Broken.
Going to leave this brokedown palace,
On my hands and knees, I will roll, roll, roll.
I went to see a friend tonight that I had not seen in years. We were thinking that it had probably been Pre-Y2K the last time we actually shared space. We sort of knew what to expect in that strange “I’ve seen you the Facebook” way, but still it had been ages. I had a few reservations about going – mostly I was feeling tired and not totally into going to a show, but it felt like I had been cancelling and cancelling and it would be nice to catch up. Still, there was something just sitting there right outside my conscience niggling me, causing me to feel uncomfortable enough to be conscious. I was a little late, but so was he, and then there was the standard cock-up at the door, as is often the case at local shows. Once inside, my anxiety completely dissipated as I was immediately swept up into the familiarity of the Auditorium. My response to live music and the accompanying scene is visceral and inescapable; it is in my DNA. And it is so easy to overlook so many things when you are suddenly the one who can sit anywhere, go anywhere, do anything, because you are with the right people.
But this night I wanted to talk to my friend. I wanted to ask him so many questions. What he had been doing. How he was. Who he had seen. Share our collective conscience. But he was in show mode. After a lifetime of always being that right person who got so many perks for so many of his ‘friends’ it is painfully evident that this has become his entire social currency. It made me sad. It made me want to just be one of those regular people talking in the crowd, milling, wondering what is behind the black curtain and up the private stairs. But it was not to be.
My friend is still my friend. He will always be. But he is broken. And that is heartbreaking. No matter how hard I tried, the disconnect, bordering on dissociation was just so hard to be around. I watched how people regarded him and saw how they sized him up weighing opportunity and cost – a simple economic equation for them, discounting the person underneath. Whenever things got too touchy everyone would fall back on the old times, old names, old faces, old places. There would be a moment of comfort and then everyone would move on. I watched my friend not really move on. Such a life he has had – so amazing in so many ways but still so lonely and sad in others.
After everyone gets what they want, who will take care of him? Looking around at the beautiful venue I could hear Jerry and his words took on a whole new tone.
It’s a far gone lullaby, sung many years ago…
Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home…
I looked at my friend and realized that he did not really want to talk and catch up. He wanted to fall into the familiar old roles, he the connection, me the groupie, and let’s get it on. We had come into the evening from such entirely different experiential universes and with such different objectives, I realized that we would never – at least tonight – be on the same page. And so I had to go.
All the birds that were singing are flown, except you alone….
Fare you well, my friend.
xo
“Wait… did we miss it?” Avoiding Fomo in Chicago.
Norah: Are you sad that we missed it?
Nick: We didn’t miss it. This *is* it.
Live music has a very special appeal to me. Always has. As such it is very hard for me to pass up opportunities to see it – even when I know there will be a lot of work involved or I would be better served to focus elsewhere or I should save the money or I am too tired or, or, or… But as of yet I have not been able to kick the habit. I have moved metaphorical mountains to attend shows: driven all night to and from shows, gone to work in states of mind suited only to deep sleep or asylums following shows, attended shows after shows that lasted all day, flown to shows, hiked to shows, biked to shows. I simply love going to shows.
My love of shows is not just about the music but the whole experience. The rock stars, the idea of being right there with them, the energy, the smells (totally show specific of course, and not all lovely as I will get to presently), the hope to hear a song, the hope that the whole show won’t be all about promoting a new album you’ve never heard, meeting people who love what you love – or hate what you hate… the rock stars. Always those rock stars. Singers = Swoon. It is funny though, I thought about all this the other night at The Vaccines/Arctic Monkeys show at The Independent and realized that when I was the appropriate age to snog rock stars I was watching bands that were too old for me, and now I keep finding myself watching bands full of kids who could have been in my Geography class. Weird.
But in spite of it all, I keep going to shows… because you never know… you might miss the next best thing.
The whole reason the Chicago trip was planned in the first place was around Lollapalooza. It was the 20th Anniversary year and since Lolla no longer functions as a travelling circus like it used to, it provided and awesome opportunity to see Chicago – a city I had only enjoyed via the airports. Plus D would be working her magic and we would get super special treatment. While at Coachella, D had said that the perks at Lolla were way impressive. It sounded amazing, and without being to a total spoiler, it was actually even better than it had sounded.
And so we went.
Be careful, your Coachealousy is showing…
This past week was the 12th Annual Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival in Indio California. It was hot and loud and colorful and a lot of fun. From April 15th through the 17th (or 14th – if you did the smart thing and came in a night early for camping – through the 18th – if you stayed to see all of Kanye’s 90 minute Sunday night closing set… or did something more fun in the wee hours of Sunday) the Empire Polo Fields in Indio played host to some 90,000 people (including security and staff) a day for a noon to midnight daily musical melange.
The festival sold out in 124 hours (I guess that sounds more impressive than saying ‘just over 5 days’), which was a record in the twelve-year history of the event. Daily temperatures were in the high nineties. [Most of the attendees seemed to be in the low twenties.] There were 178 acts on six stages. (Organizers like to point out that this translates to your ticket price being 1.50 per act. While I can appreciate the logic, I have to say that is a bogus statistic even for a person like me who loves statistics because the idea that you could actually *see* all the acts is laughable.) Speaking of statistics, the attendance demographics were also interesting. 50.5% of all the tickets were sold in California. I am not sure if that means TO Californians, but the event certainly has a California feel. (85.5% of the total tickets sold were in the US and a single ticket was sold in Kuwait, Peru, Poland and Venezuela, which I find cool for whatever reason.)
Our trip to Coachella began with a rather unfortunate turn of events. Or maybe it wasn’t, I am not really sure, but I am sure it was a Mulligan. Driving from San Diego, A & I had planned on heading out at 2 so we were on the road by 3:30. (We had to get our nails done and stuff – I mean, this is a SoCal event.) The drive is around three hours (exclusive of traffic) and hits about four freeways. Cruising along the second freeway, about an hour and a half in, I took out my ticket. I wanted to look at these bracelets that we had been sent with their computer chip and re-read all these crazy security warnings: No one would be let in without a bracelet. You would be scanned in and out every time you entered and left the venue. Car campers (us) had to be sure the sticker was on the car and all people in the car had bracelets. It was going to be intensely controlled. I was looking at the way the bracelet fastened when A looked over at me.
-Oh my god. I forgot my ticket. -
Yeah? I’ll give you irony…
I think that hipster culture is pretty much anything but ironic. In fact, in offering me something that is simply too tempting to resist mocking (I mean really, look at that fucking hipster) and sitting outside the gates of my building smoking American Spirits, talking as loud as they want to be earnest on their smart phones, picking at their “skinny jeans”, caressing their fixie bikes and staring longingly at the Queen Bee Hipster Bitch that runs the Buffalo Exchange downstairs from me, they are pretty much the least ironic thing going. I mean, by definition irony means the opposite of what is expected, or incongruous. These people are the most predictable humans I have ever seen. Their sense of style my be incongruous, but in saying that I am being euphemistic. I am aware that the Hipster Nation is really endeavoring to be sardonic, rather than ironic and that they would sardonically tell me that I am being pedantic. But they are so irritating that given the chance to get pedantic all over their asses, I would.
With all that said, let me explain (as if my proximity to the most heinous Buffalo Exchange ever did not already make this plainly obvious), I live in the middle of the SF Hipster universe. Yup. They are everywhere. Now, THAT is ironic.
A Playlist for Joanie
These songs were the ones that came up, in order, while I listened to my iPod as I flew to New Mexico to say goodbye to my Grandma. Random? Eerie? Perfect.
it came upon a midnight clear…
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. ~William Blake, 1790
Christmas Eve, Sandpoint, Idaho -
Last year I said I would be home for Christmas. And here I am. Though I have my moments of missing Hong Kong, this would not be one of them. I am knee-deep in Americana up in the North Woods. For real. There is a big old moon (just past full for that impressive lunar eclipse caught so wonderfully in the Petaluma sky by my friend Gabe) and snow on the ground. It is sparkly inside and out. It is warm inside. And I am with the core of my family – the epicenter as it were: the nuclear group.
Things are as they should be.
And what of Christmas Eve? A walk down the snowy road returning to alpenglow and meeting a friend lighting ice lanterns [luminaria in the Norwegian tradition, imagine his dismay to realize his discovery a centuries old tradition, though none the less spectacular for its prior existence] at the end of the lane. These lanterns are so beautiful and fragile and temporary. This must be what makes them so spectacular.
Who’s to say where the wind will take you…
I know that the cool kids say you are not supposed to like U2 anymore and Bono this and the Edge that… But, this song, it’s talking to me today.
And I am listening.
Something is about to give
I can feel it coming
I think I know what it is
I’m not afraid to die
I’m not afraid to live
And when I’m flat on my back
I hope to feel like I didAnd hardness, it sets in
You need some protection
The thinner the skinI want you to know
That you don’t need me anymore
I want you to know
You don’t need anyone, anything at allWho’s to say where the wind will take you
Who’s to say what it is will break you
I don’t know which way the wind will blow
Who’s to know when the time has come around
Don’t wanna see you cry
I know that this is not goodbyeIn summer I can taste the salt in the sea
There’s a kite blowing out of control on a breeze
I wonder what’s gonna happen to you
You wonder what has happened to meI’m a man, I’m not a child
A man who sees
The shadow behind your eyesWho’s to say where the wind will take you
Who’s to say what it is will break you
I don’t know where the wind will blow
Who’s to know when the time has come around
I don’t wanna see you cry
I know that this is not goodbyeDid I waste it?
Not so much I couldn’t taste it
Life should be fragrant
Roof top to the basement
The last of the rock stars
When hip hop drove the big cars
In the time when new media
Was the big idea
That was the big idea
Alter-egos?
You’re kind of a train wreck,
but god you’re fun to hang out with.
I got “invited” to take a personality quiz on the Insidious Social Network today: What 90s Alt-Rock Goddess are you? It was sort of funny because I had just been speaking with a friend about 90s music and it’s inability to sort of define itself as anything remotely… interesting. That is not totally fair, but as with many things, mostly true. Alt-rock? Alt-rock Goddess? I turn to the Urban Dictionary. Well, that sounds about like the rest of the 1990s: developed in the 1980s, then popular in the 90s. I will continue to try to work out how alternative and popular can describe the same thing simultaneously.
Anyhow, I took the quiz. And I got: Kim Deal. Of course, the Pixies being totally cool, I decided that the quiz was legit. [The Breeders are pretty okay too (I particularly like their cover of Happiness is a Warm Gun.)] Plus it reminded me of meeting “Mr. Right” at San Diego’s Street Scene in 2005 when it was actually in the Qualcom Stadium parking lot: lame venue, great fun, a total shitshow at the W downtown. And really, if you meet a guy wearing a t-shirt that says “Mr. Right” while you are listening to the Pixies and you can almost feel the tension – between Kim and Frank Black as well as with Mr. Right, you know it is gonna be a worthy evening. True story.
I am not sure I am all that Kim Deal-ish, and I am sure that Mr. Right was only temporarily correct, but Gigantic? Hell yeah. And for now, taking these quizzes beats a lot of other stuff I should be doing. Hey Paul Hey Paul Hey Paul… let’s have a ball.
You’re kind of a train wreck, but God you’re fun to hang out with. Your wit is dry and sarcastic. You’re an oily-haired slob but no one cares because you’re so fucking brilliant we all want to know you. Too bad that brilliance isn’t ever going to come to anything. It’s going to be drowned in Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jack Daniels. In a way, you’re an idiot savant. When you share your mind with us, we’re blown away; but we’re also sick of watching you do the same stupid fucking bullshit time and time again. When are you gonna learn? You’re a Bukowski kind of girl – pornographic, self-destructive, exuberant. We all love you and we wish you’d get your shit together, but we’ve come to accept that you’ll always be a slightly unrealized potential.
Holy Crap. This guy is my hero. (Well, one of them…)
I had heard of Romanpoet (also here) somehow, not sure how. It sounded kind of, you know… cool. But being neither Luddite nor particularly motivated to explore the tech-underworld I never really investigated.
Should have.
Here is a kid with some ingenuity <– understatement. And he has used it in a pretty effective way <– ditto. So, he is a PhD candidate at Caltech (don’t worry, not getting fished in again [at least not yet]) and he is studying computation and neural systems. He says his life goal is to make a computer that feels. While I have a few comments on emo computers, I am absolutely fascinated in contemplating (maybe someday I’ll move beyond that phase) the way in which our brains take in, understand, manipulate, infer. categorize, utilize, store and apply information. And all the attendant variables.
In the mean time, this (just) 27-year old has been referred to as The Internet Man of Mystery and gotten the attentions (lawsuits) of the powers that be. He certainly does appear to have some panache. He is young, smart, creative and well-groomed. Win. He also came up with an application, WikiScanner (now on version 2) to see who is editing Wikipedia entries, and it is not who you might think. He told the Times of London, he did it “to create minor public relations disasters for companies and organizations I dislike.” Like it Centurion. Like it.
In his spare time he hangs out in Santa Fe at the Santa Fe Institute. Now this is a place that is thinking about some very cool shit. They focus on complex systems research. That is like, the total shit of synthesis: “Complex systems research attempts to uncover and understand the deep commonalities that link artificial, human, and natural systems. By their very nature, these problems transcend any particular field, for example, if we understand the fundamental principles of organization, we will gain insight into the functioning of cells in biology, firms in economics, and magnets in physics. This research relies on theories and tools from across the sciences. Part of the rise of the complex systems research agenda can be tied to the use of theoretical computation as a new way to explore such systems.” Um. Yes, please. Would that I had a PhD that might be my dream job.
And then… he is the man behind the Musicthatmakesyoudumb and Booksthatmakeyou Dumb. Best graphics EVER (concept here.) I am frightened by the placement of the Book of Mormon and in honor of The Dude, I am going to have to question how Eagles can have less of a dumbing effect than Queen, though I suppose Bohemian Rhapsody and We Are the Champions fucked that statistic up. I think the next one should be clothes that make you dumb, there would be a complex system, and all the raw data is here.
But don’t let me be the judge and jury (or do, I am fine with that…) have look for yourself after the jump (or via the above concept link.)
The Secret Machines become a little less clandestine.
Unlike the other shows I have seen recently, I was not overly familiar with The Secret Machines. But, a live music junkie has a hard time saying no. Especially when yes offers so much more potential. And, yeah, I miss home like a house on fire and seeing live music is one thing that temporarily transports me – elsewhere if not home. So, clearly I went.
I checked them out on-line ahead of time, you know good to know what you might be getting into and everything. They were alright. I tried to classify it in my mind. Can you have “ambient hard rock”? Hm. The more I looked the more I realized that the genre-fication of music really annoys me. And not only because it escapes me. It is really sort of lame.
For example, you have your “alternative” music. Add whatever suffix you like there, -rock, -music, or maybe be real cool and just go with the minimalist syllabic approach of “alt-rock.’ Do we really even need to get into the specifics of the semantics here? “Alternative” for chrissakes. Look what Wiki says and tell me if this is not a total contradiction in terms: “a genre of rock music that emerged in the 1980s and became widely popular in the 1990s.”
Apparently “alternative” music emerged from “indie” music. Huh. Okay then, what exactly are we talking about here? Again, I take you to Wiki: “a genre of rock music that originated in the United Kingdom and the United States in the 1980s and earlier. The term is often used to describe the means of production and distribution of independent underground music, as well as the style of music that was first associated with this means of production.”
Underground.
That must explain the total thrashing these bands get from their “fans” when they make it to a major label. How supportive. ["Indie rock artists are known for placing a premium on maintaining complete control of their music and careers, releasing albums on independent record labels (sometimes self-owned and operated) and relying on touring, word-of-mouth, airplay on independent or college radio stations and, in recent years, the Internet for promotion."]
*cough*sell-outs*cough*
I considered the ineffectiveness of both these “genres” relative to The Secret Machines. Are they alternative? Well, they are different from most of what is available in Hong Kong, that is for sure. But they have also been accused of being pretty derivative in some of the harsher reviews I saw. I decided that “alternative” is as meaningless a modifier when assigned to music as it is to lifestyles.
So, then, are they “indie”? I have no idea what label they are on, though they have put out several records so I suppose they have one. I could care less. I hope they score a major one. Or, wait, is that a bad thing? Hm. Do they make and distribute their stuff and maintain complete control? I do not know. Don’t care either. If they are playing music that I want to hear, I hope they are simultaneously playing music they want to make. I certainly understand the history of an independent movement in music emerging from the domineering circumstances of Motown, the payola scandals and the contract disputes you hear about when artists are being told to produce music in the way farm chickens have to produce an egg a day [laying an egg would be an unfortunate end outside the barn.] Still, the rigidity of the indie scene seems a bit pretentious and not really supportive of that which it claims to adore.
In the continuing genre search I was forced to revisit the ‘shoegaze’ designation. Back to Wiki: “a subgenre of alternative rock that emerged from the United Kingdom in the late 1980s. It lasted until the mid 1990s with a critical zenith reached in 1990 and 1991. The British press named this style shoegazing because the musicians in these bands stood relatively still during live performances, in a detached, introspective, non-confrontational state, hence the idea that they were gazing at their shoes.” I learned this term a while back. I liked it for the visual imagery alone. The music is not bad either. Thinking back on The Secret Machines, I think this might be the best way to pigeon-hole them, if that was what was going to have to happen.
They had elements of all of the above (or at least elements of what can be discerned from the ridiculous categories mentioned above) but rocked a little harder. Their drummer was nuts… like, he must go home and either do a truck load of stimulants or pass out after every show. Day-um. Just check out the blood on his hands. Literally. And the new guitarist is hot, which is always a bonus. I liked it. It was loud, vaguely reminiscent of something I really like, though would be hard pressed to identify, and to the point – if that makes sense. As I said the reviews have been mixed, but I think they were definitely worth checking out.
Awww… i love u 2.
On November 11, 1987, U2 came to San Francisco and played a free concert [ostensibly to Save the Yuppies] at Justin Herman Plaza near the Embarcadero. It was at the height of The Joshua Tree frenzy and was, in my just-turned 17-years-old brain, like, the MOST amazing thing ever. Of course, I had to go to school that Wednesday, and probably had basketball practice too… so I did not go. It caused a giormous stir because Bono spray painted “Rock and Roll Stops the Traffic” on the Vaillancourt Fountain in the Plaza.
I did attend their concert at the Oakland Coliseum three days later, when Bono brought the sculptor on stage to apologize/justify his behavior. The sculptor seemed pleased by the attention. We felt redeemed. And the show (opened by the BoDeans and The Pretenders – aiyah!) went on.
I am not sure why these old memories are on my mind these days… but there you have it – another one from the vault.
This Too Shall Pass ~ Thanks for letting us sing along @ Grappa’s!
You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down
And you can’t keep draggin’ that dead weight around.
If there ain’t all that much to lug around,
Better run like hell when you hit the ground.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
You can’t stop these kids from dancin’.
Why would you want to?
Especially when you’re already gettin’ yours.
‘Cause if your mind don’t move and your knees don’t bend,
well don’t go blamin’ the kids again.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
Hey!
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes!
…something about my life…
I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountain
There’s more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine
Keep Score: Might wanna consider this…
You said what I thought you would,
You’re better than everyone else around.
You keep score.
It’s sad that I’ve heard that thing before,
Time will tell,
It’s gonna tell us more.
You’re crazy,
Lazy.
It won’t be long ’till you know you’re wrong,
And by then she’ll be gone,
And you’ll miss her.
And you’ll miss her.
Too late to start again,
Now you won’t have no friends,
And it’s over.
And you’re alone.
You’ve never been one to take the blame,
It’s never yours,
It’s someone else’s fault,
you say.
You’ve been so predictable,
But once again you’ve ended up
The fool.
It won’t be long ’till you know you’re wrong,
And by then she’ll be gone,
And you’ll miss her.
And you’ll miss her.
Too late to start again,
Now you won’t have no friends,
And it’s over.
And you’re alone.
Think about it…
I can [sorta] see clearly now…
I realized that I needed glasses when I was around 25. I am fairly convinced that the deterioration of my vision is directly attributable to Diet Coke consumption, but that is a subject for another time. I was resistant to the idea of glasses after years of teasing my college roommate and dear friend [Hi Cari!] for her abysmal eyesight and reveling in my illusive and elusive perfection. But I went and got myself some glasses. They turned out to be very helpful. So much so in fact, that within only a few short years I was the one teased mercilessly about my crap vision by someone who thinks he will always be Mr. 20/20… I guess we will see. [Hello Matt F., I am talking to you.] So, now, when I want to see clearly, I can. Where I run into trouble is with sunglasses. I do not have prescription shades and so, things are always a little bit more of a crap shoot when I go under the lens. Revo has been my most reliable to date, but the thing is, they are a little expensive and so when I want to have some variety, I go for the cheap sunglasses.
Big. Black. Plastic. >US$5.
I can’t see shit when I wear them as a general rule. But that is not so bad sometimes. I say this because this morning I was walking through Central and onto the MTR to Causeway Bay and then up through Causeway to the office behind my huge cheap sunglasses, and I had this totally strange sort of shift in perspective. I was like I was seeing everything around me – including me. I suppose this is akin to someone speaking of themselves in the third person, which would generally make me want to kick them in the head ask them politely to stop, but it was kind of cool like I was looking at my life but not as the central character, and all the while cruising along behind my cheap sunglasses. It was fun.
I looked around at the total purpleness of CWB Station. I watched all the people going here and there and carrying god-knows-what in every sort of bag. I saw myself amidst these people and tried to imagine ever conceiving of the reality in which I now find myself. The shades are not ‘stunnahs’ but that is stunning. I came out of the station and headed up the street. People look directly at you when you wear ginormous dark sunglasses. This is notable because as a general rule, eye contact does not happen on the streets in Hong Kong – and when it does it always seems significant. But with the big, dark sunglasses, it’s like all of a sudden eye contact is okay because it is on the DL. Consequently, even though in some ways I see less, in many ways I really see lots more.
And once in a while it is kind of interesting to try to catch a glimpse of your life out of context; a third-party observer. Personally these subtle shifts in perspective have become more and more important to me in a world that is so caught up in comparison and competition (both of which I wholeheartedly, instinctively take part in) that can sometimes get a person down. It’s like how little kids like to spin around and get dizzy [which I still like to do as well, but it is difficult to manage on the streets in the 852] – it is all about altering one’s consciousness. And of course still being able to go to work after.
Last week I made a joke about turning 40, as I will inevitably do this year (stay tuned for details on that… it was going to be a South East Asian party but now I am thinking somewhere a little drier, dustier, and more flammable.) Someone replied that I didn’t know what I was saying (I did by the way, I was being purposefully vapid to mock a stereotype – I think…) “life is so much better after 50 because you can be a total bitch and say whatever you want. You are more like a man.” That was followed up by another person saying that people who are resistant to getting older are clearly unhappy people, because life gets better with age. I was filled with sadness for both of these people. I have no desire to be bitchier (done that), and certainly am not interested in being manly… and I am not sure I could be anymore okay with my life than I am. I do not mean that everything is like some silly RomCom or that I suddenly have manifested a fairy godmother – I just mean that how things are is really pretty great, especially because there is no alternative to reality, and I don’t feel like I need a fairy godmother (though I did meet two of my guardian angels at Autzen Stadium in Eugene back in 1993, so I know I’ve that going for me). So, if life just keeps getting better? Fan-freaking-tastic.
Once in a while distorting your vision with dark, blurry 40,000 Rupiyah fake Von Zipper sunglasses is the perfect way to see things far more accurately.
I got a crazy teacher, [s]he wears dark glasses,
Things are going great, and they’re only getting better…
Something to consider.
and the world’s got me dizzy again
you’d think after [so many] years I’d be used to the spin
and it only feels worse when I stay in one place
so I’m always pacing around or walking away
I keep drinking the ink from my pen
and I’m balancing history books up on my head
but it all boils down to one quotable phrase
“If you love something give it away”
This Must Be The Place…
Home – is where I want to be
But I guess I’m already there…
Blasting you from the past.
Oh, my life, is changing everyday…
in every possible way,
And oh, my dreams,
it’s never quite as it seems…
Never quite as it seems…
Do you remember where you were in March 1993? That is when this song came out. So, if (like me) you remember, you might be old. Regardless, today, I like the sentiment. I have been having absolutely maniacal dreams. Totally. Freaking. Crazy. And then this morning, this song came out of no where on my iPod. Therefore, I share it with you.
You are welcome.
Amanda
