Joanna Newsom- Ys

Mistaken identity, something I couldn't understand, words words words, lifeless and empowering. We secret conversations beneath the limbs of a swollen tree, bristling with naturalistic ego. Inhaling the hum of the everydays, sad love, we are nourished. What would you do for me if I asked?

"The meteorite is was causes the light
and the meteor's just what we see
and the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee."

I was crying myself to sleep and you just kept drifting in and out and asking me "What?"

There was a brief period of time when I was in my early teens that I thought I wanted to be a firefighter. Let me just say that I didn't do anything to pursue this. I didn't work out, I didn't take chemistry, I didn't read about firefighting or go talk to actual firefighters. I just thought that it would be a crazy thing to do for a living and that maybe I'd become strong by breathing smoke and using axes and saving cats from trees.

The dream was short lived because I think on some subconscious level I realised that I'm always late for everything, which is inconsiderate in general, but becomes a real problem when you're paid to be on a societally commissioned rescue squadron. I'm also not particularly strong or reliable. I'm very good at being lightheartedly social about a variety of topics, but I don't think people with smoke inhalation/charred flesh would really benefit from chatting about Obama or District 9 or Jameson or Al Purdy. I'm not even sure I care about these things.

That's false, I really care about Jameson and Al Purdy. And to a lesser extent District 9 and Obama. But only insomuch as they make me feel things. Paying attention to politics and entertainment isn't actually something that's important to do; you can live your whole life in the bubble of the immediate present and only know as much as you want to because it really only affects your life negatively to learn more on the subject (but how witty/connected/concerned you can seem in bars! Not so much in burning office towers.) The political sphere is something uncontrollable and forever frustrating and things are never good, they just become not all that bad sometimes. The players change, the game stays the same and we all exist in a society predicated on the violence of the now. The smallest aspects of my life are created through murder and that's just fine because it has to be.

But it isn't fine and I get really depressed and write songs with cryptic lyrics and think that somehow I'm contributing. My mom said that my aunt has depression issues that she needs to work out. I said we live in North America, everyone has depression issues. The only people I know who are really happy lead extremely visceral lives; rock climbing, travelling, living in the wildernes. Flying one way to Vancouver and finding their way back. There are answers in these lifestyles. They cannot simply be escape. Can they? Is this escapism akin to Wordsworth trying to "write in the language of the common man" in order to get in tune with a simple view of the world/emotions/existential ridiculousness? As if living a simple life could ever make life simple.

This morning my girlfriend legitimately asked me, "What's wrong with you?" I think this happens around this point in all of my relationships. It took us longer to get here than it ever has in the past, so now I'm alarmed and concerned. The funny thing is that her habits are basically the same, I'm just becoming frustrated with perfectly reasonable reactions to my unreasonable behavior. I feel like the things that make me attractive in the first place become grating and irresponsible when people feel like they need to rely on me for things. Is it really so bad to balk at someone requesting that you act like a normal human being? Probably.

Eating free lunch, drinking free beer at work. Things will be A-OK.

holistic

cool cool plastic
make a man out of me
make a small-eyed deer out of unsorted thoughts
make a monarch with crow's feet to make difficult decisions
skip breakfast or work or life today.

chime
notice oft-beskirted men and women,
damp at the crotch and edges of eyes,
curious of sudoku or horoscope or obituary,
smelted and smoked and cured;
perched mundanely amid dust particles,
water vapour, finely tapered.
chime chime chime

cool cool plastic
make a bottle full of oil
with a clearly printed label
and caress with sinking happiness
a surgic'ly constructed wound indifferent to stitch.

chime
notice many feathered flyers,
filled with air and malnutrition,
pillage strong ambivalent backs
of fronts where all the dumpsters live;
scattered timid swirled and sliced
looming great delivery truck
that honks to end a meal
chime chime chime

cool cool plastic
make everything out of me
so that I may not be anything.

I think I like that curls
are probably the only thing she manufactures. Ever.
I don't walk the space within
where the sadness dots the skin
but I'd like to be that kind of kin,
regardless of the weather.

Today is one of the days where I miss you really hard even though I'm generally pretty happy.

"You can't unring a bell, junior." -Tom Waits

something magnificent.

blinds and drapes, fines and rapes. Lost grapes in your refrigerator; I won't taste them.

the jeans are mostly stained with grass but there are other things, less present, that aver perception:::::::namely, your bodily fluids and oldest memories:::::::::::::::::your faces, changing shape and size::::::::::::::::::::thousands and thousands of digital photographicly emphasized longings.

A riverbed, soft with muck and sleeping sickness, narcoleptic nervousness climbs to new heights, which you avoid just in case the eyes cannot maintain their energiesuschrist,whenwillitend?

Masonaryo (Draft)

Subtle enchantress, your eyes are moving in squares and I care not to see where they land
might the distance between two and three break and take down the tyranny of idle hands
don't move quickly; feel so sickly sweet; it can be hard to breathe
birth your brothers; undercover, hidden by seasons and sleeves

If I had the time I'd have written a eulogy just for the sake of something to do
it's a story I'd write just to bore me, implore me please to be better for you
in the dregs of an unholy union transcendent light fallacies beautifully dance
in a room filled with fresh murdered flowers that wilt by the hour,
we've all had our chance to see.
To see.
To see.

Adrift in a sea of serious sleeping snakes,
A love so terrible it never fully goes away.

My life felt very real last night.

The Seeming Day

"It wasn't so long ago
that I professed a memory
of words catapulted weakly in restricted reverie.

smatch smarch smurchandise;
search in dyes
merchant eyes

epole htiw enoyreve
rof eht ekas fo ti?
yan.

subterfuge.
I'd like the walls to be cleaner.
New bedspreads and sheets; colours, painted colours in my mind.
But which colours are they?

straiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight and narrow.
poison arrows in my wheelbarrow,
gangrene thumb, bad soil, no fun.
pollute my eventide until the mourningtide comes.
yellow bristol hills
paper plasmic sun
stupid and elusive; in seclusion, everyone."

Former Underdog will be up and running (again?) in the soon to be past future. Emphasis on podcasts, but I will be contributing a lot of writing as well.

mmHmm!