"Every song I ever wrote was written for you."
- -Belle & Sebastian, "Dog On Wheels"

"I've written pages, upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones."
- -The Decemberists, "The Engine Driver"

*

Got any?

"That's the gayest song ever, and you have a serious problem."
- -Dylan, upon hearing Jennifer Saunders' cover of "Holding Out For A Hero" and realising I have it play on a loop on my iPod

Help! I can't stop! I've had "Holding Out For A Hero" by Jennifer Saunders (bonus track from "Shrek 2" soundtrack) playing on a loop for over an hour now with no end in sight.

Lord, this woman makes my innards quiver.

ETA (8/5):

I was showing my mom "Bottom". I told her that Jennifer Saunders' husband was in it. Upon seeing our man Adrian Edmondson, she said jealously:

"So THAT's the husband of our lord and savior?"

Not hide away from the world, no that’s not what I meant, what I meant was, using “hiding from the world” as an excuse for being so close to you, so close I forget where you begin, because you see I’m much too shy to tell you that, my true motive. Besides, I don’t really want to talk about anything, let alone something so internal. I want to live the internal with you whilst speaking of the external if speaking at all.

But I could do with not speaking. I could do just fine with hiding in you, occasionally resurfacing to catch a glimpse of the TV. And maybe we’re on it, because it’s turned off and all I can see is the dark reflection cast by the bright lamp near our heads.

It’s kind of sad that music can make you feel more than real life can sometimes.

Sometimes, I am completely numb, and only music can stir something in me emotionally.

I’m in one of those periods.

Colin Meloy is the frontman of The Decemberists.

He writes these amazing fanciful lyrics that I don’t always understand, but they are beautiful words and beautiful sounds when he sings them in his beautiful sad voice, and I can dig what he’s saying, even if I don’t really get it intellectually, and it feels like he’s saying it to me, that he’s written it for me, that he’s singing to me, and I close my eyes, and I know he’s sitting over there, just where the speakers were when my eyes were open just now, and he’s singing to me, hoping to crack past that numbness that has recently taken over me, and he’s succeeding, he’s succeeding, and every time he succeeds, he inches closer, he digs deeper, until I am finally feeling something, I’m feeling everything, it’s an avalanche, and I’m an emotional wreck, weeping at his feet, begging for more.

He says, “Oh what a rush of ripe elan.”

That’s why Colin Meloy is my boyfriend.

Though maybe I should rework this and call it, Colin Meloy’s Voice Is My Boyfriend.

I inhale through a stuffy nose...

smell nothing worth smelling
nothing that will clear my nasal passage
before entering my brain
turning neutrality into euphoria

nothing that’s the scentual equivalent
of snow turned blue by twilight
soft beauty that refuses to let itself be named
instead, just infiltrates my pores

( Read more... )

A moment of sparse beauty, one of several littered across an otherwise beige history. Taken out of context, its memory remains intact, untainted.

And that's what I did. To do anything else would have taken it away from me. Some things are better left alone, separated, isolated, floating and suspended just above our otherwise foggy heads, something to look toward to clear away. Some things are better left enjoyed than catalogued.

A memory, a single memory, makes a doorway.
A doorway down which two paths split.
And I. I took the road most rewarding.
Like an improv game: Isolate the beautiful and capitalize on it.

Because, that was that. That was it. I spend the remainder of my days searching out equatable bliss. Taking comfort in imitations, however poor, because imitations are all they are and imitations have become all I expect.

An Imitation You. An Imitation Moment. Trapped in Memory, I am free. When Living is oppressive, I become a faded image of that which once was and can never be again. I make it my life's mission to seek out all and anything that will trigger the integers of mortal space amongst the infinity of my mind. Isolate, and Capitalize. Memory, and Break free. Seek and Absorb. Drain. For all its worth. A point of pure mindlessness in which bliss is fleetingly reached. A calling back in time for a specific set of scenes of pictures that allows me most calm. I close my eyes and smile a smile of satisfactory something, all the while my body is just beyond my reach. I will dwell for eternity in the corridors of my brain, in hallways of memory, channeling aesthetic sensate perfection.