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I've been making a list of pros and cons comparing my chosen professions. There's no clear winner yet (remember the debate is between poltergeist and Kim Jong-il). If you have any opinions on the matter feel free to comment.
(obviously not from the house show, but the closest we come to a photo of me dancing)(And I think that's actually from three years ago but anyway...)
I might smell like alcohol right now. I went to a house show tonight and I ignored the part where there was a communal beer being passed around (well, really I thought, "hey, that's the kind I bought nervously at the store to take home to make bread" and "hey, herpes") and I'm also ignoring what I think I heard someone say, and if they said what I think they said they were most definitely a groupie. Point being, I went to a house show. It was the kind of show that's got the beat that gets you every time. You stand there thinking, "I'm really a wise, world weary person, so I'm not going to dance." But then the drum kicks start ticking off the years and all of the sudden you realize you're only 22 and that's a great age to be. Old age? That's never going to happen. You're there there there and you're young and it's one moment and you're suddenly aware that you're tapping your feet knocking your knees twist and shouting and it's just grand.
Sometimes I need to be reminded that it's not enough to be ageless, sometimes I should be my age.
Was it oil paint or wool felt that set the trees to life tonight? They were not frescoed nor co-ed, but fully three dimensional and diverging all their plains. planes. playns.
I wish to make something beautiful. I wish to be a modern artist, I wish to be a little poet, I wish to be a happy musician, I wish to paint your clothes to appear in Super 8 [mm] formatly rich colors.
La, la, la, let's quit wishing. Let's become construction workers and drink out of thermoses. I'm not that strong now, but I imagine after a few months I could keep up a little better with all of the other construction workers. It might not be the most ideal job in some ways, I sunburn very easily, but it would be free of three to four minute French persuasive presentations. I wouldn't feel a stroke of pretention unless people kept asking me how to spell things. I kind of like manual labor. O to work all day long with a hammer at my hip then to trudge home to some tea as I fight the pleasant sensation of impending sleep long enough to brush my teeth and to read a half a page of a clever book and then surrender to heavy sleep which is not beknotted by twisted subconscious dreamings.
How perfecto that'd be.
¡viva!
(obviously not from the house show, but the closest we come to a photo of me dancing)
