heyhihello, random question. who are your favorite musical artists?
oh boy, the age-old question.
I have a serious one-sided love affair with Amanda Palmer. Any band, album, song, instrument, measure that she has laid her musical finger on instantly becomes magic to me. She can do no wrong.
Andy Hull and I share the same soul. If my heart could speak, it would sing Manchester Orchestra at the top of its lungs, it would cry through every verse. I have never had such an intense lyrical connection with any other musical artist.
I have a special place in my heart for Flyleaf. They are, by no means, any longer my chosen ‘genre’, but for years and years and years they kissed my wounds and stole my breath, relentlessly, beautifully. Lacey would scream, and my lungs and blood would scream with her, forcing the agony of Mid-Pubescent Angst out of me, if only for a moment or two. No matter what genre I’m into, no matter what beliefs I have, no matter the person I end up becoming, Flyleaf will always have that fundamental hold on me, that untouchable feeling of faith and hope in a dark time.
Also, I love conor oberst & co., florence + the machine, imogen heap, innerpartysystem, the killlaaaahs, modest mouse, mute math, regina regina regina, silversun pickups, jew no, normal stuff that everybody loves because it’s beautiful stuff that can’t be touched.
also, there are times in my life when i can’t deny gaga, britney, or fucking ke$ha. so fucking sue me.
you’ve got me by the finger, dragging me to places that i admittedly miss, but fear returning to. and i keep waiting for you to turn around and look at me with those eyes and tell me it’ll be okay and all those things we love to hear when we are walking blindly behind something we only half-trust. but your head, it never turns, never faces me, never reassuring.
i’ve got my whole head in this now, you know. my neck is following close behind, and my shoulders and arms are eagerly awaiting to be swallowed, and my stomach screams for a new home. my body pulsates in anticipation to be eaten alive, and frankly there’s not much i can do to stop it, like i can’t stop a fever from shivering.
i am tired now, but not tired enough to sleep. i am realizing more and more each day that that Golden Moment, that summit of fatigue is only reached when i am climbing mountains with you, breathless and cold thousands of feet above the sea.
and it’s funny how i imagined that i could win this winless fight but maybe it isn’t all that funny that i’ve been fighting all my life but maybe i have to think it’s funny if i want to live before i die and maybe it’s funniest of all to think that i’ll die before i actually see
that i am exactly the person that i want to be. fuck yes. i am exactly the person that i want to be.
we are strangled when we touch each other’s cheeks, electrified and choking, crawling toward each other on the ground like we were climbing mountains, desperate and clawing toward the summit. we reached each other finally and erupted into a blaze of twenty-minute lovers, showering on the pavement and doing something closely resembling shattering, breaking into millions.
i wrote for hours last night, taking idea after idea and rolling it around in my mouth, hoping to spit out something worth penning. but i am tired of the same metaphors, the same punctuation, the same sentence structures. i am tired of it all. i am tired of my writing.
i’m not stupid enough to think that this sort of distaste with one’s own work doesn’t happen to everybody. i know it does. and i know i’m not alone. so i’m asking for help. i need new life blown into my words, they have become so deflated and meaningless to me lately.
i am growing tired, frankly. tired of always being the one to walk out of a burning building with a burn across his face, tired of being the one tossing and turning thoughts around like somersaults in my head while hours creep on and on.
but there must be something in you that tugs toward me, god, there must. something that leaves you itchy when your mind is flashing like a polaroid, image after image after image, a slideshow for the weak.
after all, it was you who threw the match down before this house went up in flames, you who blew relentlessly even when the fire died down in the cold, you who thought that the birds wouldn’t come back to us this spring, that the grizzlies wouldn’t wake up for us, that this snow would never melt…
and call me delirious, but i think i hear wings fluttering already, full speed ahead toward a world of windows and huntsmen, an army of the winged approaching quickly toward their fates: an undramatic, forgotten thud.
oh, can’t we keep our limbs locked for a few moments more, so maybe we will remember that there is life in our lives, and we are not shadows or oak trees, that your thick pulse beats on and on and on even when my ear is not pressed to your chest. and on these nights when i lie alone and dizzy, i will need to remember that it’s only the spinning of our Earth, i will need to remember that although you created a perfect house of bones, at least this way i can breathe and maybe not dream quite so violently and relentlessly.
our hours were over, but you left behind a trail of seeds, as if half-expecting that i would eventually come to, and amble about in search of you. of course, upon finding myself in a cold sweat, breathing once more like humans do, i did just that. i followed your trail and grew tired and angry and with every step all i wanted was to cry out, or at least for us to be more than children playing Hide and Seek.
but even as i ached, i reached the end of your trail and looked up, and of course i didn’t find your eyes locked on mine and of course you didn’t run to me and staple your arms to my torso, of course not- instead, a shadow stood rooted to the ground, towering like an oak tree, your smell still leeching onto the air around me, sucking the life out of it, and soon the sun went down and i of course was left to grieve.
i live in chicago. i’m going to school for music production. that’s what i do, first and foremost and always always always: music.
i hate talking on the phone and small talk and the question ‘how are you?’. i love having friends though, so this unfortunate combination of characteristics proves time and time again to be detrimental.
you’ll usually find me bangin’ on a piano or hackin’ on my typewriter or sometimes when i’m not feeling quite so violent, quietly reading but always drinking coffee always always always.
i can’t think of any more defining qualities that i have, guess i’m what you could call bland, but i’m friendly as fuck so let’s talk sometime. also, (to everybody) thanks for acknowledging my existence by following me and for for some reason thinking that i’m better than somebody else or that i’m worth the space on your feed. it’s a beautiful thing to me, however simple it may be.
there’s something to be said about old flames and the images that play in your mind when you say you are being Nostalgic. like driving in the car and screaming to hit the high notes until our voices were hoarse and we ended up just shouting and wailing, or laying outside on a purple plaid blanket that would become wet with dew anyhow and staring at the stars making contests out of how many shooting stars we could see (you with your pristine blue eyes, you always won). there’s something to be said about these moments we shared and things we did that i realize now everyone has done before, but something inside of me knows that we shared them better than anyone else, did them better than anyone else.
i hadn’t seen you in months. you were a foreign thought to me, something alive only in my writings and in my pictures. i thought of you, but really, i only thought of shades of you, pastels like pink and lavender in my mind. you were a part of my imagination, my dreams, and when you pulled up in my driveway after so many nights wishing you would finally materialize and find your way out of my mind and into my sight, into my hands, i was quite literally at a loss for words.
i started by doing what people do when people they love pull into their driveway and i sat next to you in an unfamiliar car, rubbing my hands together to keep warm, and all i could think about was how i was next to you in a car, how i was me and you were you, but i was not the one who sat next to you last time we decided to drive aimlessly on icy country roads. i couldn’t help but sit in silence as you told me ghost stories and fairy tales because to be honest i couldn’t quite grasp where we were, who we were, what we were doing.
words fell from your lips and onto my lap and i was awkward and clumsy with them, letting them fall between my fingers and onto the floor, reconstructing them with sticky, messy words of my own.
soon we were back in my driveway and i was preparing to leave and not see you for many more months, preparing to fall back into imagining words you might say and expressions you might make, preparing to not call you because of the fear of not having anything to say, preparing to hug you like i always always will after we have nights that remind me of a past i once knew, when you pulled away, telling me with your eyes that this was not a goodbye and telling me with your mouth that i would see you tomorrow.
my exiting the car was a slow, drawn-out process, and when i finally stood up and turned around to watch you leave, i must have been standing in a funny way or maybe my hair was too disheveled or maybe i had something stuck in my teeth or maybe just maybe the moment was a little too perfect because we both looked at each other through the windshield and we were beaming.
i’ve got all my fingers crammed in all these electrical outlets,
if only i were childproof, if only my angles didn’t create such sharp corners, if only my eyes weren’t painted brown with lead paint, i could be like the spokespeople on the television or the friendly sales associate behind the counter, if only i weren’t made of such small pieces, finding myself underneath cushions, between my dog’s teeth, the vacuum cleaner choking on me, my god how these things can be lost so very very easily.
but my words can cut sensitive skin and my arms can strangle someone small enough out of pure desperation, you watch, they’ll be screaming for band-aids and praying that somebody in the room knows CPR, they’ll be screaming, and i’ll be hiding in the corner, wishing so bad i could be more like the kind waitress offering herself up as a slave for a mere fifteen percent.
i’ve got all my fingers crammed in all these electrical outlets, my toes are soaking in a bowl of iced water, so all that’s left to do is wait for someone to come along and flip the switch.
falling down slowly we kissed on the lips, dreaming of places we never would visit. there we were, holding hands amidst the thunder, locked up inside of an indian summer. we built up a fortress of recycled paper and laughed at what doctors called ‘normal behavior’. you got me a present on my eighteenth birthday, a disposable camera filled with pictures of rain.
and i truly meant what i cried out: we would never die out.
falling with raindrops in tandem, our raincoats grew tired of keeping us from growing cold. we gathered like fog around lighting-born fires, warming our hands and fulfilling desire. then i bought you some candles so maybe you’d love me but i left the matchsticks at home so we’d soon be dodging the darkness like thieves in the night, growing tired of trying to get things right.
we were just rain on the river, drowning from within the crowd together. and i tried to mean what i cried out: that we would never die out.
falling like bodies, we fought in a war wearing uniform faces that we’d never made before. we stood on opposite sides of the shooting line, where i caught your eyes one last time. now we are watching as nations fall down. 'this is our mess' i whispered out loud. and nobody saw as we said our goodbyes, falling like bombs and exploding in the sky.
and i truly meant what i said: love is never dead.