Outward By Design (Pain That I'm Used To)
Jul. 14th, 2010 11:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jheti
Okay, it's been a year, I figure I'm safe. From what I'm not sure, to start using this as a personal journal again; stream of consciousness for the win, woo woo brain piss.
Not getting enough work done. Not as much as I'd like. I really shoulda listened to that little voice in June who was like "You should probably do some of this ahead," only all I could see stretching before me at the time was more work.
I basically can't remember the last time I did something for fun that didn't have some kind of strings attached. I'd say the RP, but the truth is, fandom stopped being about me doing my own thing and started becoming me doing my own thing in front of people with that faint performative pressure (fellow attention whores now you know how I feel, it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for meeeeee) and I will pause, a moment, and share with you the complete awesome that is Bluestep by Colatron. It's one of those rare tracks that sounds the way the music feels to me. Only a few musicians have ever managed to do that, for me, to me. I can count them for you on one hand. In order of discovery: Vivaldi, Michael Jackson, Bjork (that's a story all its own, a thrice-find love-hate I'm obssessed with her masseter and buccinator saga I may never fully tell you), Splashdown, and Goldfrapp.
Paul Simon comes very, very close, and his The Rhythm of the Saints is the album I answer the deserted island question with, because to me the story that unfolds between the music is always different, delicious and complex each time, with new nuances, and I have listened to this album at least a thousand times.
That's not an exaggeration! I've owned it for eighteen years and, when I listen to it, I usually listen to it back to back to back to back without stopping, four to six times. I could describe it for you with algebra, probably, but I'm on my first cup of coffee, and did I tell you, I painted my nails Romulan whore green and they are sparkly and fucking amazing.
But the music.
That's not to say every song by these artists. Just a few. Strum against the barrier in my head, the lines between the visual, the kinetic, the emotional, and the sensory. I get pictures, scents, other sounds, and sometimes a sense of location or season to the work also.
Most music will provoke at least one of these. I'm told that's normal. Is it also common to look at the worlds manufactured in the booklet pictures and want to think yourself into them while the song is playing? It's like imagining you're there, but in detail.
I never knew, really, what Will You Follow Me by Rob Dougan was for, and the answer is Romulus Before in Ayel's head.
On the mundane reel again, I had things to say about that, too; it took me two days to recover fully from the new eye movements I've had to learn to watch the side mirrors of a car. I had--it was like a headache on the inside. Maybe I really should have learned as a teen, back when I had basic hope and faith in life, back when I got up in the morning and felt content instead of smug at death and time, and back before my brain took a bath in adrenaline.
I have very slight short-term memory issues that I didn't used to have, and they correlate directly with Life Events. There are holes in the RAM where my hippocampus should be.
...Coffee! I have a Cuisinart (I love you, Craigslist!) and nnn, coffee really is best fresh and hot, reheated really is shit, but there's nothing like that first taste every day. Of fresh hot coffee. I hadn't realized how much I like and want it and miss it when I have to go to the microwave. There is a difference, people, and some of it is as much about the ritual, the habit, the emptying and resetting of the machine and the wait and knowing that what comes out will be hot and delicious, as it is about actually getting the coffee, fresh coffee that you got the top cup of.
I frequently end sentences with prepositions; I don't care what's correct.
Excuse me, I've been spending some time with people who correct people for a living, and very few things bother me innately, but that is one. Criticism, I laugh at, nothing anyone can say to me on their worst day is even the sunniest thing that ever thundered from his mouth in jest.
But I hate. To be corrected. Even legitimately.
Try having people explaining to you since you were born that you are broken, that you do not work right, and we are going to fix you fine now, and we'll see how well you deal with same.
I am arrogant because my life would destroy a humbler person.
Please. I wish it were baaaaw. Then it would at least be funny.
I want that teal deer profile thing so badly. I am just going to buy myself one. He's so handsome! A wonderful teal stag. Guardian of the idea forest and patron saint of those with keyboard diarrhea.
And really, my time is up, the stopwatch says so; goodbye, doctor, I think we had a great session. I think we made a lot of progress, here.
Not getting enough work done. Not as much as I'd like. I really shoulda listened to that little voice in June who was like "You should probably do some of this ahead," only all I could see stretching before me at the time was more work.
I basically can't remember the last time I did something for fun that didn't have some kind of strings attached. I'd say the RP, but the truth is, fandom stopped being about me doing my own thing and started becoming me doing my own thing in front of people with that faint performative pressure (fellow attention whores now you know how I feel, it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for meeeeee) and I will pause, a moment, and share with you the complete awesome that is Bluestep by Colatron. It's one of those rare tracks that sounds the way the music feels to me. Only a few musicians have ever managed to do that, for me, to me. I can count them for you on one hand. In order of discovery: Vivaldi, Michael Jackson, Bjork (that's a story all its own, a thrice-find love-hate I'm obssessed with her masseter and buccinator saga I may never fully tell you), Splashdown, and Goldfrapp.
Paul Simon comes very, very close, and his The Rhythm of the Saints is the album I answer the deserted island question with, because to me the story that unfolds between the music is always different, delicious and complex each time, with new nuances, and I have listened to this album at least a thousand times.
That's not an exaggeration! I've owned it for eighteen years and, when I listen to it, I usually listen to it back to back to back to back without stopping, four to six times. I could describe it for you with algebra, probably, but I'm on my first cup of coffee, and did I tell you, I painted my nails Romulan whore green and they are sparkly and fucking amazing.
But the music.
That's not to say every song by these artists. Just a few. Strum against the barrier in my head, the lines between the visual, the kinetic, the emotional, and the sensory. I get pictures, scents, other sounds, and sometimes a sense of location or season to the work also.
Most music will provoke at least one of these. I'm told that's normal. Is it also common to look at the worlds manufactured in the booklet pictures and want to think yourself into them while the song is playing? It's like imagining you're there, but in detail.
I never knew, really, what Will You Follow Me by Rob Dougan was for, and the answer is Romulus Before in Ayel's head.
On the mundane reel again, I had things to say about that, too; it took me two days to recover fully from the new eye movements I've had to learn to watch the side mirrors of a car. I had--it was like a headache on the inside. Maybe I really should have learned as a teen, back when I had basic hope and faith in life, back when I got up in the morning and felt content instead of smug at death and time, and back before my brain took a bath in adrenaline.
I have very slight short-term memory issues that I didn't used to have, and they correlate directly with Life Events. There are holes in the RAM where my hippocampus should be.
...Coffee! I have a Cuisinart (I love you, Craigslist!) and nnn, coffee really is best fresh and hot, reheated really is shit, but there's nothing like that first taste every day. Of fresh hot coffee. I hadn't realized how much I like and want it and miss it when I have to go to the microwave. There is a difference, people, and some of it is as much about the ritual, the habit, the emptying and resetting of the machine and the wait and knowing that what comes out will be hot and delicious, as it is about actually getting the coffee, fresh coffee that you got the top cup of.
I frequently end sentences with prepositions; I don't care what's correct.
Excuse me, I've been spending some time with people who correct people for a living, and very few things bother me innately, but that is one. Criticism, I laugh at, nothing anyone can say to me on their worst day is even the sunniest thing that ever thundered from his mouth in jest.
But I hate. To be corrected. Even legitimately.
Try having people explaining to you since you were born that you are broken, that you do not work right, and we are going to fix you fine now, and we'll see how well you deal with same.
I am arrogant because my life would destroy a humbler person.
Please. I wish it were baaaaw. Then it would at least be funny.
I want that teal deer profile thing so badly. I am just going to buy myself one. He's so handsome! A wonderful teal stag. Guardian of the idea forest and patron saint of those with keyboard diarrhea.
And really, my time is up, the stopwatch says so; goodbye, doctor, I think we had a great session. I think we made a lot of progress, here.
