Archive for March, 2008

Women, Maths, Music

Posted in Uncategorized on March 18, 2008 by spiebocks

I found out, today, just today, that my favorite song from my favorite band is not in my iPhone. Upon further investigation, I found out, today, just today, that this song is nowhere in my machine.

“Trying your Luck”

You said you couldn’t stay
You’ve seen it all before, I know
They sold you on their way
Oh honey that’s ok

No harm, he’s armed
Setting off all your alarms
When I found out
I hope it’s you who’s set this trap

And storefronts rarely change
At least I’m on my own again
Instead of anywhere with you
Ah tell me it’s all the same

And I lost my page again
I know this is surreal
But I’ll try my luck with you
This life is on my side
I am your one
Believe me this is a chance

Lets see what’s for sale
He’s trying not to give his job a chance
It’s never going to be
It’s sad but I agree
The signals don’t seem right
It lasts for just one night, and then
I’m sorry that I said that we were just good friends

No harm, he’s armed
Setting off all your alarms
Entranced, I couldn’t be there in time
Now think about that

And I lost my page again
I know this is surreal
But I’ll try my luck with you
This life is on my side
And I am your one
Believe me this is a chance.

This came at an awkward time in my life. I had recently sworn off the Strokes since they recalled too many memories, good and bad. However, it occurred to me that at that time, I found salvation in their monotone drone and shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss them. I am in search of this song now.

A thought: there are too many 20-something females that are still girls, not women but girls

I fucking hate analysis.

Tomorrow

Posted in Uncategorized on March 11, 2008 by spiebocks

It’s 5:18 a.m. and there is too much on mind to sleep:

Will dim lights dim vibrations? What ever happened to McGruff the Crime Dog from Chicago Illinois (60652?) Why don’t “love handles” ever get much love (they seem to get nothing but hate)? If I saw Sarah in a few days without cocaine in her eyes would I recognize her? What would you do if you had only 24 hours to live (I believe MA$E first posed this question in an early album)? What if you can’t see how I stun (“see how I stun, see how I stun”) and I don’t collect you? What if our roles had been reversed from the beginning of time? Would we have gotten this far? Do I know the value of silence? Have I ever even known such beauty? Am I allowed to miss someone that I see often, that isn’t gone, someone that doesn’t want to be missed? I DO DECLARE, “the girl I love she got long black wavy hair.” I haven’t seen her in far too many life-times. I used to think I wanted to be remembered/surrendered by someone/to something. I wonder what fish-oil really does? Will I successfully pass on my written words (nicely bounded in leather) to my grandchildren or worry too much about their judgment? For how long will I be able to fool them with the ol’ “I found a quarter behind your ear trick”? I think my grandfather had me believing in magic quarters that appeared behind ears until I was 4. Why can’t I be 4 again? Or, rather, 10, I think my imagination peaked at that time and I began to truly think for myself then. Why can’t all (attractive, unattached, female) neighbors be sex addicts? Must they gray mush in my head think in fragments so bitter. I AM BATMAN – without the mind, good looks, charm, grace, winning smile, money, gadgetry, and child-hood tragedy that allows normal people to become extraordinary. I wonder if I’ll remember my 22 year old self when I am 30? 40? 50 (will I even live this long)? I can’t wait until we can simply plug into a machine and record our thoughts directly, this old mind-to-hand method is too slow for reality. The same people/habits/places await my return – perhaps now enhanced with wisdom and corruption. I had forgotten that children exist – I just never see them during my day. Ghosts whose pictures occupy co-workers’ desks. I suppose I’m in the middle of a story, my story but I’m not sure if I’m going forwards to the unwritten stuff or just re-reading what’s there. I need to work on my fake smile (according to Fred). I used to be good, great even(“when we were all giants and could smile with tears”). I still seem to be left-handed – I never used to mind. Aliens call out from their home in my leg (“precious, my precious”). I wish I were drunk so that I may fall into a drunk’s dream/sleep/occupation (Bukowski you sly dog, you had it right the first time). I wish I still cared enough to bother purchasing a bottle to find myself looking through its bottom. Why, o why did I ever quit smoking? Oh yeah, because they said it was “icky”. What happened to that girl at the coffee shop, flashing that breath-halting smile? For some reason, I hope her day went well; either way, I suppose it has long since been forgotten being a year ago and all. Ad hoc, post hoc, everywhere a hoc hoc. Tell me, when will someone print out detailed instructions on how to get to Sesame Street? Big Bird has been asking for years (that bird is way too big). Although, I imagine that Sesame Street is not too pleasant when the cameras aren’t rolling. I’m sure the puppets are pissed that they get tugged this way and that way with wires or, worse, have some hand up their ass. I think those guys should start a union. I imagine that Oscar the Grouch would lead the revolution and The Count would be counting the number of people that show up in the meeting(“….23, 24, 25… ha ha ha ha ha”).

When I think of perfection (in most if not all ways) I will think of her; specifically on that one day, when she wore that one dress, with her atypically beautiful smile, ridiculous laughter, and usual wit and engaging personality. It is memory that has found a permanent place in my mind since its realization (and perhaps before – I always knew you had it in you). For some reason I just remembered an old movie favorite, “All The Pretty Horses”.

And so, I go.

A True Story from A False Memoir

Posted in Uncategorized on March 6, 2008 by spiebocks

“My brain felt cold and weak from this war with everyone;  I found most of those who agreed even less palatable than the destroyers.  No matter how deeply one went into the forest or into the mountains a jet contrail would somehow appear as a wound across the sky.  But I had no talent for reform and could not stop pouring whiskey into my face unless it was miles away, flatly unreachable.  Those born in big cities, some of them, tied to save cities.  I could not dry out my brain long enough to regard any day with total focus.  Others in my generation took drugs and perhaps expand their consciousness, that was open to question, and I drank and contracted my brain into halts and stutters, a gray fist of fury.” – from Wolf by Jim Harrison.