Music: Bob Dylan - The Times They Are A-Changing - Greatest Hits
Mood: 0_o
Chekov once said that "brevity is the sister of talent", and after today, I realize that his words were nothing other than the absolute truth.
Mood: 0_o
Chekov once said that "brevity is the sister of talent", and after today, I realize that his words were nothing other than the absolute truth.
And As We Wind On Down The Road
0 Comments Published by Devin on Saturday, February 25, 2006 at 4:55 PM.
Music: Led Zeppelin - Stairway to Heaven - Physical Grafitti
Mood: Hungry
This was inspired by pure, unadulterated boredom. I hope you enjoy it's striking resemblance to Che Guevera, minus the redeeming social qualities.
Mood: Hungry
This was inspired by pure, unadulterated boredom. I hope you enjoy it's striking resemblance to Che Guevera, minus the redeeming social qualities.
Music: Broken Social Scene - KC Accidental - You Forgot it in People
Mood: Creative
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
From 'On The Road' by Kerouac.
Mood: Creative
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
From 'On The Road' by Kerouac.
For The Widows in Paradise
2 Comments Published by Devin on Thursday, February 23, 2006 at 10:58 PM.
Music: R.E.M - The Great Beyond - Man on the Moon
Mood: Static
She believes in love and bliss; he values his craft above all else. He pretends that she's interesting so she'll fuck him on Friday. Certainly she's aware that it'll open Pandora's box of avenues to the social elite. But it's blurry and cold, fractured and futile. So she persists to no end, all the while pretending that she's bought perdition like a pack of smokes. When it ends, and it will, he goes back to his friends and plays the whore card, because his pride is precious. For her, that reputation she purchased for the price of a bj becomes as priceless as diamonds. Now she's the Elle Girl of the junior class, belle of the ball, the f*c*u*k-ing chic one.
A month later, they'll pretend that it never happened, that he's no longer the starting shooting guard and her a forgotten flavor du jour. In need of an ego lift, they'll fuck. Except this time, they make love. Or so she tells him. And as it began, it's expected to end, but it doesn't. There's no obligatory see you at school lines or even a hint of remorse in her voice when she doesn't ask him to get dressed and leave. Why? What changed in those 22 minutes? It was precisely the same as before, except this time they had nothing to lose, and only each other to gain. Rejected, defeated, depressed, and downright in love. Her headlights hang low in his driveway, self-inflicted remorse, or maybe something worse, an epiphany dawns.
Fuck rules, norms, conventions. Everything that once did, no longer matters. Rent an apartment, drop out, give birth, get jobs, raise a child, promotions, buy a home, more kids, more promotions, bigger home, teenagers become addicts, mid-life crises, affairs, promotions, trial separation, college, reunited, retirement, weddings, grandchildren, 65 years or more. It's gone in a flash of swirls and smiles. Nothing but the expected for these two self-proclaimed 'renegades'. And there you were, worried that they wouldn't find love in a bed after a few too many shots of tequila and jager. He takes her by the hand, just before her final breath, and whispers just how much that love means to him now, long after the crossover vanished, and her reputation turned to a tarnished war-story. She opens her eyes and closes them for the last time. A single tear and everything fades to black.
When it's over, he will go to the garage and dig through the boxes for his iPod. After all these years, the fucker still works. He plugs in his headphones, and clicks to Fast Car. And it all comes back to him in a visual collage of redemption. The waves, the cars, stories, games, sex, love, lies, laughs, tears, and he can't help himself. Laughing and crying. The pain drives his heart wild. And he wishes, while the guitars fade into the chorus, that he can send the pain away. The blood boils behind the eyes that belie years of wisdom and regret. His grandchildren will find him in the morning, lying on the concrete, his arms spread eagle, his heart silent, with the iPod playing Sufjan Stevens. A scribbled note to his right reads "I've mistaken beautiful stars for airplanes".
Mood: Static
She believes in love and bliss; he values his craft above all else. He pretends that she's interesting so she'll fuck him on Friday. Certainly she's aware that it'll open Pandora's box of avenues to the social elite. But it's blurry and cold, fractured and futile. So she persists to no end, all the while pretending that she's bought perdition like a pack of smokes. When it ends, and it will, he goes back to his friends and plays the whore card, because his pride is precious. For her, that reputation she purchased for the price of a bj becomes as priceless as diamonds. Now she's the Elle Girl of the junior class, belle of the ball, the f*c*u*k-ing chic one.
A month later, they'll pretend that it never happened, that he's no longer the starting shooting guard and her a forgotten flavor du jour. In need of an ego lift, they'll fuck. Except this time, they make love. Or so she tells him. And as it began, it's expected to end, but it doesn't. There's no obligatory see you at school lines or even a hint of remorse in her voice when she doesn't ask him to get dressed and leave. Why? What changed in those 22 minutes? It was precisely the same as before, except this time they had nothing to lose, and only each other to gain. Rejected, defeated, depressed, and downright in love. Her headlights hang low in his driveway, self-inflicted remorse, or maybe something worse, an epiphany dawns.
Fuck rules, norms, conventions. Everything that once did, no longer matters. Rent an apartment, drop out, give birth, get jobs, raise a child, promotions, buy a home, more kids, more promotions, bigger home, teenagers become addicts, mid-life crises, affairs, promotions, trial separation, college, reunited, retirement, weddings, grandchildren, 65 years or more. It's gone in a flash of swirls and smiles. Nothing but the expected for these two self-proclaimed 'renegades'. And there you were, worried that they wouldn't find love in a bed after a few too many shots of tequila and jager. He takes her by the hand, just before her final breath, and whispers just how much that love means to him now, long after the crossover vanished, and her reputation turned to a tarnished war-story. She opens her eyes and closes them for the last time. A single tear and everything fades to black.
When it's over, he will go to the garage and dig through the boxes for his iPod. After all these years, the fucker still works. He plugs in his headphones, and clicks to Fast Car. And it all comes back to him in a visual collage of redemption. The waves, the cars, stories, games, sex, love, lies, laughs, tears, and he can't help himself. Laughing and crying. The pain drives his heart wild. And he wishes, while the guitars fade into the chorus, that he can send the pain away. The blood boils behind the eyes that belie years of wisdom and regret. His grandchildren will find him in the morning, lying on the concrete, his arms spread eagle, his heart silent, with the iPod playing Sufjan Stevens. A scribbled note to his right reads "I've mistaken beautiful stars for airplanes".
This Is Why I Don't Check My Email
3 Comments Published by Devin on Wednesday, February 22, 2006 at 12:23 AM.
Music: Social Distortion - Highway 101 - Sex Love & Rock ' Roll
Mood: Dazed
"Hi Dev. It's been forever and a day since we last spoke. Things are going very well. I'm in Venezuela studying right now.. and no I´m not going to tell you to "fuck off" this time, even though I have half a mind to do it. My life has changed quite a bit in the past year and a half, and in many ways I've moved forward which for me has been a process of letting go of everything in my past -- which in some cases means people as well, including you. Everything and everyonearoundd me is so positive and good, and I'm really happy right now with my life. I know things between us were pretty ugly towards the end, and I just want you to know that I don't blame you for the way things turned out. After all, it's for the best. I hope that you are doing well too. Besos mi amore."
Nice. It's things like this that compel me to seriously contemplate a celibate life as a Buddhist monk. I mean, are girls really worth this much trouble? Two years after the fact she continues to harbor these random thoughts so she sends me an email to I suppose get her side of the story on the record. Bizzare and quite tragic.
Mood: Dazed
"Hi Dev. It's been forever and a day since we last spoke. Things are going very well. I'm in Venezuela studying right now.. and no I´m not going to tell you to "fuck off" this time, even though I have half a mind to do it. My life has changed quite a bit in the past year and a half, and in many ways I've moved forward which for me has been a process of letting go of everything in my past -- which in some cases means people as well, including you. Everything and everyonearoundd me is so positive and good, and I'm really happy right now with my life. I know things between us were pretty ugly towards the end, and I just want you to know that I don't blame you for the way things turned out. After all, it's for the best. I hope that you are doing well too. Besos mi amore."
Nice. It's things like this that compel me to seriously contemplate a celibate life as a Buddhist monk. I mean, are girls really worth this much trouble? Two years after the fact she continues to harbor these random thoughts so she sends me an email to I suppose get her side of the story on the record. Bizzare and quite tragic.
Music: 10 Years - Wasteland - 10 Years
Mood: Sleepy
Changed my attempt
Good intentions
Should I
Could I
Does it matter
Down the rabbit hole
Raven quotes
Forevermore
Perdition in her eyes
Redemption on my mind.
Mood: Sleepy
Changed my attempt
Good intentions
Should I
Could I
Does it matter
Down the rabbit hole
Raven quotes
Forevermore
Perdition in her eyes
Redemption on my mind.
Music: Interpol - Obstacle 1 - Turn on the Bright Lights
Mood: Fascinated
I've been expressing a keen desire of late to customize my next electric guitar. I presently own two, a Fender Squire Stratocaster which I acquired when I was 9 and desperate to learn Beatles songs, and a Jay Turser Singlecut JT-900 which my brother bought for me on my birthday last October. I won't try and catalog the number of acoustics in my posession, but suffice it to say it's creeping towards the number 10.
Now, I love both of my guitars because they complement each other in a unique and specific fashion: where I can get the precision and solidarity with the Turser, I am able to switch gears for the distorted aggression of a Fender. Also, the Turser gives me a solid cruch and clean sound that's easily manipulated for live performances, and is incredibly reliable in terms of the stock pickups and tones. Similarly, the Fender is as consistent a guitar as available on the market, and is perhaps the best guitar to buy for a beginner. But I am always pining for improvement, and even though I would hate to replace my Turser, I am getting the itch to perhaps build my own.
I found a vendor that sells the necessary pieces to build the body for a PRS Custom 24. The price tag on such equipment is cheap, but that's only because the onus of doing the hard work is on the buyer (me). I will have to paint, sand, cut, and assemble everything. But I believe it's a small price to pay for getting a guitar that is tailored to my needs, at roughly $1,000 less than the market price!
Although, the real bonus will be in selecting the PRS pickups I want to enhance my technique and sound. I have realized of late that I prefer to attack on a treble level, with a medium drive in play. But this sound is achieved because of the effects on my amplifier, not so much the guitar. Customization would ensure that my guitar would be the cause of my sound, instead of relying on my Line 6 to perform.
Just imagine taking a Tremonti body and installing Mike Einzinger's rhythm pickup coupled with a Santana McCarty treble pickup. Wouldn't that be amazing?
Mood: Fascinated
I've been expressing a keen desire of late to customize my next electric guitar. I presently own two, a Fender Squire Stratocaster which I acquired when I was 9 and desperate to learn Beatles songs, and a Jay Turser Singlecut JT-900 which my brother bought for me on my birthday last October. I won't try and catalog the number of acoustics in my posession, but suffice it to say it's creeping towards the number 10.
Now, I love both of my guitars because they complement each other in a unique and specific fashion: where I can get the precision and solidarity with the Turser, I am able to switch gears for the distorted aggression of a Fender. Also, the Turser gives me a solid cruch and clean sound that's easily manipulated for live performances, and is incredibly reliable in terms of the stock pickups and tones. Similarly, the Fender is as consistent a guitar as available on the market, and is perhaps the best guitar to buy for a beginner. But I am always pining for improvement, and even though I would hate to replace my Turser, I am getting the itch to perhaps build my own.
I found a vendor that sells the necessary pieces to build the body for a PRS Custom 24. The price tag on such equipment is cheap, but that's only because the onus of doing the hard work is on the buyer (me). I will have to paint, sand, cut, and assemble everything. But I believe it's a small price to pay for getting a guitar that is tailored to my needs, at roughly $1,000 less than the market price!
Although, the real bonus will be in selecting the PRS pickups I want to enhance my technique and sound. I have realized of late that I prefer to attack on a treble level, with a medium drive in play. But this sound is achieved because of the effects on my amplifier, not so much the guitar. Customization would ensure that my guitar would be the cause of my sound, instead of relying on my Line 6 to perform.
Just imagine taking a Tremonti body and installing Mike Einzinger's rhythm pickup coupled with a Santana McCarty treble pickup. Wouldn't that be amazing?
Music: Rage Against the Machine - Maria - The Battle of Los Angeles
Mood: Motivated
"I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weights 215 pounds and knows how to handle himself. I know the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the grey truck outside, and at this altitude I can run flat our for a half-mile before my hands start shaking. How, why would I know that? How can I know that and not know who I am?"
- A Wise Man...
Mood: Motivated
"I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weights 215 pounds and knows how to handle himself. I know the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the grey truck outside, and at this altitude I can run flat our for a half-mile before my hands start shaking. How, why would I know that? How can I know that and not know who I am?"
- A Wise Man...
Music: Radiohead - Exit Music (For A Film) - OK Computer
Mood: Awake
http://www.idontlikeyouinthatway.com/2006/02/kid-rock-and-scott-stapp-are-porn.html
Wow. This guy is a complete fuck-up.
Mood: Awake
http://www.idontlikeyouinthatway.com/2006/02/kid-rock-and-scott-stapp-are-porn.html
Wow. This guy is a complete fuck-up.
You're Not Supposed To Be That Way
0 Comments Published by Devin on Tuesday, February 14, 2006 at 11:48 PM.
Music: Radiohead - Idioteque - Kid A
Mood: Headache
I haven't said this for somewhere in the vicinity of six years, and it's been quietly eating at my sanity for the better part of two weeks, and I finally said fuck it, I need to let it out. So without much ado...
I am so incredibly thankful that the world has finally given up on the Macarena, and that people in Boston do not continue to use the term 'Cowboy Up' when either directly discussing the Red Sox chances of defeating the Yankees, or indirectly referring to the metrosexual sophomore from TKE who is struggling to finish his third Busch Light.
That is all for now.
Mood: Headache
I haven't said this for somewhere in the vicinity of six years, and it's been quietly eating at my sanity for the better part of two weeks, and I finally said fuck it, I need to let it out. So without much ado...
I am so incredibly thankful that the world has finally given up on the Macarena, and that people in Boston do not continue to use the term 'Cowboy Up' when either directly discussing the Red Sox chances of defeating the Yankees, or indirectly referring to the metrosexual sophomore from TKE who is struggling to finish his third Busch Light.
That is all for now.
I Went Through the Fire For You
0 Comments Published by Devin on Sunday, February 12, 2006 at 9:56 PM.
Music: Foo Fighters - Headwires - There's Nothing Left to Lose
Mood: Clean
Sadly, it ended the same way it started. A quiet conversation in the basement, where the walls continued to echo Dark Side of the Moon and Hotel Costes. The lights dimmed to a glowing yellow, her eyes looking everywhere but into mine. I remember the static and friction, and blacking out. Words, for the first time, failed me. She asked the question for the third time, and once again I refused to comply, instead turning her devices back in her direction. Anything, and everything, to avoid the truth. I was seventeen, but who cares. Age is just a ficticious number, a crutch to explain why we're either brazen or beautiful.
When she left, I felt the twisted chill of freedom drip down my spine. The shivers persisted as I got dressed, made phone calls, put up an away message, and walked out of my dorm. How could something so sinister feel so enjoyable? The questions were restrained for the momentary bliss. A smile cracked my face, and I recall taking several deep breaths. Memories came flooding to the forefront while the slideshow ran through my mind. We were in class, her room, at lunch, in the car, New York, Cape Cod, Valentines Day...
If there's anything I regret, it's nothing having the courage to tell her how I truly felt. It's a mistake that perhaps cost me the greatest friendship of my life.
You transform yourself for someone else. That's what a relationship is. Not the facade of two mutual souls coming together in perfect harmony. It's a test to see how well you can suppress your demons for the benefit of seeing someone's smile in the morning. That's it. And when you run out of excuses, you're left with just one option; come clean. I don't blame her for harboring resentment, because I was an idiot in the way I handled things.
But I sometimes wish that I could go back and not make the mistake of sitting next to her at 8:15 on the first day of class, with Godwyn rambling about feminism, and the intoxicating scent of her perfume driving my senses wild.
Mood: Clean
Sadly, it ended the same way it started. A quiet conversation in the basement, where the walls continued to echo Dark Side of the Moon and Hotel Costes. The lights dimmed to a glowing yellow, her eyes looking everywhere but into mine. I remember the static and friction, and blacking out. Words, for the first time, failed me. She asked the question for the third time, and once again I refused to comply, instead turning her devices back in her direction. Anything, and everything, to avoid the truth. I was seventeen, but who cares. Age is just a ficticious number, a crutch to explain why we're either brazen or beautiful.
When she left, I felt the twisted chill of freedom drip down my spine. The shivers persisted as I got dressed, made phone calls, put up an away message, and walked out of my dorm. How could something so sinister feel so enjoyable? The questions were restrained for the momentary bliss. A smile cracked my face, and I recall taking several deep breaths. Memories came flooding to the forefront while the slideshow ran through my mind. We were in class, her room, at lunch, in the car, New York, Cape Cod, Valentines Day...
If there's anything I regret, it's nothing having the courage to tell her how I truly felt. It's a mistake that perhaps cost me the greatest friendship of my life.
You transform yourself for someone else. That's what a relationship is. Not the facade of two mutual souls coming together in perfect harmony. It's a test to see how well you can suppress your demons for the benefit of seeing someone's smile in the morning. That's it. And when you run out of excuses, you're left with just one option; come clean. I don't blame her for harboring resentment, because I was an idiot in the way I handled things.
But I sometimes wish that I could go back and not make the mistake of sitting next to her at 8:15 on the first day of class, with Godwyn rambling about feminism, and the intoxicating scent of her perfume driving my senses wild.
Music: Sufjan Stevens - To Be Alone With You - Greetings From Michigan
Mood: Dirty
Listen to Boards of Canada and Sufjan Stevens.
Mood: Dirty
Listen to Boards of Canada and Sufjan Stevens.
Music: Sufjan Stevens - For the Widows in Paradise... - Greetings From Michigan
Mood: Why?
The goat herder with the fifth grade education who never traveled more than a few clicks beyond his hut, him and his banged-up AK and some scratched-to-shit arpeegees and some buckets of rusty munitions; the goat herder refuses to bow. Refuses to heal. Refuses to rub his face in the dirt and lick our boots and swallow our ways. Pride. Ignorance. Fear. Superstition. Rage. Some of it. All of it. Something else entirely. Whatever drives him, he ain't goin' down.
Mood: Why?
The goat herder with the fifth grade education who never traveled more than a few clicks beyond his hut, him and his banged-up AK and some scratched-to-shit arpeegees and some buckets of rusty munitions; the goat herder refuses to bow. Refuses to heal. Refuses to rub his face in the dirt and lick our boots and swallow our ways. Pride. Ignorance. Fear. Superstition. Rage. Some of it. All of it. Something else entirely. Whatever drives him, he ain't goin' down.
