She Said
Hostalgia is a thing that should be encouraged, perhaps. in the liner notes to his quasi best of Luke Haines reflects upon his discography. A remix album that cost £250 to produce and that he has never listened to recieves 5 stars because he gets 100% of the publishing. Alternatively "How I Learned To Love The Bootboys" is awarded nothing. This, he says, can't be reappraised because of its anti-sentimental stance. There is integrity in that I suppose.
Anyway aside from listening to music none of you Americans have ever heard of I have been, sort of, living. My first year of university is drawing to its close and it has been strange. I have not changed one iota and in other ways I'm an entirely different person. I am still consumed with a Haines sense of disapproval for most things, my facial hair remains on the wrong side of bum fluff when I don't shave. If I didn't have the self control a Rogers rat 'tache could be mine.
The various strains of drama that I can call my own progress in that curious way such things tend to do. Large swathes of empty time filled with wanking or walking or weather.
It was because of such events (in this case apparently all my fault) that I found myself forced to attend a party that I wasn't particulary welcome at or really wanted to attend. So there I am in a room full of various people who I used to see every day doing various drugs in a determined effort to have a good time
And in such circumstances I should probably felt nostalgia or hostalgia. But there was nothing much there. Only small talk and private jokes.
You must understand that I thrive on small talk. being forced into a conversation by social convention is a game that will remain unmatched: The initial sinking feeling of eye contact followed by the vain grope for a suitable topic of conversation and the inevitable exchange of banalities. I love it. It's something which for reasons I never felt compelled to investigate I've always been good at. Much like extracting quotes from unread text or navigating overly complicated archiac public transport systems it over inflates my ego to frightening proportions (in a good way).
Others however were not so fortunate. Someone else who had been dragged there unwillingly made the mistakes of letting past events bother her both at the time and in the present and then to feel compelled to tell such people about it. A school boy error if you pardon the joke.
And this is where everything starts to crumble. Getting trapped with someone intent on having a meaningful conversation is terribly, dreadfully tiresome.
Talking about the essay we had to hand in that day (which for some reason we had done the exact same books and question) and that I had only started writing at 6 that morning was pushing it but exactly why high school was so shit is just not the done thing. I didn't have any problems with it anyway. I mean once you accept the fact that it is a bit, just a tad, shit and then move on its fine.
But no, by all means, do talk about it at length. It's times like this when you just wish you had been one of those people who actually had something against goths back in the day. Then I could have spent my evening debating the merits of the various Rockys or something equally gorgeous in its pointless stupidity.
Ok now for some pretentiousness: Saudade. I have that feeling occasionally. And yes when I do I feel the urge to wear a long coat, stand by the banks of a river and smoke french cigarettes while looking like I feel things far more deeply than the likes of you could ever possibly hope to understand. I don't however feel compelled to talk about them at length to an aquaintance. I keep such feelings to myself and listen to Scott Walker or early Durutti Column or late Talk Talk through headphones (although I do write about them in an overly emo livejournal so OH NO)
So yeah this post is overlong, rambling and without any particular point. This should be the paragraph where I tie it all together so it at least has the artiface of a point but I don't seem able to write it. Let's call it postmodern, or new games journalism or a tribute to Yu Suzuki or something.
Nostalgia or Hostalgia. They're both equally invalid choices. Things were and things are. There is meaning in what you got from something or what it means to you. But not in what you wish you got from something.
All there is are our Favourite Descending Intervals (obscure reference ahoy)
Anyway aside from listening to music none of you Americans have ever heard of I have been, sort of, living. My first year of university is drawing to its close and it has been strange. I have not changed one iota and in other ways I'm an entirely different person. I am still consumed with a Haines sense of disapproval for most things, my facial hair remains on the wrong side of bum fluff when I don't shave. If I didn't have the self control a Rogers rat 'tache could be mine.
The various strains of drama that I can call my own progress in that curious way such things tend to do. Large swathes of empty time filled with wanking or walking or weather.
It was because of such events (in this case apparently all my fault) that I found myself forced to attend a party that I wasn't particulary welcome at or really wanted to attend. So there I am in a room full of various people who I used to see every day doing various drugs in a determined effort to have a good time
And in such circumstances I should probably felt nostalgia or hostalgia. But there was nothing much there. Only small talk and private jokes.
You must understand that I thrive on small talk. being forced into a conversation by social convention is a game that will remain unmatched: The initial sinking feeling of eye contact followed by the vain grope for a suitable topic of conversation and the inevitable exchange of banalities. I love it. It's something which for reasons I never felt compelled to investigate I've always been good at. Much like extracting quotes from unread text or navigating overly complicated archiac public transport systems it over inflates my ego to frightening proportions (in a good way).
Others however were not so fortunate. Someone else who had been dragged there unwillingly made the mistakes of letting past events bother her both at the time and in the present and then to feel compelled to tell such people about it. A school boy error if you pardon the joke.
And this is where everything starts to crumble. Getting trapped with someone intent on having a meaningful conversation is terribly, dreadfully tiresome.
Talking about the essay we had to hand in that day (which for some reason we had done the exact same books and question) and that I had only started writing at 6 that morning was pushing it but exactly why high school was so shit is just not the done thing. I didn't have any problems with it anyway. I mean once you accept the fact that it is a bit, just a tad, shit and then move on its fine.
But no, by all means, do talk about it at length. It's times like this when you just wish you had been one of those people who actually had something against goths back in the day. Then I could have spent my evening debating the merits of the various Rockys or something equally gorgeous in its pointless stupidity.
Ok now for some pretentiousness: Saudade. I have that feeling occasionally. And yes when I do I feel the urge to wear a long coat, stand by the banks of a river and smoke french cigarettes while looking like I feel things far more deeply than the likes of you could ever possibly hope to understand. I don't however feel compelled to talk about them at length to an aquaintance. I keep such feelings to myself and listen to Scott Walker or early Durutti Column or late Talk Talk through headphones (although I do write about them in an overly emo livejournal so OH NO)
So yeah this post is overlong, rambling and without any particular point. This should be the paragraph where I tie it all together so it at least has the artiface of a point but I don't seem able to write it. Let's call it postmodern, or new games journalism or a tribute to Yu Suzuki or something.
Nostalgia or Hostalgia. They're both equally invalid choices. Things were and things are. There is meaning in what you got from something or what it means to you. But not in what you wish you got from something.
All there is are our Favourite Descending Intervals (obscure reference ahoy)