Because all poetry was written for a reason, and because this one was written so we couldn't forget even after it was over. Worth enough for me to re-post:
Arnold Palmer and a Pack of 27's
There is a story
that we have written ourselves
that is made of late night and chancing heartbeats,
that cannot be condensed into mere stanzas and yet,
I'm gonna try to do it anyways
Because that's what we do; we put a belt around imagination and reality and call it style.
We take lemons and make malted liquor.
We defy probability.
Some days I wonder what we are made of,
her and I,
because I don't know of any others who are so beautifully shallow and gracefully obnoxious.
We can infect your lyrics like we stole your scene;
Heart attack by second verse and death by broken ice.
We run around their town like it's ours,
like we built it of our wrong turns and inside jokes.
Chestnut!
We drop by this scene like we are above it,
like we're past its bleached out lies and glamorous heartaches
when really, the two of us breathe it in too;
it's toxins like laughing gas to our practicality.
It started in the dark;
in a contest of chord progressions and cutest drummer hair.
and there he was,
looking for her with quiet eyes and an irrefutable grin.
Stealing the silence from her tears and the air from her lungs.
he was the click that held curious glances to Prospective play dates.
We found them unlike we usually find favorite things,
not chosen from a line-up of obsessions, but in a fire;
a fire we Fronted with gasoline to keep them glancing back.
Since then her and I have managed our schedule to encompass the following:
text messaging.
outfits.
songs.
boys.
gossip about boys.
text messages about boys.
I'll just go around the block.
repeat song.
Our crimes are not frivolous,
our murders in and of their senses.
Shotgun hips.
What the hell does that mean anyways?
There is a smile
that we have created ourselves
that is made of ten or eleven chords and that voice of his
that is what it is because the pre-chorus is so annoyingly catchy and still,
it's the Maybe Baby smile!
Because we also love the key change at the end, but actually-
make that eight chords.
Kev just texted back.
I start to wonder what this is made of,
us and them,
because I don't know of any others who are so twistedly perfect and excusably talked about.
I once wrote clearly of his sand sketches and cocaine verses,
but now the lines are fading…
I don't remember how it was before he called us baby.
Before that ridiculous hair and his cocky way of wearing those skinny jeans.
He's a cyclone of passion with a smirk that could kill.
No, I can't remember how I was…
Before we sat in their van,
in his driveway all night long whispering secrets we already knew the endings to.
We were parked on the starting line with a boy and his acoustic smile,
with that easy laugh and necessary white t-shirt.
The game got confusing when he typed a heart back
because he wasn't supposed to stick around and now I can't recall…
How we were before he made us laugh.
What wa funny before babies wore clown suits and ducks called out in jest?
He's got those big ears and an even bigger heart.
We mock his speech in sheer respect for the ridiculous genius that emanates from him.
I find it hard to believe that there's anyone else like us and them, because you have to wonder…
How many people have a diner named after their band?
How many people consider hanging plants hysterical?
The more I've tried to let this go the more you let me press repeat
and now he has me racing down to the chorus of another new track.
Will you at least name the damn thing?!
This band as an experience is like eating a handful of grapes:
sometimes we find ourselves in quite the sour situation,
but the contorted effort that we make,
in order to deal with pompous textures and tart behaviors
is often so hilariously entertaining
that we find ourselves going in for another handful.
And I think this is what we are made of;
of playgrounds and practice spaces,
of show venues and sexual innuendos.
We are made of mattress pumps that plug uselessly into cars we aren't sitting in,
and of pretending we don't care when they look at other girls.
We are made of folded youth larges and candids in his bedroom,
of memories you can't untag and nights she can never comment on.
We are made of Arnold Palmers and packs of 27's
and we are made of this goodbye.
I have no doubt these phrases will be sung in away messages and posted in verses of reminiscence.
They put adjective to things the summer will never outlive.
And her and I,
with our gasoline cans and half-hearted vanity,
will soon be looking up at you
while you play that same old annoyingly catchy pre-chorus and look for our Maybe Baby smiles.
There is a story
that I wrote down for her,
because I know we could fall from this ledge we're all dancing on,
because I know that even then I'll get a text message in the morning and since
this is just the way we do things,
I'm willing to chance the drop in D and any changes they record in the melody.
So if we fall, let's decide we can float
and you catch me.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
the Working Title
There's a lot going on to write about, but I haven't felt the ability to document anything short of cliche-dom this week. So instead...
Today I...
Listened to Search the City.
Probably wished you a Happy Tuesday.
Took ballet and notated the first combre that I cannot do under these conditions.
Actually sweated in an Adelphi technique dance class.
Took modern with a living prophecy, Leda Meredith.
Bombed the phrase and let it go.
Chatted with the dancers.
Found out we're 5 months away from another little GFY.
Took care of business unsuccessfully.
Music mapped!
Finally was taught the difference between a bridge and a pre-chorus (thank you, nnn)
Called in Nicky for backup. Genius. I hear it now.
Gymed with Radio.
Danced on the treadmill.
Realized I wasn't broken as a dancer.
Had a soda.
Cooked dinner.
Nate was held capitve in a frozen elevator, suspended 15 feet off solid ground!! Buy his ep.
At soup with a fork.
Was a super IMer! nnn,mk,cr,te
The soda kicked in.
Mini-outing with Radio and Helena.
Visited Starbucks and 99 centsed CVS.
Laughed with Nicky C at work...he's funny, we're telling you!
"All creativity begins with humping."
Sung the Gwen Stefani.
Ricky Brothers.
Did the dishes in the shower.
Got back on the computer for Tuck Everlasting.
...Ricky.
"King of Wishful Thinking" by: Go West, or re-by: New Found Glory
Today I...
Listened to Search the City.
Probably wished you a Happy Tuesday.
Took ballet and notated the first combre that I cannot do under these conditions.
Actually sweated in an Adelphi technique dance class.
Took modern with a living prophecy, Leda Meredith.
Bombed the phrase and let it go.
Chatted with the dancers.
Found out we're 5 months away from another little GFY.
Took care of business unsuccessfully.
Music mapped!
Finally was taught the difference between a bridge and a pre-chorus (thank you, nnn)
Called in Nicky for backup. Genius. I hear it now.
Gymed with Radio.
Danced on the treadmill.
Realized I wasn't broken as a dancer.
Had a soda.
Cooked dinner.
Nate was held capitve in a frozen elevator, suspended 15 feet off solid ground!! Buy his ep.
At soup with a fork.
Was a super IMer! nnn,mk,cr,te
The soda kicked in.
Mini-outing with Radio and Helena.
Visited Starbucks and 99 centsed CVS.
Laughed with Nicky C at work...he's funny, we're telling you!
"All creativity begins with humping."
Sung the Gwen Stefani.
Ricky Brothers.
Did the dishes in the shower.
Got back on the computer for Tuck Everlasting.
...Ricky.
"King of Wishful Thinking" by: Go West, or re-by: New Found Glory
Monday, January 26, 2009
I'm gonna make this work.
The last first day of school. So far, we're all up and friendly. Discussing casually how our "beloved university" is quickly becoming a ballet conservatory. Riight. UC breakfast. "Killa." Positive thoughts now, update later.
...Richard.
"Some Nights Just Feel Right" by: This Condition
...Richard.
"Some Nights Just Feel Right" by: This Condition
Sunday, January 25, 2009
oblivion roads
On the grounds of lateness and typos, I swore I'd never blog before a.m. work again. I lied under oath. The thing is I'm sick of being cold and tired of waking up when they are going to bed and vice versa. I'm so over being nervous for tomorrow. Dance. If I could describe to you the mixed awkward feeling of dread and fear that looms over this house, I would. But I think you'd have to know what's gone on and what we've been through, and I don't think you'd believe us. My car is warming up to go to Starbucks, that delightful little shop where not all the regulars are kind and not all the first timers are snots. Last night Meesh, E.Woods, Phil, Chan, and I went ghost hunting. With an excellently educated tour guide and enough spooks left over from the house we live in...we pretty much scared the shit out of ourselves. Solid times. This blog is going no where and I think Helena's ready for me. Wish me patience today and wish TC some quiet rest.
...Ricky.
"Back Here" by: BBMak
...Ricky.
"Back Here" by: BBMak
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Blogs of our Lives
I'm on I-90 West cleaning my ears out. You'd be surprised what you find time to do on a 5-hour drive home. I seriously think the music just got louder too. I'm de-waxing at about 74. I probably deserve a ticket, but it'd be really great not to since already this week I've got 2 parking tickets and 2 relationship offenses under my belt...and it's only Thursday. I'm sitting (as I have been for the past 3 hours) with my book in my lap hoping I'll be able to read this scribble scratch later since my eyes are mostly still on the road. I'm listening to the "A Fire So Big The Heavens Can See It" Search the City album for the 3rd time this trip (I love it!) and watching my mental picture of them performing these songs. There's all this to do, plus text Zachary and Matty B., continue changing lanes so I don't have to interrupt the cruise control, AND look out for cops. I don't care what you say, Timmy, I cannot honestly profess to be a safe driver. I'm also monitoring the roadkill output to determine my trip summary. I just saw an obliterated bunny so my mile marking is decently in favor of my upstate home. Silos and gray skies stake out the distance as well. Then there's these guys who keep speeding up and slowing down just to give me a wink. I think Nicky C. would be disappointed in the abuse they're showing their fuel injection, and I give them the same look I give Mike when I want him to know I am completely unamused by his behavior.
I've seen 4 trains in passing today. When I was little, I decided I wanted to be in charge of my own luck and so declared that seeing a train was good luck. Something about their unbreached movement captivated me. I never knew where they were headed, but I wanted to go too. Today I wonder if seeing a stagnant train is something of different luck. I wonder if the 2 have separate meanings. I guess, though, that's up to me to decide.
4th time listening. This time through is for thinking about all the times past that I've had this album playing: on the streetlighted Front St. coming back from Rob's, divulging with Kevin parked in that parking lot, singing that one perfect song that I swear was premeditated for Cantatore confusion. And ripping at tendons in a dark dance studio because it hurt less than the ripping in my chest. It's funny how an album can be your best friend. It's funny how sometimes you can't be your own.
Nicky mentioned last night that he didn't understand why I didn't just sell Helena and get a sick Mustang. I gave him a blank look, not wanting to waste an eye roll on that comment. I realized that Nicky and I have our cars for different reasons. Mine is to take me places, to get me the hell out of where ever I've gotten myself into. Helena is my get-away car; my Batmobile. Nicky's car is to keep him grounded, to hold him to a place he doesn't want to grow away from. The Cobra is a homebase; Nicky's secret lair.
Today on the GW Bridge I got sliced between a terrifying big cement barrier and a speed racing Mack truck. I thought for a second that I should be cautious, afraid. But then I realized that I wasn't scared in the least. I was the one driving my car. I had control of my situation. I feel a lot of people I've been holding company with are scared of an impending ultimatum like this; either jump into the speeding powerhouse lane or smash nose-first into a halting wall. What we're forgetting is the control we have. We're all driving cars over this bridge into unknown territory, but we each say how fast and how straight in which lane. Just buckle up, we can do this.
I saw my first tractor in a month and my heart takes a relieving sigh. I let out all the breaths I've been holding and let my eyes melt into the bleak horizon goodness. I get off my Westmoreland exit and begin to recite the tour I've practiced in case I ever do get one of those band boys up in my neck of the woods. "There's the dirt track I spent every summer Sunday at and here's the field that knows the bottoms of my feet better than I do." Then I catch glimpse of a big white van and feel excited butterflies though my head knows there's no touring bands up here, and I am reassured that somehow I belong in both places. If I clean my ears out, I can hear both voices of reason.
...Ricky.
"In This Scene You're Just An Extra" by: Search the City
I've seen 4 trains in passing today. When I was little, I decided I wanted to be in charge of my own luck and so declared that seeing a train was good luck. Something about their unbreached movement captivated me. I never knew where they were headed, but I wanted to go too. Today I wonder if seeing a stagnant train is something of different luck. I wonder if the 2 have separate meanings. I guess, though, that's up to me to decide.
4th time listening. This time through is for thinking about all the times past that I've had this album playing: on the streetlighted Front St. coming back from Rob's, divulging with Kevin parked in that parking lot, singing that one perfect song that I swear was premeditated for Cantatore confusion. And ripping at tendons in a dark dance studio because it hurt less than the ripping in my chest. It's funny how an album can be your best friend. It's funny how sometimes you can't be your own.
Nicky mentioned last night that he didn't understand why I didn't just sell Helena and get a sick Mustang. I gave him a blank look, not wanting to waste an eye roll on that comment. I realized that Nicky and I have our cars for different reasons. Mine is to take me places, to get me the hell out of where ever I've gotten myself into. Helena is my get-away car; my Batmobile. Nicky's car is to keep him grounded, to hold him to a place he doesn't want to grow away from. The Cobra is a homebase; Nicky's secret lair.
Today on the GW Bridge I got sliced between a terrifying big cement barrier and a speed racing Mack truck. I thought for a second that I should be cautious, afraid. But then I realized that I wasn't scared in the least. I was the one driving my car. I had control of my situation. I feel a lot of people I've been holding company with are scared of an impending ultimatum like this; either jump into the speeding powerhouse lane or smash nose-first into a halting wall. What we're forgetting is the control we have. We're all driving cars over this bridge into unknown territory, but we each say how fast and how straight in which lane. Just buckle up, we can do this.
I saw my first tractor in a month and my heart takes a relieving sigh. I let out all the breaths I've been holding and let my eyes melt into the bleak horizon goodness. I get off my Westmoreland exit and begin to recite the tour I've practiced in case I ever do get one of those band boys up in my neck of the woods. "There's the dirt track I spent every summer Sunday at and here's the field that knows the bottoms of my feet better than I do." Then I catch glimpse of a big white van and feel excited butterflies though my head knows there's no touring bands up here, and I am reassured that somehow I belong in both places. If I clean my ears out, I can hear both voices of reason.
...Ricky.
"In This Scene You're Just An Extra" by: Search the City
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"Oh my gosh, you work with her!"
"Where's the Love"
What a perfect question. There's love in the sloppy dance party that two of my co-workers are having right now in the living room for no audience at all. It's definitely behind the locked doors that my other housemate and a friend are in. It's in the electric purple nail polish that these drunks brought Sisco back from the city. I guess right now for me it's in this book. I love this book. It holds all the sentences that are behind the looks i give and all the truths my smile never speaks. Have you ever felt the way it feels to be brushed off? Have you ever been able to sleep through four wasted housemates but not through the headache you gave yourself from getting so worked up over things you can't control? Have you ever known no one was coming but waited up anyways.
We are all so worried about what comes next; trying to get a step ahead before we're two steps behind. And it all happens so fast. Does anyone else feel like they need new running shoes? I feel like we're all living in the shadows of ourselves. Younger, prettier, less broken versions of ourselves. What happened to us? And why are we so unsatisfied with ourselves now?
My thoughts ended. Timmy says that's okay. Sometimes thoughts end, without answers. I'm not sure I even understand the questions anymore. Hope that's okay too.
...Ricky.
"Where is the Love" by: Black Eyed Peas
What a perfect question. There's love in the sloppy dance party that two of my co-workers are having right now in the living room for no audience at all. It's definitely behind the locked doors that my other housemate and a friend are in. It's in the electric purple nail polish that these drunks brought Sisco back from the city. I guess right now for me it's in this book. I love this book. It holds all the sentences that are behind the looks i give and all the truths my smile never speaks. Have you ever felt the way it feels to be brushed off? Have you ever been able to sleep through four wasted housemates but not through the headache you gave yourself from getting so worked up over things you can't control? Have you ever known no one was coming but waited up anyways.
We are all so worried about what comes next; trying to get a step ahead before we're two steps behind. And it all happens so fast. Does anyone else feel like they need new running shoes? I feel like we're all living in the shadows of ourselves. Younger, prettier, less broken versions of ourselves. What happened to us? And why are we so unsatisfied with ourselves now?
My thoughts ended. Timmy says that's okay. Sometimes thoughts end, without answers. I'm not sure I even understand the questions anymore. Hope that's okay too.
...Ricky.
"Where is the Love" by: Black Eyed Peas
Sunday, January 18, 2009
and all the bad boys are standin in the shadows...
It's easier to think your thoughts in the morning. Something about the quiet, the aloneness that makes the world seem bigger and you seem smaller, the way it should be. It's so easy to let our world become four-walled and one-toned, its easy to make life 3 minutes and 41 seconds long. The morning is a perfect time to stretch that out.
I have to leave for work about 4 minutes ago, but I'm wrapped up in thoughts of this weird banana orange juice I found and if everyone I know slept in a bed last night. Its cold out there. The past two days havent been on days for me. They've been very off days actually. With the exception of a surreal conversation with Timmy, everything has just been cranky. I'm sorry to those I picked fights with. I'm working on it, promise.
The morning gets lighter, much to my dismay cuz I'm just not sure I'm ready for another day. I'm not sure I'm equipt. Have you ever had to stare fear down and say, I just don't care?
...Ricky.
"Free Falling" cover by: John Mayer
I have to leave for work about 4 minutes ago, but I'm wrapped up in thoughts of this weird banana orange juice I found and if everyone I know slept in a bed last night. Its cold out there. The past two days havent been on days for me. They've been very off days actually. With the exception of a surreal conversation with Timmy, everything has just been cranky. I'm sorry to those I picked fights with. I'm working on it, promise.
The morning gets lighter, much to my dismay cuz I'm just not sure I'm ready for another day. I'm not sure I'm equipt. Have you ever had to stare fear down and say, I just don't care?
...Ricky.
"Free Falling" cover by: John Mayer
Thursday, January 15, 2009
"No girls at band practice."
I'm at This Condition practice. Nate said I could. He asked if I was going to write the whole time and when I answered an assertive, "yup!" he said that maybe I couldn't come after all, that he'd feel pressured. I'm here anyways, and I am writing.
They take a while to get set. Nate sits cross legged with his acoustic in his lap and yells politely to Stevie to please stop smashing the shit out of his set until after he's done tuning. Nicky just plugs in and waits. He mulls around in aimless awkwardness waiting to start, thumbing old Green Day lines and puffing his cheeks out. Ant and Mike try to warm up frozen equipment. Mike rubs his 6 with a blanket and I think that while he looks questionably dorky to me a lot of the time, he may actually know what he's doing.
I've never heard Nathen warm up his voice before. Now, he disappears into the back and in between contrasting riffs and high hats I hear scales that I know. It gives me an eerie chill of foreign depth that I was unaware was even between us.
And then the 5 of them, they just come out in the middle of a song. I have not left the room, yet I don't remember any one beginning or stated bridge. "Watching over me, watching over..." They discuss their intro, a remedied version made just for you at Highline Ballroom. It sounds like a river to me, coming from some horizon where things are better and we are loved. And there it is: Nate smiles. And it is suddenly like we are right back at every show they've ever played, in every moment we've ever spent together. Smiles bridge time gaps. And so does this intro, it's like coming back home. Mike smiles at Nate smiling, who catches me smiling. Nicky smiles all the time and Anthony only smiles when he catches someone looking at him (mostly me lol). I like how Nate smiles at Nicky. This whole week something has been off but, Nate always smiles at Nicky. He even smiles through Mike correcting Nicky on about 4 things at once. Nicky smiles at me being there and at his open top string. Nate leaves out half words and whole verses as he both rests and warms his voice and I get to hear Anthony's leads like I never have before. They are far more intricate and unique than I have ever stressed. Pure. I see things I know; Nate's "one time a week" pointer finger and his microphone stand hop. Nick's hyper-extended little legs popping in and out of quirky. I hear things that I know; Mike's "can we try this??" voice and Anthony's inquisition in accent. I move so I can see Stevie better. "Are you gonna tune your drums in between every song like you always do?" Nate picks on Stevie and everyone laughs at the truth in it. "Steve, you're not laughing Steve." Haha. Nate does this KILLA mock shout out to nyc that puts me in the Ballroom tomorrow and gives me the bubbles under my diaphragm that push and push my insides until I giggle.
I should watch Nicky more. He's really fucking good. Here I have a blushing realization about those hands..and I come to the admittance that I AM a band girl and that in this case, I am totally okay with that. Every argument is Mike disagreeing until everyone trails off and it's just Nate talking Mike in a circle to the point where Mike agrees with him. Its impressive, really. I like the very subtle attention my presence gets. I like that I feel like just a fly on the wall. Sure Nick smiles at me and Anthony shoots a bullet down the barrel of his 6-string at me with a wink, but they just go on with it. I respect them more for the attention I'm not getting than anything else tonight.
Stevie's really fucking good as well. Shit, I wonder what it is to be them. Do they know they're this good? I know they believe in it, but do they know it? Nate tries to get something across and has to walk around laying fingers across fret boards to get them to focus on the same thing.
Mostly Nicky is the public version of himself; kinda goofy but intent on being cool. It's a version that we all know, one that makes us shake our heads and laugh. I just caught him giving me an in-private Nicky face though, and I find it strikingly genuine. It makes me feel like the girl he knows, rather than the girl they all know.
Anthony's a dancer too, like Nate. He stands on his toes way more than I've ever noticed. And he catches me being way more in the moment than I ever wanted any of them to notice. I've been humbled and I smile to acknowledge and give him points. Nate bops around and plays right in front of Mike's disagreeing face for attention. He craves attention. I hear a lot of the last line of 'Red Letter' because they are trying to write in a kick ass mechanical drum fit for Steve that Nate asserts with, "I seriously think that's the best thing Steve's ever done!" I hear a lot of, "Ok let's do it for real now" (Nate) and "Were we playing something?" (Nicky,) And of course the classic, "What the hell was that?" (Nate to Anthony.) Nate and Mike get in an epic fight. And by epic I mean not that uncommon or serious at all. There's a good bout of yelling about Mike's attitude which only worsens it. The rest of the band mates go from laughing to trying to change the focus in order to move on and back again. I am writing. Just writing in gratitude that I'm getting such quality in this opportunity. I will commend them on 2 things specifically; they are not melodramatic to the point where all practicing is cut. They don't cry over spilled sour milk. And also, I hear them honestly get EVERYONE'S opinion and majority consensus on matters up for change. These are somethings bands I've been around in the past haven't include in their equipment. I've been to plenty early-ended practices and that's probably why those bands are spinning their tour van wheels.
The 5 of them have this creative epiphany on doing planned guitar neck snaps on certain accents. Mike insists, "Nooo! That's mine and Nicky's thing!" But Nate assures him that he and Ant are only stealing it, not to worry. Again the talk-to-convince circle; 1/4 wit, 1/4 charm, and 1/2 trust. They do the snap all together and they look like Ghostbusters. Yeah, rocking their jet packs right after a big paranormal nab. Nate is definitely Venkman and Nicky is definitely Winston.
Musicians are dancers. I don't think that necessarily is so in the reverse but as this practice wraps up it's the best conclusion I can relate to. They move amazingly; the natural quality is stunning. They're choreographers too. Their half steps and hooks dance across measures of staffs and into the kind of immorality that only the arts can provide. Despite what my critics say I haven't sworn my soul away to another profession. Musicians and dancers, we are the same species. But the things I get to hear, to see, to feel...those are things exclusive to this scene and to that, I have pledged my heart.
They take a while to get set. Nate sits cross legged with his acoustic in his lap and yells politely to Stevie to please stop smashing the shit out of his set until after he's done tuning. Nicky just plugs in and waits. He mulls around in aimless awkwardness waiting to start, thumbing old Green Day lines and puffing his cheeks out. Ant and Mike try to warm up frozen equipment. Mike rubs his 6 with a blanket and I think that while he looks questionably dorky to me a lot of the time, he may actually know what he's doing.
I've never heard Nathen warm up his voice before. Now, he disappears into the back and in between contrasting riffs and high hats I hear scales that I know. It gives me an eerie chill of foreign depth that I was unaware was even between us.
And then the 5 of them, they just come out in the middle of a song. I have not left the room, yet I don't remember any one beginning or stated bridge. "Watching over me, watching over..." They discuss their intro, a remedied version made just for you at Highline Ballroom. It sounds like a river to me, coming from some horizon where things are better and we are loved. And there it is: Nate smiles. And it is suddenly like we are right back at every show they've ever played, in every moment we've ever spent together. Smiles bridge time gaps. And so does this intro, it's like coming back home. Mike smiles at Nate smiling, who catches me smiling. Nicky smiles all the time and Anthony only smiles when he catches someone looking at him (mostly me lol). I like how Nate smiles at Nicky. This whole week something has been off but, Nate always smiles at Nicky. He even smiles through Mike correcting Nicky on about 4 things at once. Nicky smiles at me being there and at his open top string. Nate leaves out half words and whole verses as he both rests and warms his voice and I get to hear Anthony's leads like I never have before. They are far more intricate and unique than I have ever stressed. Pure. I see things I know; Nate's "one time a week" pointer finger and his microphone stand hop. Nick's hyper-extended little legs popping in and out of quirky. I hear things that I know; Mike's "can we try this??" voice and Anthony's inquisition in accent. I move so I can see Stevie better. "Are you gonna tune your drums in between every song like you always do?" Nate picks on Stevie and everyone laughs at the truth in it. "Steve, you're not laughing Steve." Haha. Nate does this KILLA mock shout out to nyc that puts me in the Ballroom tomorrow and gives me the bubbles under my diaphragm that push and push my insides until I giggle.
I should watch Nicky more. He's really fucking good. Here I have a blushing realization about those hands..and I come to the admittance that I AM a band girl and that in this case, I am totally okay with that. Every argument is Mike disagreeing until everyone trails off and it's just Nate talking Mike in a circle to the point where Mike agrees with him. Its impressive, really. I like the very subtle attention my presence gets. I like that I feel like just a fly on the wall. Sure Nick smiles at me and Anthony shoots a bullet down the barrel of his 6-string at me with a wink, but they just go on with it. I respect them more for the attention I'm not getting than anything else tonight.
Stevie's really fucking good as well. Shit, I wonder what it is to be them. Do they know they're this good? I know they believe in it, but do they know it? Nate tries to get something across and has to walk around laying fingers across fret boards to get them to focus on the same thing.
Mostly Nicky is the public version of himself; kinda goofy but intent on being cool. It's a version that we all know, one that makes us shake our heads and laugh. I just caught him giving me an in-private Nicky face though, and I find it strikingly genuine. It makes me feel like the girl he knows, rather than the girl they all know.
Anthony's a dancer too, like Nate. He stands on his toes way more than I've ever noticed. And he catches me being way more in the moment than I ever wanted any of them to notice. I've been humbled and I smile to acknowledge and give him points. Nate bops around and plays right in front of Mike's disagreeing face for attention. He craves attention. I hear a lot of the last line of 'Red Letter' because they are trying to write in a kick ass mechanical drum fit for Steve that Nate asserts with, "I seriously think that's the best thing Steve's ever done!" I hear a lot of, "Ok let's do it for real now" (Nate) and "Were we playing something?" (Nicky,) And of course the classic, "What the hell was that?" (Nate to Anthony.) Nate and Mike get in an epic fight. And by epic I mean not that uncommon or serious at all. There's a good bout of yelling about Mike's attitude which only worsens it. The rest of the band mates go from laughing to trying to change the focus in order to move on and back again. I am writing. Just writing in gratitude that I'm getting such quality in this opportunity. I will commend them on 2 things specifically; they are not melodramatic to the point where all practicing is cut. They don't cry over spilled sour milk. And also, I hear them honestly get EVERYONE'S opinion and majority consensus on matters up for change. These are somethings bands I've been around in the past haven't include in their equipment. I've been to plenty early-ended practices and that's probably why those bands are spinning their tour van wheels.
The 5 of them have this creative epiphany on doing planned guitar neck snaps on certain accents. Mike insists, "Nooo! That's mine and Nicky's thing!" But Nate assures him that he and Ant are only stealing it, not to worry. Again the talk-to-convince circle; 1/4 wit, 1/4 charm, and 1/2 trust. They do the snap all together and they look like Ghostbusters. Yeah, rocking their jet packs right after a big paranormal nab. Nate is definitely Venkman and Nicky is definitely Winston.
Musicians are dancers. I don't think that necessarily is so in the reverse but as this practice wraps up it's the best conclusion I can relate to. They move amazingly; the natural quality is stunning. They're choreographers too. Their half steps and hooks dance across measures of staffs and into the kind of immorality that only the arts can provide. Despite what my critics say I haven't sworn my soul away to another profession. Musicians and dancers, we are the same species. But the things I get to hear, to see, to feel...those are things exclusive to this scene and to that, I have pledged my heart.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Dim Recollections of Musty Attitudes
I was looking and deleting around in Word and I found this. I read it like I had never seen it before in my life and began to analyze what the lines really meant before realizing that sans recollection, I must have been the author:
I squirted soap in my eye
When you said what you did
And later, I shut my hand in the front door.
My scabs won’t heal
‘Cause I’ve been picking this apart
Over and over and after the end.
I wouldn’t miss the chance to be here though,
When your face looks at me that way;
When you realize you didn’t plan for this.
I can’t stand to think that this is the way
It was meant to be
When you walked a block for every month you have hidden this from me.
Tell me:
Do you remember that time?
The time when we sat all pent up with
The brink of that summer bleeding from the walls of that little blue bedroom
And the truths that lived in that song.
The one that you played and I breathed.
Do you even keep the time?
The time when we felt that night wouldn’t stop
Like the beats of those hearts we had back then
I cut myself off from the lines that you gave
With your cheap ass emoticons
About your failure to stay.
I punched my wall
When you said what you did
Then felt hopeless and punched out my card instead
I squirted soap in my eye
And threw a spoon at the wall
I spread jam on burnt toast and then just threw it away.
I put the cat in the cupboard and drew up a light
And smoked the 27 times you said goodbye.
I find it hard to believe
That I’ve done something wrong
And I’m fairly certain that this is all your fault
Because if you just had listened, dear
To all the words I couldn’t say,
Then you would have know not to call
When you said what you did,
Making me fall in love with you over again.
Ricky.
"In Brooklyn" -This Condition, the acoustic version
I squirted soap in my eye
When you said what you did
And later, I shut my hand in the front door.
My scabs won’t heal
‘Cause I’ve been picking this apart
Over and over and after the end.
I wouldn’t miss the chance to be here though,
When your face looks at me that way;
When you realize you didn’t plan for this.
I can’t stand to think that this is the way
It was meant to be
When you walked a block for every month you have hidden this from me.
Tell me:
Do you remember that time?
The time when we sat all pent up with
The brink of that summer bleeding from the walls of that little blue bedroom
And the truths that lived in that song.
The one that you played and I breathed.
Do you even keep the time?
The time when we felt that night wouldn’t stop
Like the beats of those hearts we had back then
I cut myself off from the lines that you gave
With your cheap ass emoticons
About your failure to stay.
I punched my wall
When you said what you did
Then felt hopeless and punched out my card instead
I squirted soap in my eye
And threw a spoon at the wall
I spread jam on burnt toast and then just threw it away.
I put the cat in the cupboard and drew up a light
And smoked the 27 times you said goodbye.
I find it hard to believe
That I’ve done something wrong
And I’m fairly certain that this is all your fault
Because if you just had listened, dear
To all the words I couldn’t say,
Then you would have know not to call
When you said what you did,
Making me fall in love with you over again.
Ricky.
"In Brooklyn" -This Condition, the acoustic version
uneven evenings before and after 6am
What is it with people these days and being happy?
It’s like no one can stand being a little miserable every now and then. All day long, bustle bustle bustle and no time stopped to sit a wallow. To ponder. What do I ponder on when I do?
This year I lost my best friend.
When I found one I was flat and now that I left things are at the moment very sharp.
Everything in the middle was pitched exactly how it should have been.
A fire whistle sounds outside and it’s the sound of desperation.
Of fear.
It sets in me a fret,
Giving me the obscure feeling that I need to run, run to save myself.
I have a panic attack.
It’s not the symptoms that scare me, but the familiarity that I have for them.
I explain them to myself in terms I can understand.
Heartbeat, Shake It, and Duality
One half of me desperately trying to decode the other and the other hell bound in terms of composure.
It feels, real. Real like everything else should. Maybe that’s why I needed the invasion for so long; I believe in its realness.
Maybe I need to learn how to believe in the realness that is in the good things too.
Zach talks me down.
I’ve never been talked down before.
There’s been this whole sifting between words;
Break and Shatter.
Break; verb (used with object) to reduce to pieces or fragments.
Shatter;
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. --Milton
I have not the wit to cape these things just now, just the capacity to hold their terrible beauty in my hands.
Zach tells me to breathe, drink water.
Yet breath can make you suffocate and water can let you drown.
So it's all really a gamble isn't it? A case of timing?
Bad timing makes you do stupid things;
like sleep all day or sleep with the enemy.
Bad timing could probably be rooted to the source of all major bummers, yet
as per usual I have yet to decide by all that I know.
I'm still missing the fuse between touch and feel.
So to make sense of it all I will write...and write.
I recieved a fortune the other day and on the reverse it symbolically read, "Pear."
A well-told story is immortal and despite presumed secrecy these lines do aim to sing on.
"You are a lover of words, someday you will write a book."
Thanks, Colby.
I still flirt with twice-made mistakes and relisten to verses I have heard a million times.
I set eyes on things that only he or I would make up;
Frustrating things that may only be subsided with fine lines and musical allusions.
So I tell me how it goes.
How does it start?
Like this.
"Why Worry" -All-American Rejects
It’s like no one can stand being a little miserable every now and then. All day long, bustle bustle bustle and no time stopped to sit a wallow. To ponder. What do I ponder on when I do?
This year I lost my best friend.
When I found one I was flat and now that I left things are at the moment very sharp.
Everything in the middle was pitched exactly how it should have been.
A fire whistle sounds outside and it’s the sound of desperation.
Of fear.
It sets in me a fret,
Giving me the obscure feeling that I need to run, run to save myself.
I have a panic attack.
It’s not the symptoms that scare me, but the familiarity that I have for them.
I explain them to myself in terms I can understand.
Heartbeat, Shake It, and Duality
One half of me desperately trying to decode the other and the other hell bound in terms of composure.
It feels, real. Real like everything else should. Maybe that’s why I needed the invasion for so long; I believe in its realness.
Maybe I need to learn how to believe in the realness that is in the good things too.
Zach talks me down.
I’ve never been talked down before.
There’s been this whole sifting between words;
Break and Shatter.
Break; verb (used with object) to reduce to pieces or fragments.
Shatter;
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. --Milton
I have not the wit to cape these things just now, just the capacity to hold their terrible beauty in my hands.
Zach tells me to breathe, drink water.
Yet breath can make you suffocate and water can let you drown.
So it's all really a gamble isn't it? A case of timing?
Bad timing makes you do stupid things;
like sleep all day or sleep with the enemy.
Bad timing could probably be rooted to the source of all major bummers, yet
as per usual I have yet to decide by all that I know.
I'm still missing the fuse between touch and feel.
So to make sense of it all I will write...and write.
I recieved a fortune the other day and on the reverse it symbolically read, "Pear."
A well-told story is immortal and despite presumed secrecy these lines do aim to sing on.
"You are a lover of words, someday you will write a book."
Thanks, Colby.
I still flirt with twice-made mistakes and relisten to verses I have heard a million times.
I set eyes on things that only he or I would make up;
Frustrating things that may only be subsided with fine lines and musical allusions.
So I tell me how it goes.
How does it start?
Like this.
"Why Worry" -All-American Rejects
Saturday, January 10, 2009
a.k.a. RICKY
WTF! Pasta is single-handedly quickly proved itself as the most difficult dish to cook. First of all, nobody freakin told me to break spaghetti, linguini, fettucini, or any other longular shaped pasta. I feel sheltered. Secondly, my rigatonis have been on sufficient heat for way more than 4-7 minutes Timothy and no, they are not Al Dente! It's a good thing Sisco has put out pickles for appetizer. I love things that come pre-amazing.
In other news, we decoded our dreams at breakfast again. I dreamt that the ghost was making a sandwich in the kitchen and Sisco dreamt she shoved a cookie in this girls face who'd stolen her phone. Bitch. We went to the gym where I realized that my brace really isn't that fun to wear, nor is it fashionable buuut it's manageable. We visited the Bucks where I tested the pH of cinnamon dolce syrup and green tea. We erranded at CVS where we stole a barcode sticker that said, "Rain Bonnet" just because we found it hysterical. Now I'm here. With some chewy rigatonis blogging while Sisco reads Newsday's Long Island Weddings magazine. Your dosage of Rica's Book Corner:
1.4.08
Here I am, a sunny afternoon in the beginning of January in Sean O'Kane's car on our way to scoop Colin. Judging from the digital glow of the radio clock we are probably going to miss their set, yet somehow its about getting there anyways; about the together rather than the trek. Colin and I sit in the backseat pretty helpless and mostly useless with our Ray-Bans and aviators on, snapping our gum and pointing out a car trying to do a 3-point turn on an off-ramp. Idiot. Sean tells the story upon request of how Bryce Rocket and his wife Summer came to know him by name. I, of course, am smitten. We are driving rambunctously over potholes and parkways trying to get to the boys as efficiently as possible. I feel like we're gonna make it...
~1/2 hr. later~
...We didn't make it. We pulled in as they were loading the van but strangely enough, I didn't mind at all. Randi was there, and Emma, and Anthony who have come to rather love. Dob, who was chained to the merch table like a champ, and Timmy who in his signature bright colors was bouncier than I've ever seen him. Nate was there, who lately has hushed my world like I'm meeting him all over again. I feel sometimes that all at once I'm looking at our same ol' Nate but also squinting to see a mysterious stranger. Jay and Andre called the epic bass drop in 'Dakota' an 808. I guess if there was ever a time to cue that in my life, it'd be one of those times I look at Nate to make sense of things. All the side stories stop and wait for me while I take a break and look through him to see how differently things look on the other side. He's like my decoder, one made of stained glass. Nicky was there who was just...really good to see again. Has it been a month? And Stevie, who helped Mike sandwich me into not spoiling my surprise birthday cupcakes. Randi Resolve made me birthday cupcakes! Its been a few days now and I'm still thinking that that was one of the best birthdays thus far. Maybe 2nd only to the ice skating suprise in Syracuse (I still give those 315ers mad props for pulling that off!). There was no place I'd rather have been than in a cold and quirky circle behind a big ass red tour van hearing the pushed off-key singing of 'Happy Birthday' (except for you Steve, you sounded amazing).
We invented a wrist band dosey doe to escape door fees. Between that and the 30 bands that were apparently on the bill, the evening was more than entertaining; Teal skinnies, piggy back rides, tic tac toe, British heart thieves, hat swapping, paper wars with Teamwork, seeing Travis again, ugly looks, shifty eyes, the EMart impression, Victorious disappointment, phonecalls, voicemails, side stage vs. main stage, cool shoes, why not- let's play acoustic!, that punk girl with the crazy ass hair, and scouting scene boys with Nicky C. I passed notes with Nick in the diner after and ordered something other than a quesadilla. Mike wasn't happy. The ride home in the van was...good. Good music makes for good nights.
Mike + Crash Romeo = <3 4ever.
...Rica.
"Summer Satellites" by: Stereo Skyline
In other news, we decoded our dreams at breakfast again. I dreamt that the ghost was making a sandwich in the kitchen and Sisco dreamt she shoved a cookie in this girls face who'd stolen her phone. Bitch. We went to the gym where I realized that my brace really isn't that fun to wear, nor is it fashionable buuut it's manageable. We visited the Bucks where I tested the pH of cinnamon dolce syrup and green tea. We erranded at CVS where we stole a barcode sticker that said, "Rain Bonnet" just because we found it hysterical. Now I'm here. With some chewy rigatonis blogging while Sisco reads Newsday's Long Island Weddings magazine. Your dosage of Rica's Book Corner:
1.4.08
Here I am, a sunny afternoon in the beginning of January in Sean O'Kane's car on our way to scoop Colin. Judging from the digital glow of the radio clock we are probably going to miss their set, yet somehow its about getting there anyways; about the together rather than the trek. Colin and I sit in the backseat pretty helpless and mostly useless with our Ray-Bans and aviators on, snapping our gum and pointing out a car trying to do a 3-point turn on an off-ramp. Idiot. Sean tells the story upon request of how Bryce Rocket and his wife Summer came to know him by name. I, of course, am smitten. We are driving rambunctously over potholes and parkways trying to get to the boys as efficiently as possible. I feel like we're gonna make it...
~1/2 hr. later~
...We didn't make it. We pulled in as they were loading the van but strangely enough, I didn't mind at all. Randi was there, and Emma, and Anthony who have come to rather love. Dob, who was chained to the merch table like a champ, and Timmy who in his signature bright colors was bouncier than I've ever seen him. Nate was there, who lately has hushed my world like I'm meeting him all over again. I feel sometimes that all at once I'm looking at our same ol' Nate but also squinting to see a mysterious stranger. Jay and Andre called the epic bass drop in 'Dakota' an 808. I guess if there was ever a time to cue that in my life, it'd be one of those times I look at Nate to make sense of things. All the side stories stop and wait for me while I take a break and look through him to see how differently things look on the other side. He's like my decoder, one made of stained glass. Nicky was there who was just...really good to see again. Has it been a month? And Stevie, who helped Mike sandwich me into not spoiling my surprise birthday cupcakes. Randi Resolve made me birthday cupcakes! Its been a few days now and I'm still thinking that that was one of the best birthdays thus far. Maybe 2nd only to the ice skating suprise in Syracuse (I still give those 315ers mad props for pulling that off!). There was no place I'd rather have been than in a cold and quirky circle behind a big ass red tour van hearing the pushed off-key singing of 'Happy Birthday' (except for you Steve, you sounded amazing).
We invented a wrist band dosey doe to escape door fees. Between that and the 30 bands that were apparently on the bill, the evening was more than entertaining; Teal skinnies, piggy back rides, tic tac toe, British heart thieves, hat swapping, paper wars with Teamwork, seeing Travis again, ugly looks, shifty eyes, the EMart impression, Victorious disappointment, phonecalls, voicemails, side stage vs. main stage, cool shoes, why not- let's play acoustic!, that punk girl with the crazy ass hair, and scouting scene boys with Nicky C. I passed notes with Nick in the diner after and ordered something other than a quesadilla. Mike wasn't happy. The ride home in the van was...good. Good music makes for good nights.
Mike + Crash Romeo = <3 4ever.
...Rica.
"Summer Satellites" by: Stereo Skyline
Friday, January 9, 2009
Tucked away with the housemates...
This entire week I've gone back and forth about my true feelings towards blogging. It's amusing to me that suddenly every one of my friends (except Oh this kid, of course) has become so devoted to the technologically-nuked, yet epically archaic act of recording your own life. Amusing and yet, you hear the bitterness. Some blogs make me question ever sharing any of my writing, ever. And other blogs...well, I'm blogging aren't I? I am spending the right now video chatting with Tuck Everlasting who is currently performing "Untouched" by the Veronicas. Hott, both of them. He has come to know my housemates, as they have him. It's funny to hear them greet each other with the familiarity of every evening visits. Zach will scream ridicuously and from the kitchen I'll hear, "it's Zach. Tell him Laura said hiii!" We really are spreading love only.
I'm staying in a house for the month of January that I find completely kickass. It's...entertaining. To call it an igloo would be beyond cliche. For those of you who have noticed the increase in typos from me, its because I can't feel my effing fingers 7/8 of the time. This morning we woke up and google decoded all our creeped out dreams. I dreamt I took Mike to the prom and then while I was away trying to get the DJ to play 'The Timing,' the prom ended and I had to change my red heels to uggs in order to run to catch up to the limo. Google said shoes represent my approach to life and that changing shoes means I'm changing roles. Dancing at the prom represents a change in relationship. My ever philosphical housemates believe this to mean I will soon be taking on a role IN the band itself. lol. The house is also haunted. Yeah. After decoding we dealt with the daily dosage of the spirit. This is what we know: he or she lives in the basement, they don't like the giants, they like to slam doors, and they have excellent control over the lights. Chandler is becoming a member of TAPS while Meesh reads, 'True American Hauntings: Real Ghost Stories' and the SiscoKid and I really just scream and get creeped when he makes his presense known. If anyone knows an area of L.I. that has 666 phone numbers, let us know bc Sisco gets missed calls from one after the lights go off. For realz. Work, was insane. No, I don't care how much foam you think you are innately righted to but yes, I can smile at you while you rudely demean me as a fellow human being. Do you need room for milk in that?
Now I'm sitting here (with Zach) holding 'the book,' pretty unsure about what to convert from scribbles to Times New Roman. I wonder what Nicky finds so appealling about it. There aren't secrets, in fact, he was there for nearly everything I write about. But then if there's no secrecy to it, then I also wonder why I find myself chasing him around time after time trying to prevent him from moronically reciting passages out loud like he did yesterday. I'm considering a decoy journal. My only fear of blogging is that it will take the place of the my beloved books, that video chats will replace the intensity of a few true spoken words. Talking with the Tucker makes me appreciate real conversation all over again and I guess at the end of a ho-hum Friday, there's really no perfect way to record that kind of connection. Until next word...
...Rick.
song of the blog:
"The Streetlight Diaries" by: Search the City
I'm staying in a house for the month of January that I find completely kickass. It's...entertaining. To call it an igloo would be beyond cliche. For those of you who have noticed the increase in typos from me, its because I can't feel my effing fingers 7/8 of the time. This morning we woke up and google decoded all our creeped out dreams. I dreamt I took Mike to the prom and then while I was away trying to get the DJ to play 'The Timing,' the prom ended and I had to change my red heels to uggs in order to run to catch up to the limo. Google said shoes represent my approach to life and that changing shoes means I'm changing roles. Dancing at the prom represents a change in relationship. My ever philosphical housemates believe this to mean I will soon be taking on a role IN the band itself. lol. The house is also haunted. Yeah. After decoding we dealt with the daily dosage of the spirit. This is what we know: he or she lives in the basement, they don't like the giants, they like to slam doors, and they have excellent control over the lights. Chandler is becoming a member of TAPS while Meesh reads, 'True American Hauntings: Real Ghost Stories' and the SiscoKid and I really just scream and get creeped when he makes his presense known. If anyone knows an area of L.I. that has 666 phone numbers, let us know bc Sisco gets missed calls from one after the lights go off. For realz. Work, was insane. No, I don't care how much foam you think you are innately righted to but yes, I can smile at you while you rudely demean me as a fellow human being. Do you need room for milk in that?
Now I'm sitting here (with Zach) holding 'the book,' pretty unsure about what to convert from scribbles to Times New Roman. I wonder what Nicky finds so appealling about it. There aren't secrets, in fact, he was there for nearly everything I write about. But then if there's no secrecy to it, then I also wonder why I find myself chasing him around time after time trying to prevent him from moronically reciting passages out loud like he did yesterday. I'm considering a decoy journal. My only fear of blogging is that it will take the place of the my beloved books, that video chats will replace the intensity of a few true spoken words. Talking with the Tucker makes me appreciate real conversation all over again and I guess at the end of a ho-hum Friday, there's really no perfect way to record that kind of connection. Until next word...
...Rick.
song of the blog:
"The Streetlight Diaries" by: Search the City
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