regina spektor
I love her. She is my female Ben Folds equivalent.
And I know you love my song lists. This one is long.
Dance Anthem in the 80's
Two Birds
Raindrops
Better
Folding Chair
Eet
Love Affair
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
You have to stay on the tar lines, I tell myself. I unsteadily put one floor in front of the other. I don't usually walk Indian style. My feet drag on the ground a little and my steps are wide and short. But adjustments must be made.
My feet are bare, and my mind is nervously twittering because reading mysteries makes me feel like I'm in one. The book is clutched in my hand, the arm attached to the hand dangling idly at my side. I think of the start of another book, one of those ones where a girl is secretly a mermaid or something, and it says the asphalt is bubbling on a hot summer day. I had a mental image of the black lines simmering like some green goo a witch would stir in a cauldron. But as I look at the spider webs stretching across the road, I see small air bubbles rising and I see that things don't have to be intense or as you thought they would be to be there.
I wish I could say the patterns the tar made was intricate, but what I saw was black slabs slapped on the road, which honestly was in dire need of replacing (I don't have a background in this realm of work, but walking barefoot is a fair way of judging the condition of what you're walking on). Even though the tar was more of a poor concealer than a solution, I took advantage of walking on it when the patches appeared. It was hotter than the cement, but it was smooth and I swear it was squishy.
The ground under my feet feels borderline burning at some points, but everyone of my bad experiences added up could probably be less excruciating some people's best days in the world, so I welcome shade and every once in a while wonder at how lame it would be if I got lost in my own neighborhood.
I think about whether my parents would freak out at me being gone, probably shocked that I was somewhere other than on the computer or watching TV. It hadn't been a very eventful summer. Then I wondered which would be sadder; the previously listed, or no one noticing I had been gone.
I didn't decide.
Sometimes just thinking is enough.
My feet are bare, and my mind is nervously twittering because reading mysteries makes me feel like I'm in one. The book is clutched in my hand, the arm attached to the hand dangling idly at my side. I think of the start of another book, one of those ones where a girl is secretly a mermaid or something, and it says the asphalt is bubbling on a hot summer day. I had a mental image of the black lines simmering like some green goo a witch would stir in a cauldron. But as I look at the spider webs stretching across the road, I see small air bubbles rising and I see that things don't have to be intense or as you thought they would be to be there.
I wish I could say the patterns the tar made was intricate, but what I saw was black slabs slapped on the road, which honestly was in dire need of replacing (I don't have a background in this realm of work, but walking barefoot is a fair way of judging the condition of what you're walking on). Even though the tar was more of a poor concealer than a solution, I took advantage of walking on it when the patches appeared. It was hotter than the cement, but it was smooth and I swear it was squishy.
The ground under my feet feels borderline burning at some points, but everyone of my bad experiences added up could probably be less excruciating some people's best days in the world, so I welcome shade and every once in a while wonder at how lame it would be if I got lost in my own neighborhood.
I think about whether my parents would freak out at me being gone, probably shocked that I was somewhere other than on the computer or watching TV. It hadn't been a very eventful summer. Then I wondered which would be sadder; the previously listed, or no one noticing I had been gone.
I didn't decide.
Sometimes just thinking is enough.
I took the ginger ale in my hands.
Even though inanimate objects are, well, inanimate, they become so special, not because they're "carrying memories" per say, but seeing or interacting in any way with that object makes your mind race to link one and one and a memory can make a can of ginger ale a physical manifestation of the memory. And the sentimental side of you blooms.
I remembered, I had had the cough for a while. But everyone did, and as long as I didn't have swine flu I was going to count my blessings. A mild cough isn't a reason to miss school, at least the final weeks of school. The teachers play movies and hand out sheets with questions about the movies, but they never get glanced at or handed in. I dismissed the cough.
The morning before the trip. I get sick. Dad gives me the ginger ale. I take it and forget about and five days later, I come back, my mind flushed and ranting while my body begs me for a nap.
A week later, I am craving gingerale. It sits in a bag on a shelf in my room, the bag being the attempt for a shield in case my soda decides to explode. Kind of like when one person thinks they can match something everyone else sees is clearly not going to be an even match.
I took the ginger ale can in my hands.
I can almost feel the pressure, as if the bubbles are in sync and have a system set up like a determined group of worker bees. I go to pop open the can, and in the fraction of a second where the pressure builds under the little metal tab, I imagine a majestic sticky fountain of carbonation and sugar showering over me in a comic show of my own beverage splattering me with rejection.
The bubbles fizz and I gulp down a few sips.
Gosh...I need to get a hobby or something. I just wrote out an entirely too long report of a meaningless encounter that took about three seconds tops. With precision and intent. Not to mention I changed "personages" like three times. You are...I am...She did...geez.
She took another couple sips, the bubbles leaving a mild prickly feeling where they slid down her throat. She wiped her mouth, and rolling her eyes at herself and wondering whether it was worth doing, pressed the orange button labeled "PUBLISH POST."
Even though inanimate objects are, well, inanimate, they become so special, not because they're "carrying memories" per say, but seeing or interacting in any way with that object makes your mind race to link one and one and a memory can make a can of ginger ale a physical manifestation of the memory. And the sentimental side of you blooms.
I remembered, I had had the cough for a while. But everyone did, and as long as I didn't have swine flu I was going to count my blessings. A mild cough isn't a reason to miss school, at least the final weeks of school. The teachers play movies and hand out sheets with questions about the movies, but they never get glanced at or handed in. I dismissed the cough.
The morning before the trip. I get sick. Dad gives me the ginger ale. I take it and forget about and five days later, I come back, my mind flushed and ranting while my body begs me for a nap.
A week later, I am craving gingerale. It sits in a bag on a shelf in my room, the bag being the attempt for a shield in case my soda decides to explode. Kind of like when one person thinks they can match something everyone else sees is clearly not going to be an even match.
I took the ginger ale can in my hands.
I can almost feel the pressure, as if the bubbles are in sync and have a system set up like a determined group of worker bees. I go to pop open the can, and in the fraction of a second where the pressure builds under the little metal tab, I imagine a majestic sticky fountain of carbonation and sugar showering over me in a comic show of my own beverage splattering me with rejection.
The bubbles fizz and I gulp down a few sips.
Gosh...I need to get a hobby or something. I just wrote out an entirely too long report of a meaningless encounter that took about three seconds tops. With precision and intent. Not to mention I changed "personages" like three times. You are...I am...She did...geez.
She took another couple sips, the bubbles leaving a mild prickly feeling where they slid down her throat. She wiped her mouth, and rolling her eyes at herself and wondering whether it was worth doing, pressed the orange button labeled "PUBLISH POST."
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