Thoughts I Think

I guess the reason I love music more than I love anything is the eternity of it. Natural resources run out, money gets spent, girlfriends and boyfriends leave (sex and genitalia get withered and sub-functional anyway), shit breaks and burns. Music, despite the every-snowflake-is-the-same odds that it will eventually run dry, doesn’t. Year after year I shred through dollar after dollar buying more new music that I have trouble formulating into a Best of the Year List in late November. If I’m lucky (usually am) I’ll find a few that will stick around in my replay list, that I can’t stop listening to and only get more defined and branded into my memory with repeated listens. Nothing else in the world treats me like music does, and when everything else good leaves, it’s the only one to hold ugly, naked me close in my old bedsheets.

I feel a deep sense of subtle pity for Ralph Fiennes’ wife, whoever she may be. Because that man is an evil motherfucker. Maybe not in real life, maybe he’s a super-nice guy: drives his kids to school, cooks dinner on Tuesdays, whatever. But anyone who can play Harry in “In Bruges”, Amon Goeth, AND Lord fucking Voldemort has got to have a cruel bone or two. Maybe a couple phalanges.

This theme is incredibly derivative of the American Idiot layout and I know it, but it’s the only one that didn’t look like an ad for a family photo program. Also the little rainbow whirlygig loading cursor has been floating around on my screen for 10 minutes and I’m about to kill it. With digital mustard gas or something. #jokesfromthetrenches #whofuckinguseshashtags

I want to get a tattoo, and I know where I want to get it (middle of my back between my shoulder blades, skewed to the left) and I know I want it to be text (preferably vertical, because that’s not stupid at all) and probably just in plain black because anything else looks fruity. I just don’t know what I want it to say, nothing seems to fit. A million ideas and none of them seem profound enough to permanently stab into my epidermis.

Sometimes I wish I was more eloquent and knowledgeable than I actually am. More committed, too, I suppose. A little more full-on with my passions, more dedicated. Maybe there’s not enough time in the day to attribute to each thing I want to do, because I want to read and I want to listen to music and write and play music and I want to surf the internet and talk to all my friends and watch LOST with my parents and eat and sleep and shower and flirt and date and have sex and do nothing at all. I want to finish the latest Eye of the World book soon, before I forget all that’s happened already or the last one is released. I want to listen to the absolute unholy fuckton of music I haven’t gotten around to yet. I want to learn how to play guitar and bass and drums and at least be able to synthesize all the other crazy shit I want to put on this weirdo album concept I have. I want good grades and a steady girlfriend and to be able to draw and write and review. Fuck I want time.

- I hate whispering. It just sounds unpleasant.
- Strings on clothing and inside-out hoods drive me insane.
- Too-loud noises will make me jump and scream.
- If items are mismatched or disorganized in a store, I will fix them. Period.
- I am not good at choosing between two good options. It will take me awhile.
- Good god don’t touch my CDs if you’re going to manhandle them.
- If I’m playing a video game, I must sit on the side of the screen that my character is on. Thanks.
- In titles, the words “of”, “the”, and “a” are never capitalized unless they’re the first word. Everything else is capitalized. Fuck you for doing otherwise.
- I will never #2 it in a public restroom. Ever. Especially not Shopko.

Music is the greatest thing ever to emerge from the mind of man.

Music makes me cry, lay back close my eyes and sigh, sends shivers down my spine and waves of goosebumps across the hair on my arms, makes me hurt my fingers and my lips playing guitar and piano and clarinet for hours on end, it makes me squeal with glee, roar in seething rage, sing way too loud and way outside my range, jump and thrash around like a meth-head on fire, and kick shit because I don’t care. It’s beautiful, even when it’s hideous. It is the only thing that I accepted as replacement for the girl I slept with for the last months of my sophomore year, whenever she was away. I firmly believe there is a song somewhere in the depths of sound history that perfectly describes whatever incredibly elating or depressingly shitty time you’re having right now. It’s the most unabashedly wonderful inanimate force (next to love I suppose). Music breathes (Kashiwa Daisuke’s “Stella,” at about the 4:57 mark). It yearns (just listen to the “Glasgow Love Theme” from Love Actually, you can feel the heartbreak corroding away your lungs).

I guess it farts, too (If you’re one of those yutzies who laughed at the end of “Aghartha” by Sunn O))), starting around 12:50)

If you could go back in time, would you change things? What would you change, considering the consequences? Would you prevent the Holocaust, knowing that without it the horrific face of murderous prejudice may still to this day be lurking unnoticed if you did? What you change, who would you save, who would you kill? A morbid thought, but I’d bet my last Canadian penny collecting dusty beardhair in my bedframe that a majority of whoever reads this considered killing Hitler.