Definitely used the name of a Circe Survive song for the title of this blog post because I'm going to see them tonight with a handful of other bands. They're one of those bands I've had on my ipod for years, appreciating and picking up each new release with casual excitement (except I really did enjoy their third album, Blue Sky Noise), never figuring I'd get to see them live. One of the best parts about living in Seattle is that it's always the first or last leg of tours for bands, so I get to see a wealth of them. I couldn't say the same for Abilene. I usually had to drive 3 hours east to Dallas - and I did plenty of times (The Appleseed Cast, Oh Sleeper, etc). But they all come through here, so there you have it.
You can bet I'll be buying like two shirts because a) I'm a nerd and b) I don't have the slightest idea of how to shop for anything clothes-related so I just get shirts at shows. I honestly couldn't care less about clothes. I would walk around in a spacesuit if I owned one. I have noticed with the overabundance of thrift stores and hipsters up here that people actually do care about their clothes and whatnot. I mean, I get not wanting to look like a bum, but you don't have to try that hard.
We get it Seattle. Flannel and American Apparel and monocles and whatever. You look great.
Anyways, the real point of this post is not to talk about music or complain about insignificant things but to post a poem I wrote..eh, basically today. It describes how I feel today. Take away whatever you want; I'm just enjoying writing again.
The door opens to a corpse, skin stretched over
bones bleached from deeds done long ago.
It is taller than me, and brighter -
the facade is disarming in its warmth
and the air hangs heavy with disdain.
We're at home here in the grave,
the rain pouting on panes that sullenly look on.
An unnamed film flickers in the foreground,
doing everything to amplify my nausea.
I hear the joints rub and chafe against each other
every time the tired bag of skin shifts places in the room,
like old pool balls cracking against your knuckles.
My needy wallet is a whore, emptying itself
in good spirits, poisoning the hands that take,
believing there will be something in return.
Instead, we martyr ourselves there on the bed.
The besotted forms of priests and curs dance
in rhythms we've perfected by watching strangers.
We will never really know each other.
I took the long way home, praying the life back
into my arms. There are amber and golden
fires lining the streets, weighed down by the sky.
Their sparks vein across my windshield,
cracking glass and stealing heat.
Flecks of chipped glass coat my eyelids,
and every blinking motion tears webs into them.
I close them and run every light, eager to close
them for a moment's recollection.
I'm reading - Black Swan Green by David Mitchell. It has nothing to do with that Natalie Portman movie. Mitchell has become my favorite author ever since I read Cloud Atlas. This is his 4th novel I've read in 2 months. I just finished Cormac McCarthy's The Road a few days ago too. Can't wait to read more of his work.
I'm listening - to all the bands playing tonight (Circa Survive, Balance & Composure, Touche Amore) because you know, you have to the day of. Also new albums by Freelance Whales, Between the Buried and Me, and Coheed & Cambria all came out this past week and they are all stellar.
I'm playing - Final Fantasy 6 on my computer. And Valkyrie Profile on the PS1 whenever I have time, which is never. I know, I'm a nerd.
I'm excited about - tonight's show, the Bengals to beat the Browns again tomorrow, and church tomorrow night.
A lovely Saturday to all of you.