sometimes the rusty repetition that is -- are? the old western-country standards, from the valleys of appalachia (sp?) say enough for it all. it's not even one a.m. and am home. in my basement, with a pile of recording - playing-amplifying equipment behind me (none of it mine) and all i can think to do is sing these old songs, with no one to hear them, drink another beer, and though my face is dry, let my heart have its little cry, finish my beer, sing some more in the dark of my upstairs ish living room and them go upstairs again and dream of you, if i could just figure out who, cause tho i'm in love a thousand times, none of them seem to, well, care back. or even, hm, notice. "why am i waiting for you/ to see i'm alive." they may be a few things but sometimes those jets to brazil are sometimes all right, despite all their self-inflicted pretension. this sunday, at the ps what? whever the hell that is, the grails, who are pretty and aching and that man whose name i just remembered in spite of myself in the bar just then, fuck, steve von stil? am i lying i s he in neurosis? who i've never heard, ? anyways, my roommate is a fan of his and i am a fan of the previous theirs and so, if i can get in, i will go. because tho the rock i s good, but when you have no friends to drink and fall down with , well, you may as well listen to something different and heart-breaking alone. it's how you'll die anyway. you'll still be different...heartbroken alone. god help you if you forget to laugh about it. happy birthday to those nice boys i don't know. happy to happy, hope it's good. now i'm going to sleep.
# posted by josephine @ 1:07 AM
