Log in

No account? Create an account

oh my god, satsuma La Roux!

The damn 'o' key keeps sticking on my keyboard, and it's making typing incredibly slow and frustrating.

I've been downloading a bunch of new music, and it's all good. Nevermind the Buzzcocks does wonders for my music tastes.

Not Buzzcocks related, but Paramore! Proud of you... I just listened to Brand New Eyes. I didn't love all of Riot! (going to be honest here, I only ever really listen to the singles even though I have the entire album, because I never thought the rest of it really stood up) but there were some really great moments on Brand New Eyes. I was annoyed at first that Hayley didn't get a chance to tear some notes apart in the first tracks, but she did later on, and I really loved The Only Exception, which was a completely unexpected and quite lovely ballad. I liked the lyrics a lot. Well done, Paramore.

When I was younger
I saw my daddy cry
And cursed at the wind
He broke his own heart...

And that was the day i promised
Id never sing of love
If it does not exist

But darlin,
You, are, the only exception...

Also, Paloma Faith. Who believes in rainbows and pots of gold, clown haute couture and do-goodery. I love her song 'New York'. She's got this big, sharp voice. Not usually quite my style, but she means what she sings, and I can embrace that. She's a little bit Amy Winehouse, a little bit Lady Gaga, and a lot Paloma. She's brilliant. And she smiles! I like that in a celebrity.

Lastly, the Enemy. Who have been out for a while, have a feud with Peaches Geldof, won an NME award last year, and have a new album out. They're sort of precious, and I love how loud and dirty (but with chanted choruses!) their music is. If they were american, they'd be a younger, less introverted version of the Gaslight Anthem. The british version of Jersey-shore rock. Or something like that. I really like 'Away From Here' especially the shout-along chorus bits.

You know you can't resist the leather jacket stare.

That's all.

the remarkable joy of breathing

I watched Wallace and Gromit on Friday, while napping. It was fantastic. I haven't seen it in maybe twleve years and I remembered all of the feelings I had when I watched it when I was small. And the nonsense, and how somehow everything about it made sense. It's the most childish, innocent, and beautiful idea in the world that when there's nothing else to  do on a lazy Bank Holiday, and you've got no cheese for your tea... build a spaceship and go to the moon. Because everyone knows, the moon is made out of cheese. Also, there's a friendly refrigerator robot up there who needs 10p to work and just wants to go skiing.

They never do conclude what type of cheese the moon tastes like. I think it's probably parmesan, but I'd like to keep believing that it's provolone.

Nick made an observation recently that I agree whole heartedly with. High school is the years when you spend your time trying to repress all childlike instincts, because being into stuff that kids like isn't "cool". And then college is the time you spend regaining all of that childishness that you spent all your time repressing. He made this conclusion when we were sitting on the playground at one in the morning. We slept outside last night, in a nest of blankets. It's maybe forty degress outside, and I still woke up warm. Cuddling like commas is a wonderful thing. 

I'm a good thing to be into. 

Eight Days a Week. (so much poetry, wtf)Collapse )

Song For You, Alexi Murdoch.
"listen to my hands... (acoustic guitar solo)"

Sep. 30th, 2009

"I almost mispelled your name on the love note I wrote to you."

oh, steam whistle! oh, lenin!

Today, rather than paying attention to a Robinson Crusoe discussion in class, I ... wrote a poem. At first I called it Two Shoes That Were Not Fellows (from the text of Robinson Crusoe) but I think His Hands Are Bigger Than Mine is a better title. I haven't written anything I like in a while. But I'm sort of into this one. Whatevs.

His Hands Are Bigger Than Mine

We kicked off our shoes
at the foot of our bed
which was actually grass and clover
and not blankets and sheets.
My sneakers and his scuffed loafers
rescued from Salvation Army
         the part in the back
         with the broken heels
         and cracked ice skates.
Our shoes, tumbled against each other,
almost like our knees
which tumble into a four-legged pyramid
with a ball of warmth
down between our hips.

His hands
are bigger than mine
and stronger, laced with veins
and muscles made for carrying:
sorrow and life and heat.
There's a sense of ritual in
hs fingers
and the way they know where mine are
even in the dark, and how
the knuckles curl
to keep my palms warm
when our clenched hands fall down
onto the grass.
he keeps his knuckles on the outside
towards the wind and sky.
Just in case.

The summer breeze
twists around our ankles
and shoots through our ribs
and up, to the sky
shooing the clouds this way and that
way up above our chins.
There are faces, sometimes,
looking down at us little ones
collapsed on the grass and clover
running a summer day to the bone
of nothing more and purple twilight
which is always most beautiful
in summer
because the sun is loath to let go of the horizon
and lingering orange fingerprints
fade away into the night time,
sharing space with the stars.

Nights are warm
on the grass during summer
and we'll sleep here until the morning dew
pricks the blades beneath us
and if Night throws a chill
across our shoulders,
his hands are bigger than mine,
and warm.

This is ALL HIS FAULT. Collapse )

your best disguise

I still want to hear the stories
of treasure ships and fights
and all the daring rescues
and all the full moon nights
sprinkled with the light from stars above
and you know tink, you'll always have
my everlasting love
so clap your hands and count back down to ten
but I can't come to neverland again.

- Farewell to Tinkerbell, Edwin McCain

Highlights from the school paper:

(I'm sick of love. And vegetables.)

So, naturally, the question for everyone becomes: what's the best way to spend my time? You could: smoke pot, do your homework, hit on the exchange students, sleep in, beat the shit out of another person with a foam sword, go for a run, get drunk, eat some food, watch a movie, gloat self-righteously about how great it is that you don't need booze to have a good time, kiss someone of the opposite (or same) sex, fall in love, talk about how there is nothing to do at Beloit, smoke a cigarette while wearing vibrant glasses, go to class, grunt in the sports center while you try to lift a dirty pile of weights, and/or laugh.

- - -

I think today is going to be a good day. I ate an apple, a cookie, half a hummus wrap, and half a bottle of soda for breakfast. Except for how it's 2:30 now, so it's more like lunch. Spent all yesterday and last night cuddling, drank  too much chai, remembered how easily caffeine makes me have to go to the bathroom, got a demonstration of Nick's unicycle skillz, changed my clothes, listened to Eagle Eye Cherry and Edwin McCain, washed my face, brushed my teeth, opened the window.

Life is happy because of the smallest things. Today is a laundry day, and I'm going to bring my iPod down and listen to the Nutcracker and try to refrain from dancing.


Happy, happy birthday. Dream sweet honey dreams, laced with sapphires. The world is yours.

My college mailroom wouldn't take kindly to sending a package to the Bahamas, so this is the best I can do. I spend a great deal of every day collecting inspiration. Not everyone is inspired by the same things, but you've been down lately, and I thought maybe a page of inspiration would get the creative wheels working. (Not that they ever stopped, of course.)

Listen to the bluebirds sing...Collapse )

Finish each day and be done with it.
You have done what you can.
Some blunders and absurdities crept in;
forget them as soon as you can.
Tomorrow is a new day.
You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit
to be encumbered by your old nonsense.



Out damned spot.

I've spent all weekend dying what feels like everyone on my floors' hair. I bleached streaks in Emily's hair, then dyed them red. Bleached Sam's fringe, and then dyed the top of it red. Bleached the top of my own streaks, and  when I have the time I'm planning on redoing the pink and blue. Right now it's blonde, pink, blue... the colours fading in various stages of weird.

My hands are still stained red in places... I look a little bit like I just murdered someone. In spirit of actually being in college, Molly made one of the best Shakespeare references, while I was trying to scrub the red from my fingers at the sink.

"Out damned spot!"

He kissed me. HE KISSED ME.

maturity: we has it

Just shared a goodnight hug with a really good friend that ended in a mildly intense eye-to-eye where I wasn't sure if he was going to kiss me or not. Strange times.

Also, just got back from a picnic dinner in the local cemetery. We were careful: no one fell over a tombstone, and no salt was spilled.


do you remember this photograph?

the Fallng ManCollapse )

Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly if there wasn’t someone, somewhere, laughing?”
- Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

This isn't about heavy boots. This is about commemoration.

Life is beautiful.

truth on every shepherd's tongue

My life right now... just a few pictures from the preparations for Friday and Saturday in Chicago. Also, the crafts projects I've been doing, and my fabulous shirt that I made at the Alliance house last night. Extreme tshirt modification? Only ALWAYS.

Excuse the colours... they're so blecky. I promise all of the stuff I own is bright and colourful. If it makes goths eyes hurt, I'm there.

drown her pain in lemonadeCollapse )


cool is a bubble they can&#39;t burst

Latest Month

October 2009


Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by chasethestars