I guess being such an extrovert, and such a very very loud, passionate one at that, is that it takes every fiber in my being to understand introverted, quiet people. I can be ranting and raving and screaming about something- in a good or bad way, and expect the same reaction. From everyone.
Highly unrealistic, a little arrogant, and extremely hard to control.
I just finally at almost 27 started really trying to listen and not just wait for my turn to speak. And not out of a selfish, I-care-not-what-you-have-to-say, but my excitement outdoes my patience, my mouth is ruled by the first mentioned, and I am so glad I am finally slowing down, and really absorbing and listening with patience and full attention.
But I still find it very hard to not see a huge explosive reaction from others regarding things I feel warrant one. Silly girl, I am. This shall be my next goal.
Or when I get very excited, and then the person I am telling this to, isn't very reactionary, but then later goes off with much enthusiasm about something else, well I just did that to them, so I guess it should even out. Instead I feel cheated. I shall work on this. Maybe if I just read these wise words a few times... http://heatherchristenaschmidt.com/2011/10/26/the-five-types-of-interruptors/
I cannot believe how pubescent and angsty I feel while delving back deep down into my music "past" and finally throw on some TOOL. Yes, yes, love them or hate them, it matters not to moi, as I am a hardcore fan, alas, and henceforth, I spell their band name, in all capitals. Every time. Even when no one is looking. Or I write a message in a bottle containing a note reading something along the lines of "Help! Stranded on desert island! If you cannot make it, but can somehow reach food or TOOLs to me, I would be much appreciative!"
It just transports me. I see it as a soft, dark, brooding waltz of memories swallowed and/or tossed and jostled upon waves of memories.
I remember the first time I was ever given any TOOL to listen to. I was approx. 16, and behind a dumpster at a Burger King, walking home. And when I first heard "The Grudge" kick on, I slumped against it, planted my feet firmly against the rain-battered pavement and slouched til my knees were a rest for my forehead. I pulled up my hood and didn't move until the last note of the album was done. Yes, I am aging myself, it was a Discman I was listening to this life-changing music on. *giggles* Oh those were the times, I must say. And now, I must say, all those years- these years (?) later, I indulge in my most favourite music and find the tears coming, oh yes, you fucking drama queen, and wallow in all of my mystic emotional soup. Some music doesn't just stimulate your sense of hearing, it can't help but overstimulate all of you. Why always always always am I transported via "Spirit-Expressway" to the Pacific Northwest. Why not.. Spain? Why not India? Why not New Zealand? No no, when I close my eyes and surf on the tidal wave that is 5/7 timing signatures, and the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, it is to that vast Evergreen-blanketed land. The smells come back to me in full strength. I am reminded of what the Bagelry smells like at 6am on a Monday morning in the month of March, even turning the sharp winds of winter to breathe in and take a break, read the paper, enjoy a cup of coffee and an assiago cheese bagel from the place emitting all this amazing aroma. I remember "Number 9s", which consisted of driving in DB's Tiburon with of course CC/MA down the Lost-Highway-esque nighttime, dark roads, telephone poles "dotting immensities" (which reminds me, to below show off my talent for memorizing Kerouac, "Mad Road Driving" which I memorized at the not-so-tender age of 17, maybe 16. Those years are blurred) doing at least a buck-ten, dazed and confused, young and abused, in the company of a wise old alley cat disguised as an aging neo-hippie- extraordinaire, (he often would wink his third eye at me, leaving me all a fluster) and blaring whichever "Number 9" was on that moment's cd. Ce De, en Francais. They were mostly, ah, you guessed it, you trickster you, you clairvoyant, TOOL.
Highly unrealistic, a little arrogant, and extremely hard to control.
I just finally at almost 27 started really trying to listen and not just wait for my turn to speak. And not out of a selfish, I-care-not-what-you-have-to-say, but my excitement outdoes my patience, my mouth is ruled by the first mentioned, and I am so glad I am finally slowing down, and really absorbing and listening with patience and full attention. But I still find it very hard to not see a huge explosive reaction from others regarding things I feel warrant one. Silly girl, I am. This shall be my next goal.
Or when I get very excited, and then the person I am telling this to, isn't very reactionary, but then later goes off with much enthusiasm about something else, well I just did that to them, so I guess it should even out. Instead I feel cheated. I shall work on this. Maybe if I just read these wise words a few times... http://heatherchristenaschmidt.com/2011/10/26/the-five-types-of-interruptors/
It just transports me. I see it as a soft, dark, brooding waltz of memories swallowed and/or tossed and jostled upon waves of memories.
I remember the first time I was ever given any TOOL to listen to. I was approx. 16, and behind a dumpster at a Burger King, walking home. And when I first heard "The Grudge" kick on, I slumped against it, planted my feet firmly against the rain-battered pavement and slouched til my knees were a rest for my forehead. I pulled up my hood and didn't move until the last note of the album was done. Yes, I am aging myself, it was a Discman I was listening to this life-changing music on. *giggles* Oh those were the times, I must say. And now, I must say, all those years- these years (?) later, I indulge in my most favourite music and find the tears coming, oh yes, you fucking drama queen, and wallow in all of my mystic emotional soup. Some music doesn't just stimulate your sense of hearing, it can't help but overstimulate all of you. Why always always always am I transported via "Spirit-Expressway" to the Pacific Northwest. Why not.. Spain? Why not India? Why not New Zealand? No no, when I close my eyes and surf on the tidal wave that is 5/7 timing signatures, and the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, it is to that vast Evergreen-blanketed land. The smells come back to me in full strength. I am reminded of what the Bagelry smells like at 6am on a Monday morning in the month of March, even turning the sharp winds of winter to breathe in and take a break, read the paper, enjoy a cup of coffee and an assiago cheese bagel from the place emitting all this amazing aroma. I remember "Number 9s", which consisted of driving in DB's Tiburon with of course CC/MA down the Lost-Highway-esque nighttime, dark roads, telephone poles "dotting immensities" (which reminds me, to below show off my talent for memorizing Kerouac, "Mad Road Driving" which I memorized at the not-so-tender age of 17, maybe 16. Those years are blurred) doing at least a buck-ten, dazed and confused, young and abused, in the company of a wise old alley cat disguised as an aging neo-hippie- extraordinaire, (he often would wink his third eye at me, leaving me all a fluster) and blaring whichever "Number 9" was on that moment's cd. Ce De, en Francais. They were mostly, ah, you guessed it, you trickster you, you clairvoyant, TOOL.
I remember the soundtrack to life in the subdued/exciting "oyster dome" of free-spirited youth. Had undertones of extreme personal danger, as The Dr. of Gonzo Journalism himself once wrote.
Ah yes, Mad Road Driving. With no further adieu;
Mad road driving, men ahead
The Mad Road, lonely, leading around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us in the vision of the West...
Spine heights at the world's end, coast of blue Pacific starry night - no bone half-banana moons sloping in it's angled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onwards... Illuminate.
The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass...
Orange-butted waste lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in wide space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher - the level of the world, low and flat...
The charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road... as I look from here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun...
Hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train:
Beat the Smoke...
Find the Thigh...
Spend the Shiny...
Throw the Shroud...
Kiss the morning star in the morning glass...
Mad Road Driving Men Ahead.
Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obelisks in a dribble of speechless distance, the black sheep clouds cling a parallel above the streams of C B Q - serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry brown fields roll in the moonlight - with a shiny cow's ass. Telephone poles. Toothpick time. Dotting immensities.
The crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in noseplates and licenses into the vast promise of life - the choice of tragic wives.
Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the lllini plains...
Bring your big muddy rivers through Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North...
Punch lake holes in Florida and L A...
Raise your cities in the white plain...
Cast your mountains up... bedawze the west... bedight the west with brave hedgerow cliffs rising to Promethean heights and fame...
Plant your prisons in the basin of the Utah moon...
Nudge Canadian groping lands that end in arctic bays...
Curl your Mexican ribneck, America...
...I'm going home. ...going home.
Spine heights at the world's end, coast of blue Pacific starry night - no bone half-banana moons sloping in it's angled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onwards... Illuminate.
The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass...
Orange-butted waste lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in wide space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher - the level of the world, low and flat...
The charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road... as I look from here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun...
Hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train:
Beat the Smoke...
Find the Thigh...
Spend the Shiny...
Throw the Shroud...
Kiss the morning star in the morning glass...
Mad Road Driving Men Ahead.
Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obelisks in a dribble of speechless distance, the black sheep clouds cling a parallel above the streams of C B Q - serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry brown fields roll in the moonlight - with a shiny cow's ass. Telephone poles. Toothpick time. Dotting immensities.
The crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in noseplates and licenses into the vast promise of life - the choice of tragic wives.
Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the lllini plains...
Bring your big muddy rivers through Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North...
Punch lake holes in Florida and L A...
Raise your cities in the white plain...
Cast your mountains up... bedawze the west... bedight the west with brave hedgerow cliffs rising to Promethean heights and fame...
Plant your prisons in the basin of the Utah moon...
Nudge Canadian groping lands that end in arctic bays...
Curl your Mexican ribneck, America...
...I'm going home. ...going home.
- Jack Kerouac
ps, your random pics of the day. Be forewarned, I have unleashed an undesignated huge quantities tonight for that is what kind of mood I am in.
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| Kerouac in his calm-on-the-surface, neon glory |
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| Vancouver in Fog |
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| Beirut Gig Poster |
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| Deceased Royal of the Kingdom of Allthingspretty |
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| Nogales, MX. A place I inhabited for a brief, drug induced time |
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| Chuckanut Drive, Bellingham WA, Circa. 1914 |
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| Strapping young lumberjacks. Bellingham WA, circa. 1913 |
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| Hindu Goddess Devi |
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| Julie Verhoeven, artist |
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| Layla and Billy |
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| Miss Van.Graffiti Artist |
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| Morphine Album Cover |
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| sigh. moving .gifs. |
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| Aging with grace and and a dash of creepiness. |
