Random Thoughts on a rainy day on the 15th floor
Kafka wasn't all that good. I just realized today that I'm reading a book by Kafka and another book entitled Kafka on the Shore. I recommend the second. My book reading has become very 'poppy' lately. I find that it helps me be good at something when I read lower brow books where the metaphors jump out at you and sit in your lap purring, telling you with their vibrating larynx that you are ever-so-smart.
I really like listening to the following songs when I'm playing 'worker bee'. I play them in this order it is called the "Life_aint_so_Bad.m3u"
Billy Bragg & Wilco - California Stars
John Vanderslice - The Won't Let Me Run
Spoon - The Way We Get By
Deerhoof - Sealed with a kiss
Ryan Adams - Magnolia Mountain
Rilo Kiley - POrtions for Foxes
Sufjan Stevens - That Dress Looks Nice on You
New Order - Krafty
My Teenage Stride - Arlan Sykes
Ted Leo - Me and Mia
Kimya Dawson - Chemistry
Funkadelic - You and Your Folks
Enon - Natural Disasters
Elliott Smith - Say Yes
Bear vs Shark - Bloodgiver
Two if By Sea - Contracts
Architecture in Helsinki - Fumble
Andrew Bird - A nervous tick motion
White Stripes - Jolene
The walkmen - Little House
Ryan Adams - Strawberry Wine
Yep - no one read that - but that's what plays on repeat all day at work - well at least during the drag hours of 2-4 (ohhhhh how do we all dread the 2-4).
When I was little I used to trace these drawing that were in some flighty coloring book I had at home. Even when I was little I always had a propensity to aim high and hit low. I would bring the drawing into class and give them to the girls and tell them I loved them. One day, a French kid, or Arabian, I can't remember, challenged me to a drawing contest in front of the class. I accepted and he decided the topic was to be a table. My table looked like a Triscuit that had been dipped in water too long. The jig was up.
Everybody's reaction is to assume that I'm lonely. Really I miss my mother and I miss being her son. Even as crazy as I was I get lonely but I'm not that lonely yet. I want to hop on the next jet and just fly to Russia or Seattle. I'd like to dive anywhere west in chase of the sun, somewhere that I can reinvent myself. I can chase the bottle from my hands and the idea of a pen from my head. I'm lonely and all but there's wine in the bottle and a song on the stereo. There's a shadow to dance with and a table to stand on. If I feel so inclined as to call my father I'll just cry. I'll just break down again and I'll want someone to hug. I miss my mother but the bottle fills in when I need it. I'll take anybody I can get. Sometimes I want to call you but I feel like a pest. I get lonely, but I'm not that lonely yet.
People write so well. People that I love and respect seem to be doing so much more. I get so jealous that no one calls me. I get so jealous that there is someone having fun without me and not thinking of me. I want to touch everything but then when I do it shrivels like one of those South American flowers that wither because it's never been touched by anything. People act so damn well and all I can do is be one of two things. I can be bright orange. I can be like shag carpeting in a poor family's house. They never saved enough to renovate so they have this obnoxious pitiful carpet that everyone knows is old and warn out. I can be black. I can be like absolute space vortex black. I can be somewhere that no one can touch me. I can blend into vapor and dance around in my own head ignoring everything.
I would like to rest my head on your pocket book while you drive. To feel the cool breeze of the Pennsylvanian Appalachian coastline as it brushes up against the Allegheny and secludes itself through valleys and acres and acres of cows and corn. I want to fall asleep on your pocket bag and wake up to a good song on the radio that you are already playing. I like the idea of the night and it being too cold to smoke outside. No one wants to stop or get out of the car because we just keep looking ahead singing and touching each other's hands. I love simple silent signs of love.
That's the way I get by sometimes. I walk and read at the same time.
"How do you walk and read?"
"I don't know it's a skill like being able to play the drums or hang glide and eat."
That's what I do to dream. I walk and read. I hope that I die by tragedy so that way my life won't seem like an induced waste. It will seem like more of a -- well --- tragic waste.
"Oh he died in a plane crash."
"Oh that's so awful. How tragic."
That sounds much better than.
"He died drunk driving."
"Oh that's awful."
"He deserved it."
