May 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
“Make the clocks move.” – Kevin Devine
How long have you been alive? And I’m not talking years since your birth. I’m not talking years since you remember or seconds you’ve been awake. I’m talking alive. Not this bullshit about clean water and clear heads either. Alive. To be young successfully you have to exhausted all the things that make you young. To grow up. To graduate youth. You have to become bored of it all. Alive, for me at least, is fear. That mad excitement that you feel right at the back of your mouth under your tongue. That pulses in the flat of your wrists that comes up through your arms, into the mouth and explodes out of your mouth in a mad squeal. You have to be afraid to make that noise. Just a little. Afraid and pushing past it. Beating that feeling. Like being drunk on the bonnet of a moving car. Being reckless and full of risk. BOOM-fires the brain. Whiskey in hand. Bottles hitting passing cars.
But before the bible-belt get all frisky about my initial environment, that feeling also comes in moments when the blood is still at least 95% pure. Sometimes. When a boy or a girl gets it just right. When a moment comes. Clear day, rainy day, doesn’t matter. What matters is the person. The moment. You hold your mouth close to stop it yelping out. You can hear your heart trying to bust out of the chest. Your blood sings.
So how long? With many you can count it on a hand, and in seconds. They think it’s sad that my life is unstable. I think it’s sad that they’ve never felt how that feels. It’s shouting. It’s war. It’s that thing that reaches down into you and pulls out everything single fucking thing that you ever wanted to be, that you could be, that she needs you to be. Things you didn’t know where in there. Things you make you alive.
May 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
“Whistlin’ dixie at the scene.” – Kevin Devine – Whistlin’ Dixie.
Just a nation full of dumb kids. Caught whistlin’ dixie at the scene. Fuck you. She said. And she was write. Whatever excuse I can wax lyrical about being some beautiful escapism is lost of me. Or her. You. It’s lost on you. It’s hard to be compelling. For some. For others it bleeds out. In no attempt to be poetic it will come. But then there’s the local. The not so. They have to learn. Learn exactly where their talent lies. In these old streets with the rickety -brick-a-brack housing. They argue and they spit and they scream in the night it rings around these windows like a thousand crashing bells. It’s lost on me. The words don’t fit. Dixie at the scene.
May 7, 2012 § Leave a comment