A Random Image

Posts Tagged ‘yeah there was alcohol involved but you shouldn’t discount the overall sentiment’

 
|| August 12, 2000 || 12:53 am || Comments (0) ||

I hereby dedicate the following post to Mistuh Dirk Buh-lidge-ah-runt with all the fondness one can muster through clenched teeth:

Stress Management:

  • Mentally picture yourself near a stream.
  • Birds are chirping in the crisp, cool mountain air.
  • Nothing can bother you here.
  • No one knows this secret place.
  • You are in total seclusion from that place called the “world.”
  • The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity.
  • The water is so clear that you can easily make out the face of the person whose head you are holding under the water.

There now…….feeling better?

 
|| August 5, 2000 || 12:33 am || Comments (0) ||

I have a wicked ugly cut on my left thumb. It starts around the inside, in the base area, and winds up top, over the knuckle. OWOWOW. It seems to have gotten infected (we played frisbee with the dog today) and is showing signs of conscientious objector status. It is gaping open slightly and –goshdarnit!– has the telltale appearance of “One Who Would be A Scar”.

How’d I get said cut (I thought you’d never ask, dearie!)? I was messing around on the guitar, humming nonsense to meself, when my subconscious snagged on a thought.

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses”….yeah, I’ll have a go at that one. This guy I cared for deeply at one time told me the song reminded him of me:

(U2, ya damned dummies) You’re dangerous ’cause you’re honest /
You’re dangerous, you don’t know what you want / Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot / For any spirit to haunt / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey / You’re an accident waiting to happen / You’re a piece of glass left there on the beach / Well you tell me things / I know you’re not supposed to / Then you leave me just out of reach / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Well you stole it ’cause I needed the cash / And you killed it ’cause I wanted revenge / Well you lied to me ’cause I asked you to / Baby, can we still be friends / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Oh, the deeper I spin / Oh, the hunter will sin for your ivory skin / Took a drive in the dirty rain / To a place where the wind calls your name / Under the trees the river laughing at you and me / Hallelujah, heavens white rose / The doors you open / I just can’t close / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, your gypsy heart / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, and don’t look back / Come on now love, don’t you look back / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna taste your salt water kisses / Who’s gonna take the place of me / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna tame the heart of thee

So I went to tune up and, tear-r-r-r-r-r, I clumsily got caught on the end of a guitar string. Not so much painful as startling.

That’s what I get.

That’s what I damned well get for reminiscing on a boy that’s ages gone, seemingly.

I wish you endless inspiration, a good roof and a full refrigerator, Cris. I hope you are well.

 
|| July 23, 2000 || 10:15 pm || Comments (0) ||

Red wine does funny things to my senses.

I was dancing with myself on the balcony, allowing the music in my head to murmur throughout my body. I love this state of self-contained beauty, where everything just belongs to the moment. I writhe and I breathe and it is delightfully pagan. It’s easy to forget him standing over there, just outside the squares of light careening off of the french doors. It’s easy to not remember that he is as absorbed as I am, for similar and dissimilar reasons….this dichotomy is pulpy and delicious.

Life itself is in those moments between what we experience and what we choose to dismiss from recollection.

And the stories, fuck me, the stories!