Sometimes I’ll have moments I know I’ll remember for a long time. Years later, they’ll come as flashbacks, these fleeting connections. Before I’d never imagined how much certain people would mean to me. Then it was like something had cracked the casing around my heart like a nut and I was the Grinch with a heart that’d grown three sizes too big.
The kind you might drunkenly sing at the top of your lungs in the middle of the night post-Comedy house laughs, boozy Oreo milkshakes and whirring pinball games that you win by, oh, thirty million points.
- Someday, The Strokes
- Take Me Out, Franz Ferdinand
- Young Folks, Peter Bjorn and John
- Riptide, Vance Joy
- Where Did Your Heart Go Missing?, Rooney
- Midnight City, M83
- Ho Hey, The Lumineers
- Tighten Up, The Black Keys
- I Wanna Be Yours, Arctic Monkeys
- A-Punk, Vampire Weekend
- Oxford Comma, Vampire Weekend
- Float On, Modest Mouse
- Mardy Bum, Arctic Monkeys
- What You Know, Two Door Cinema Club
- Stolen Dance, Milky Dance
- Are You Gonna Be My Girl, Jet
- Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked, Cage The Elephant
- No You Girls, Franz Ferdinand
- Sweet Disposition, The Temper Trap
- Welcome to the Black Parade, My Chemical Romance
(Honestly I’m so happy right now my heart might just explode.)
This is my sensory capsule (warmwarmwarm in my cocoonish sensory capsule) A pile of the links/things/stuff I’ve consumed/created/engaged in in the past few days, from stories to art to episode analyses; from conversations to unsent letters to voyeuristic works:
Reading: The First Wife, Lit Hub
Listening to: Marsipan on the phone as we laugh and vent and discuss–
“Arne Svenson’s photographs…capture people at home through their windows. The neighbors, who were unaware they were being photographed, are somewhat obscured — bending over, back to the window, head turned, behind a curtain.”
Talking: about the odd intimacy between the viewer and a seemingly private space in voyeurism; a podcast on a woman who watched a young couple grow old then frail then sickly and gaunt; the way psychopaths are hollow, the way the best friendships bloom from outta nowhere; did you know horses hit the hay after giving birth?
MT: You know, honestly it makes me sad when you don’t remember the things you’ve drawn for me.
Me: What do you mean? I forget. Oh, I just did it again. Remind me. Are you talking about–
MT: –That rodent project we did in Luzardo’s. I was kind of sad and angry you didn’t remember it.
Me: You were angry?!
MT: Yeah, I kinda wanted to keep it, too.
Me: I could draw another rodent for you.
MT: Wouldn’t be the same.
Drawing: Two Point Perspectives in my queer politics class; we’re talking about discourse and Heteronormativity (but we’ll end the terms list with Queer)
Watching: Auto Erotic Assimilation, Rick and Morty (this is the analysis)
“…the profoundly bleak ending suggests that Rick really does have a deeper emotional connection to Unity, albeit one that he would refuse to consider long enough to ever be able to properly articulate…
…Taken all together, this is one of Rick And Morty’s most thematically coherent outings, a half-hour expertly devoted to teasing out all the possible ways people’s interactions can turn toxic and destructive. This is a question to which there really is no right answer….”
Writing: Library Letters to a ‘bertus, who’s in training
September 13th 2016 at 9:39 PM – Remember when you showed me No Role Modelz by J.Cole in December 2014? I do. And I’m sitting in an overly air-conditioned basement of a library listening to it and thinking of you and how I’ve been meaning to write this letter so now I am.
(I haven’t sent it yet)
I miss my guitar. And I know this because when I listen to music, I’ll see it splitting, see the melodies and harmonies fracturing into individual segments, watch the notes to see where they go, one step higher, one octave lower. I’m following each instrument like a different train of thought and then feeling them all culminate and dance with each other.
When I’m playing by ear, it’s the same process: I’m closing my eyes and opening my ears and sensing where these notes are going. And then I play and play until it feels right. I could curl up in other’s musicality, content myself with just listening, but I’m like a cat watching a ball of yarn ball of music; eventually I’ll want to tug at it and unravel it, the music. When I listen to music, it is like watching it unravel. And then I want to put it all together again.