We’re listening to music. We’re contemplating sell-outs and non-sell-outs. We’re letting ourselves be moved by tunes, present and past.
Kendrick didn’t sell out. Chance didn’t. Childish didn’t. Arctic Monkeys did. But did the Arctic Monkeys? I don’t think they did–their last album was subpar. Then I chirp that Taylor Swift did. Oh, yes, obviously. But none of the artists we really listen to–they didn’t sell out, right?
I wish I knew how they came up with their music. Their albums, their lyrics, their songs, the story. Lil Wayne! He threw in four or five other artists, too. How do they create music? And what sparks it? Is it emotion? Driven by emotions. I knew people who would be sparked by emotion. But then how’d they go from there?
Silence. I don’t think I appreciate music as much as my boyfriend does–not in the same way, at least. I couch myself in music, and when I feel moved, I play it. It’s beautiful but formulaic–playable, doable, not a beast to be analyzed, just one to experience. And even then, tunes are a dime a dozen, a synchronized pattern of followable tunes.
What’s their process? How do they go from there? A thought? A tune? A feeling? A breakup?
I chew on the thoughts. I’m on the train of thoughts with him, meandering away.
“you know what i thought of the other day?
our childhoods are for our parents
they remember our first steps
they remember what we liked and what we didn’t like
they remember what we ate, what we didn’t eat
they’re their memories to have,
as you grow older
your life becomes yours
but when we were younger
it was once theirs.”
– april 23rd, 2015 | 4:08 pm
Something my best friend said to me a few years ago.
Do you remember the time you were at Chipotle and you saw the lady with four children in tow and after ordering the food, four bowls total, she realized she didn’t have any money? And so you paid it for her?
And that was your kindness.
Obviously kindness, clearly kindness, without-a-doubt-kindness. As I read the poem by Aracelis Girmay titled “On Kindness”, I wondered about subtle forms of it, like when it isn’t just a hug or a peck or buying someone’s burrito bowls, but is, instead, your telling a wailing women you love her because she is yelling I want to kill myself I want to kill myself.
That love—that’s kindness too.
There are other forms of it that Aracelis Girmay writes about in her poem. The mail lady who says “hi baby” to you, and to the girl beside you, and to her cousin, and to her cousin’s best friend. The window that filters in light on a heady Sunday morning, reminding you have made it another day you’re alive you’re alive. The dog that comes panting up to you, looking overjoyed to see you, you, you—and that is kindness, too.
Your freckles were constellations in the sky. Time-lapse digital painting of Emily B.
two twenty. AM. 2:21. AM. Two 21. AM.
why am I so restless?
coffee. wheat thins. crumbs. caffeine. caf
–feine. feign. feigning
kindness. questions I have for
are you neurological? genetic? psychological?
physical? are you the thoughts churning through my head rapid-pace
without regard for gravity, space, time?
the 100 grams of caffeine laced in my vanilla-creme 2-sugar-packed
coffee branching through my veins?
are you concern?
are you anticipation?
are you planning? are you planning something? are you so busy planning something
the irony of sleeplessness lies in the
heaviness of my lids, of my eyes–I just
thought they’d have been lighter, with everything lit up under my eyes
lit up under my eyes lit up under my
eyes crumbs all over my keyboard
cover lit up under my eyes
my memories keep me
warm until I
remember they're just
I wrote that in the summer
first I was defiant
then I was tired
then I was reminiscent
but mostly I
sometimes i wonder
what the sheer durability of
emotion says about humanity
and whether it says
anything at all
and i wonder whether it's a
reflection of openness
or brokenness or
the inability to fit into
it's hard to imagine
that i used to stay up late
for the sake of it
that i'd stay up late
to scour the internet
to find articles i'd read not
once or twice but
eight dozen trintuplion times
at night i'll want explanations
when i revisit late-night
an buttery hazy glow that envelops them
which i'd get lost in
during the summertime
Saturday morning. I woke up at 5 and we arrived by 6, the wind so cold it bit into us like knives. I wore my frayed red scarf as we boarded the bus, skies were purpley blue. I watched the sunrise through the sketch of back roads, blues and oranges and rocky gravel.
Countless love triangles zig-zagged their way unrequited among the best friends. Among him, you, her, me. Your best friend. My best friend. My best friend’s friend’s then-best-friend, then his best friend, or your best friend. I was to you as he was to me; she was to him as I was to you as he was to me. Now he’s little to them and we are nothing to each other.
Cycling through obsessions like a broken washing machine. I am: drawn to the same aesthetic like a film-drunk moth. Film, film, film and light gossamer. And beautiful people in beautiful places.