Scott Fitzgerald to Zelda Fitzgerald, March 1919 (via sweetsweetsmile)
god this applies to like 5 very important people in my life/who used to be in my life it’s too much
Billboard on top of a building on Baum Boulevard in East Liberty.
Yea me too
Blood orange over and over and over all my days are one long yawn hands rubbing my eyes apologizing to mass grave fantasizing about sleep
and the evolution of progressive music culture from subversive music culture. probably a few of you have read this already. (Mary)
"To retreat into a satisfying obscurity is a politicized statement in itself, a refusal to participate in a system that will invariably warp your work into something marketable or detached from its original context. And this retreat might be the only effective path to truth in expression."
(thoughts? mystery guy your music? to Eno or not to Eno?)
"The point is not that Perfect Pussy doesn’t employ any "avant-garde" techniques; they release music on an independent label, play at DIY venues, and openly speak about their politics. But through participating with the press, Perfect Pussy also subject themselves to a redefinition that is out of their control. The danger is not in the existence of music criticism itself, but in the emulation of critical insight, a kind of writing that claims a certain open-mindedness while also bolstering dominant ideologies. It is not a conscious process, and it is often well-intentioned. None of the writers who reviewed Say Yes to Love are wrong for enjoying the album and reflecting that in their words. Yet individual opinions partly stem from the experience of walking through a world saturated by prevailing attitudes and beliefs. These opinions are also the pieces of a larger mosaic, whose totality is a cultural force more powerful than we know."
I like Perfect Pussy. I hate most music reviews. People still don’t acknowledge the agendas of diluted major music blogs. On another note, every “shimmering landscape” description on WXJM rotation CDs taken from Pitchfork gon get crossed out and rewritten by yours truly.
for booking an indie/garage showcase at Clementine this year with female musicians in all of the bands, on accident. for expecting people to think it was on purpose. for knowing that shouldn’t be something they had to question, but the reality is that disappointing (silly, sexist) assumptions are especially strong in DIY circles. for defining bands by their music, not by the gender of their members. word, dudes
i love harrisonburg and we do have a supportive music community. but in the shower / sitting on my bed / walking to class / sitting on a stoop i keep thinking, “fuck your scene, i don’t wanna be a part of it.” i’m making a space that promotes free thought and constructive action and i know who’s down to make it with me. i don’t care about being accepted in a scene that believes in gendered musicianship. god help the asshole who brings sexism or any other kind of backwards prejudice into the show house i move into this summer. i know other girls and dudes in this downtown area are dissatisfied but would rather talk of how they want things to be then make it real. i know others who are already making the space i want. i know i do it inefficiently sometimes but at least i try. any kind of dialogue brings more clarity to wack social conventions.
she’s not just the girl in the band. she’s the guitarist. they’re not just a girl band, they’re a band. female fronted does not mean riot grrrl. fuck yea girl drummers? she’s not a dog that skateboards on youtube. let’s give it up for the beautiful ladies in Holy Doll. because we are first and foremost pretty to look at, then we play music. our efforts aren’t cute, they’re real. the art we produce is scrutinized more and perceived as less truthful. but i know my work is good. you’ll listen to my bands anyway ;)
it doesn’t make you cool. if you think it looks good you’re wrong. people who care make better art. there’s a degree of caring in separating bullshit from what matters. but an overall lack of curiosity or interest makes a person boring and dumb.
i’m not talking about clinical depression. i’m talking about the decision to live like you’re dead.
LULA: Now you say to me, “Lula, Lula, why don’t you go to this party with me tonight?” It’s your turn, and let those be your lines.
CLAY: Lula, why don’t you go to this party with me tonight, Huh?
LULA: Say my name twice before you ask, and no huh’s.
CLAY: Lula, Lula, why don’t you go to this party with me tonight?
LULA: I’d like to go, Clay, but how can you ask me to go when you barely know me?
CLAY: That is strange, isn’t it?
LULA: What kind of reaction is that? You’re supposed to say, “Aw, come on, we’ll get to know each other better at the party.”
CLAY: That’s pretty corny.
1. mismanage life
2. dispute reality
3. face palm
it’s crazy that we organize our lives by an ill-perceived abstraction. how necessary is it to our material survival. it seems like we use it as a collective effort to maintain false consciousness. we consent to perceive life in a straight line, but it makes us miserable. is surviving like this miserable, or is it surviving that is miserable? i know we experience time in our bodies, protecting and feeding and putting to bed. this is a rule of physical reality that has to be met. but how true is substance? i’m thinking about the frustrating attempts to define time. how its units of measurements (clocks, the rise and fall of the sun) are miniature imitations of a larger circularity. i think we all feel it but it doesn’t fit in the minute-to-minute lives we built. i am certain we are infinities trying to squeeze ourselves finite. it doesn’t work and it freaks us out. so to us, time is terror and panic. is waiting. maybe i want to be outside of the moment.
i’m not going insane. i’m just remembering how i teased atheists by asking them to explain how something can come from nothing. how can an origin be disputed? where else would all this come from? beyond our range of perception and understanding is a dimensionless unknown we are at least conscious of. i was ok with people calling it God. what some call faith, i called an assumption that the unknown is an enduring truth. now i’m pretty stumped. words are conflict. an origin seems untrue. what the fuck is time. did i write a deluge of bullshit. am i using the same words for different ideas. some functions exist outside of time, but if any thing exists only by virtue of an opposite then maybe time as we think we know it is real. the words ‘being’ and ‘is’ are frustrating and repetitive. maybe i launched my head into outer space and i’m ready to come down now.
The true life is not reducible to words spoken or written, not by anyone, ever. The true life takes place when we’re alone, thinking, feeling, lost in memory, dreamingly self-aware, the submicroscopic moments. He said this more than once, Elster did, in more than one way. His life happened, he said, when he sat staring at a blank wall, thinking about dinner.
An eight-hundred-page biography is nothing more than dead conjecture, he said.
I almost believed him when he said such things. He said we do this all the time, all of us, we become ourselves beneath the running thoughts and dim images, wondering idly when we’ll die. This is how we live and think whether we know it or not. These are the unsorted thoughts we have looking out the train window, small dull smears of meditative panic.” — Don DeLillo, Point Omega
you just want to go home. Six in the morning is a bad time to scream at the walls in your room. The birds mock you from the trees-they can fly. You can’t. All day you tried to remember what it felt like to love or be loved. No one called. In that apartment down the street, you forgot the…
Even now I think my writing is too depressing. But I checked out April three years ago and dang I’m stoked to say I’m further from that shit hole of sadness than I thought.
From her friend’s porch she watched the sky turn velvety blue. Trees fuzzed into soft black outlines. She thinks of her hands, how they feel and how they’re hers. She came here for something. A small hope clouds and dissolves at the end of a sentence. Cigarette and ellipses are one and the same. How is it. Where talking is easy and leaning on each other’s legs is warm. She knows the net, the pattern tattooed all over the sidewalks and grass and stairs and cars, cobwebs someone kissed and hung with care.
but i wish more than anything that i could explain. i didn’t say those things. i don’t want you to suffer. everything i do hurts you. i want you to know it haunts me. can you hear what i mean? you needed me to have it together. i tried to tell you i was wrecked. it’s never over. i’m tired. i was a banjo string about to break. i wasn’t gentle. i couldn’t do it any other way.
Baby girl, you’re wrong