusing card or cheque from my Papa. I kept on expecting to go to the mailbox and see one, only to realise that there wouldn't be one. I'm not greedy, I'm just dealing with acceptance is all. None the less, we had to chose something when Papa died that would be ours forever. I chose the record player unit and a television (I had in fact chosen all of his television's, but alas, I could only get one).
Now they are here and finding it nice and comfortable in my room.
The little calves probably didn't die some horrible death for their skins to be used as floor mats, I don't know how they died, but none the less, they're so nice and smooth and warm that I would like to be a cow.
The following is an excerpt from Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.
We talked about nothing in particular, but it felt like we were talking about the most important things, we pulled fistfuls of grass, and I asked her is she liked to read, she said, "No, but there are books that I love, love, love," she said it just like that, three times, "Do you like to dance?" she asked, "Do you like to swim?" I asked, we looked at each other until it felt like everything would burst into flames, "Do you like animals?" "Do you like bad weather?" "Do you like your friends?" I told her about my sculpture, she said, "I'm sure you will be a great artist." "How can you be sure?" "I just am." I told her I already was a great artist, because that's how unsure of myself I was, she said, "I meant famous," I told her that wasn't what mattered to me, she asked what mattered to me, I told her I did it for its own sake, she laughed and said, "You don't understand yourself," I said, "Of course I do," she said, "Of course," I said, "I do!" She said, "There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself," she saw through the shell of me into the center of me, "Do you like music?" Our fathers came out of the house and stood at the door, one of them asked, "What are we going to do?" I knew that our time together was almost over, I asked her if she liked sports, she asked me if I liked chess, I asked her if she liked fallen trees, she went home with her father, the center of me followed her, but I was left with the shell of me, I needed to see her again, I couldn't explain my need to myself, and that's why it was such a beautiful need, there's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself. The next day, I walked half an hour to her house, fearing someone would see me on the road between our neighbourhoods, too much to explain that I couldn't explain, I wore a broad-brimmed hat and kept my head down, I heard the footsteps of those passing me, and I didn't know if they were a man's, woman's, or child's, I felt as if I were walking the rungs of a ladder laid flat, I was too ashamed or embarassed to make myself known to her, how would I have explained it, was I walking up the ladder or down? I hid behind a mound of earth that had been dug up to make a grave for some old books, literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell on the floor he kissed it, when he was done with a book he tried to give it away to someone who would love it, and if he couldn't find a worthy recipient, he buried it, I looked for her all day but didn't see her, not in the yeard, not through a window, I promised myself I would stay until I found her but as night began to come in, I knew I had to go home, I hated myself for going, why couldn't I be the kind of person who stays? I walked back with my head down, I couldn't stop thinking about her even though I hardly knew her, I dind't know what good would come of going to see her, but I knew that I needed to be near her, it occurred to me, as I walked back to her the next day with my head down, that she might not be thinking of me. The books had been buried, so I hid this time behind a group of trees, I imagined their roots wrapped around books, pulling nourishment from the pages, I imagined rings of letters in their trunks, I waited for hours, I saw your mother in one of the second-floor windows, she was just a girl, she looked back at me, but I didn't see Anna. A leaf fell, it was yellow like paper, I had to go home, and then, the next day, I had to go back to her. I skipped my classes, the walk happened so quickly, my neck strained from hiding my face, my arm brushed the arm of someone passing - a strong, solid arm - and I tried to imagine whom it belonged to, a farmer, a stoneworker, a carpenter, a bricklayer. When I got to her house I hid beneath one of the back windows, a train rattled past in the distance, people coming, people leaving, soldiers, children, then window shook like an eardrum, I waited all day, did she go on some sort of trip, was she on an errand, was she hiding from me? When I came home my father told me that her father had paid another visit, I asked him why he was out of breath, he said, "Things keep getting worse," I realised that her father and I must have passed each other on the road that morning. "What things?" Was his the strong arm I felt brushing past me? "Everything. The world." Did he see me, or did my hat and lowered head protect me? "Since when?" Perhaps his head was down, too. "Since the beginning." The harder I tried not to think about her, the more I thought about her, the more impossible it became to explain, I went back to her house, I walked the road between our two neighbourhoods with my head down, she wasn't there again, I wanted to call her name, but I didn't want her to hear my voice, all of my desire was based on that one brief exchange, held in the palm of our half hour together were one hundred million arguments, and impossible admissions, and silences. I had so much to ask her, "Do you lie on your stomach and look for things under the ice?" "Do you like plays?" "Do you like it when you can hear something before you can see it?" I went again the next day, the walk was exhausting, with each step I further convinced myself that she had thought badly of me, or worse, that she hadn't thought of me at all, I walked with my head bowed, my broad-brimmed cap pushed low, when you hide your face from the world, you can't see the world, and that's why, in the middle of my youth, in the middle of Europe, in between our two villages, on the verge of losing everything, I bumped into something and was knocked to the ground. It took me several breaths to gather myself together, at first I thought I'd walked into a tree, but then that tree became a person, who was also recovering on the ground, and then I saw that it was her, and she saw that it was me, "Hello," I said, brushing myself off, "Hello," she said.
I excuse the unbroken, unparagraphed text, but that's the way the majority of the text appears in the book.
From one of threedimensions replies in his journal:
Black added: "It isn't always about the money for me or for the Pixies - we do have an aesthetic. Anyway, we've left it in the hands our agent. So Big Day Out or on our own tour, the Pixies will be in Australia early next year."