the four right chords can make me cry

there's nothing like seeing my dearest cgms to redeem a bad week.

but now that i sit here in my quiet room, trying to avoid the heavy-lidded gaze of the yellow-eyed moon, i wonder where the lights went. even his frame's features are lost in the dark. of which, i've often asked; "whose life lights up that window?". where is his life now?

drips of frustration and mediocrity layer themselves across the canvas, pollockesque. that's not all me and jackson have in common; we drive fast when we are angry, too. I throw my twig down, and abandon painting.

I understood him when he said: I want to express my feelings rather than illustrate them. But i wonder if anyone understands me. As I understand it, I may or may not want to be understood.

Mick sang to me, holding back the years. Thinking of the fear I’ve had for so long. When somebody hears, listen to the fear that’s gone. Strangled by the wishes of pater, hoping for the arms of mater. Get to me sooner or later, nothing ever could, yeah.

I’ll keep holding on.

Chance for me to escape from all I know, holding back the tears. There’s nothing here has grown. I’ve wasted all my tears, wasted all those years. Nothing had the chance to be good, nothing ever could, yeah.

And I sing back: If you don't know me by now, you will never, never know me. No you won't.

If you ever read the Virgin Suicides, my favourite part of the book was when they played the records back and forth over the telephone. If you haven't, you should.

Back to Hucknall. I want that, that chance for me to escape from all I know. I didn't get to articulate what exactly I meant by that to Clement, I'm an abyssmally poor speaker. But I hope he understood me. I hope he doesn't think I'm anti-social. I'm really just awkward.

The SEP people seem to have chosen later than sooner. I accepted the Birmingham offer, though, though I had no time to rationalize an alternative. Nothing ever could, he said, twice.

Two people. The new and the old; with one i have to resist the urge to violently push away, the other i'm almost giving up looking for. The discomfort gnaws and drags like an anchor, tearing deep rents on the sea floor and wrecking the coral reef, beneath a calm blue sea. Deadweight.

But don't let the sun catch you crying, Beck said.

But the man in my life proves reliable once more. If you close your eyes, it feels like you are flying. I pretend to be a hippie folk singer, an icon from his era, and i wonder about his past again. It is a good night for riding.

I want to be a hippie, minus the licentiousness and drugs. To be idealistic, to sing songs melodic and quaint, hoping for a better day. To wear flowers in my long brown hair and groovy sunglasses, and bell bottoms without shame. To sit on the grass in the sunshine and to stage sit-in protests against vietnam and to ride around in a van that looks like the mystery machine. To buy records of the Beatles which i could auction off today so that i would have enough money to go on exchange.

Don't waste your time.

posted by beckyboo @ 1:33 AM