Let’s make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.

December 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars. You man the island and the cocaine and elegant cars.” – Time to PretendMGMT

English: Snare drum strainer, used to enable o...

It’s one of those easy moments. The blood dance moments. The phrase turning, back-biting, wild eyed moments. The ones were it all makes sense. That whole blue marble thing, hurtling through a vacum at an alarming speed, is lost to all in the vicinity. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t relivant. To us, it isn’t happening. We have the blinkers on. Box vision. We only see this moment, not even tonight, not the morning, not the clothes we are wearing or the people we know. We see the music because everything with a pulse is moving to it. The drums drop back in from the twisted feedback from the guitar, it starts playing that electric riff over the wave of sounds. Move, it whispers. We don’t hear it. We don’t need to. We’re off. The shallow glasses that hold the spirts reflect the beat of that heavy snare drum. The ripples are sent clapping hands accross the inch of yellow liquid. The owner doesn’t notice, there’s plenty more where that came from. The guitar drops out, the panio is hit lazily to the beat before the guitar rejoins, full of rest and fight. This is the party. Drinks are in the air. We feel the air move from the heavy set speakers. Monday is dead. And Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday too. In this moment they died a death of indifference. We killed them and we don’t care. They don’t exist. Nothing exists here. It is just this moment. How did it come to be that someone took these sounds and put them together, and then that, not only that they should this moment so perfectly, but that they should have the good grace to find us here? This truley is what we’ve been going through the grind for. Every sleepless night and lost love. Every single second of every minute of every hour we worked at the jobs we hated. Every let down, mistake in which the lesson didn’t outway the loss, every moment of socail awakardness and disapiontment. They have put pay to this. They are why I have come to be here. In this moment. And with one deft hit of drumstick of skin, none of that matters. None of that is important. Because Monday is dead. The energy bursts out of you like a child in moments like these. You take a second to breathe it all in. To look around at those lost, seemingly forever, within the moment. They should be so lucky, too much of a good thing. Who ever would spoil me with the grace of a moment strung out like this. Such beauty. Such sense. Blood dance moment. Tomorrow can wait. It can wait. Because these people are my friends. I love them. They make me feel safe. Not Hollywood safe, not Disney safe. Real safe. Balanced. Worthwhile. Routed. Breathing in. Breath it in. Lay it down thick of every sense. You need as much to experience it. To feel it. And I know, OK, I know, this isn’t going to last forever, it’s tempoary, it’s a fleeting moment, Monday will have it’s revenge. Monday will come back for this moment. Monday will dispach it slowly, creeping from the dark. But none of that matters. That’s life. That’s what all of this is. None of that matters. Because the piano has picked up again, electric, climbing a steady and simple drum beat. The people never stopped moving. This moment is theres. It makes them feel alive. Worthwhile. Somewhat routed. Somewhat like kites with frayed string, not afraid to be blown away in the wind.

When you are lucky enough to have a moment like this sit in your blood, it would be my advice not to fight it. Listen to me, don’t listen to me, I’m easy. But my advice, for those wide eyed and bushytailed enough to take it, is to go with it. And always, most important, don’t, under any circumstances think it’s going to last forever. These moments are too few and far between and there’s only us to blame for this. How long until the next one? Dare I risk it? She’s stood next to me. I grab her gently by the collar. I pull her in. There will never be a moment more opportune. I tell her.

I love you.

Oh and writing got that buzz back, can you feel it? Oh here it goes again.

Simon Blake.

No Longer an Astronaut.


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