sentimental renewal pogrom
something from the archives:
"A soul that knows it is loved but does not itself love betrays its sediment: what is at the bottom comes up." -Friedrich Nietzsche
I woke up alone on Tuesday, a witness to the wreckage of romance, failed and successful, thorough and gentle, Coldplay's "Clocks" pulsating from the deepest recesses of my head without reason. In the kitchen, a minefield of dishes from one housemate's five-course gift to his girlfriend: salad, wasabi mashed potatoes, broiled salmon, chocolate mousse, and the memories of several hours of sex a few feet from my head. In the living room, the post-breakup schizophrenia of another housemate, a volatile cocktail of festering vulnerability and embryonic scar tissue, whiskey-fueled ramblings of eternal recurrence and dream machines and the future of the Baghdad warehouse scene. I had emerged from post-breakup depression and the subsequent mordant mood only weeks prior, around the time the groundhog saw its shadow. Now, as I sat down to an 11:30 breakfast—coffee, salmon and goat cheese omelet, veggie sausages, half a grapefruit—I recalled what one drunken wise man had exclaimed to me at Around the Corner bar a couple nights prior, weathered hands digging into the region between my shoulders and throat: "Take it from me, one day you'll wake up and you'll be forty and it'll all be over. This is YOUR time!" I nodded my head as the three televisions played endless reruns of last season's Red Sox ALCS victories, the regulars slamming their drinks down with every run scored, as if for the first time.
Here, in the Indy offices, my time is spent among piles of obscure music video DVDs sent by forlorn glassy-eyed boys and girls at distribution companies in faraway urban locales—also alone. Frat rock promos also fill our shelves. And though we meet them with spite initially, perhaps we are too quick to dismiss the words of bands like Jacaranda, our comrades in love, loss, and Bacchanalian revelry: "Smokin' doobs and thinking of you / Why do I do the stupid things that I do / When you're not around, I've got nothing to do / Except smokin' doobs and thinking of you." So thank you T-Bone (bass, guitar), thank you Funkdaddy (keys), thank you Pirate (drums), thank you Lou-l (vox, acoustic guitar). Sometimes it's difficult to remember that these truly are the best days of our lives, and they must be shared.
"A soul that knows it is loved but does not itself love betrays its sediment: what is at the bottom comes up." -Friedrich Nietzsche
I woke up alone on Tuesday, a witness to the wreckage of romance, failed and successful, thorough and gentle, Coldplay's "Clocks" pulsating from the deepest recesses of my head without reason. In the kitchen, a minefield of dishes from one housemate's five-course gift to his girlfriend: salad, wasabi mashed potatoes, broiled salmon, chocolate mousse, and the memories of several hours of sex a few feet from my head. In the living room, the post-breakup schizophrenia of another housemate, a volatile cocktail of festering vulnerability and embryonic scar tissue, whiskey-fueled ramblings of eternal recurrence and dream machines and the future of the Baghdad warehouse scene. I had emerged from post-breakup depression and the subsequent mordant mood only weeks prior, around the time the groundhog saw its shadow. Now, as I sat down to an 11:30 breakfast—coffee, salmon and goat cheese omelet, veggie sausages, half a grapefruit—I recalled what one drunken wise man had exclaimed to me at Around the Corner bar a couple nights prior, weathered hands digging into the region between my shoulders and throat: "Take it from me, one day you'll wake up and you'll be forty and it'll all be over. This is YOUR time!" I nodded my head as the three televisions played endless reruns of last season's Red Sox ALCS victories, the regulars slamming their drinks down with every run scored, as if for the first time.
Here, in the Indy offices, my time is spent among piles of obscure music video DVDs sent by forlorn glassy-eyed boys and girls at distribution companies in faraway urban locales—also alone. Frat rock promos also fill our shelves. And though we meet them with spite initially, perhaps we are too quick to dismiss the words of bands like Jacaranda, our comrades in love, loss, and Bacchanalian revelry: "Smokin' doobs and thinking of you / Why do I do the stupid things that I do / When you're not around, I've got nothing to do / Except smokin' doobs and thinking of you." So thank you T-Bone (bass, guitar), thank you Funkdaddy (keys), thank you Pirate (drums), thank you Lou-l (vox, acoustic guitar). Sometimes it's difficult to remember that these truly are the best days of our lives, and they must be shared.
posted by salmoncolored | 9:05 AM
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