What’s that thing where I have so much to say, but no strength to defend it?
And then there was that time I got laid off and drove up from Texarkana to Fayetteville AR pumping Le1f out my buzzing car speakers, like I was up on the new-new NYC sound tip and was so woke I would peel the eyelids back on any redneck whose truck I passed with just my sound waves.
Was a good trip regardless, even if I had to turn around after one night and head back home to AUS via TXK.
When you ain’t got nothing left to chew, you savor the flavor, and smirk because of your above-it-all secrets. Like what you got is next level, and they ain’t hip.
Like they ain’t find me. Like they ain’t reach me.
We clamor for and adore artists who pour out their heart and soul and expose their vulnerabilities for us, to show us it’s alright to be weak, broken, terrible. And how terrible it is to be the artist who commits that to record, and then has to cut open old wounds night after night on tour to support the record!
Listening to Chris Cornell’s “Euphoria Morning”, which is perhaps his first record made with few nonsense lyrics (his work with Soundgarden was laden with lyrics made of words and phrases that sounded great but meant nothing). Being a solo project, it meant he was free to plug us in and tell us how he really feels, without the burden of speaking for his former bandmates. When he pens “When I’m Down”, we know he’s down; it’s his record.
And he has to repeat those songs ad infinitum for as long as he tours. Cutting open those wounds again and again, until he finally opens his body and ends his own life.
What a terrible fate.
Grunge was a miraculous flame that burned bright and kept us warm, because we all knew, we all felt, that the artists who wrote those great songs and performed them for us across this busted world of ours really, really meant what they said, and it killed them. The flame that burned twice as bright lasted half as long.
Their error was in being truthful.
Is it better to speak truths and die for them before your time, or is it better to add a wrinkle of disconnection, say things we’ll connect to anyway, believing they are speaking as one of us, and survive to speak another day? What is integrity worth?
I wish I had that answer.
Almost 7 weeks since my first official day of quarantine.
This is difficult.
No family, no lovers, no roommates, no pets. Just the occasional telemediated conversation. If not for the Internet, I would’ve lost my shit weeks ago, or would’ve broken quarantine.
I guess I can thank my years of being alone, working alone, sitting alone, taking the overnight shifts, sitting in front of screens in chat rooms, doing the thankless things nobody else will do, just so I can carve out my own space in this stupid, hateful world, for helping me to survive This Current Time.
I’m trying to do the right thing. But unlike the thousands of others out there doing the wrong thing and flaunting it, I’m suffering in my own isolation. I don’t want to get sick, and I don’t want to be a carrier, and I don’t want to injure others. But if I isolate and become a terrible, hate-filled, angry man, then what good is it?
I’d like to say my time away from the world was spent on doing something creative, making myself better, writing stories, creating songs, drawing things, learning painting, reading all the books on my list, putting myself into a better place, but that would be a lie. I’ve done nonesuch. I haven’t even written a single paper journal entry since lockdown started; I don’t want to open that floodgate.
I still work, still have a day job; working from home means I don’t lose so many hours of the day in the pursuit of cleaning up, feeding myself, prepping my mid-day meal, commuting, and hanging out for many wasted hours at the cafe after work — but I still somehow find a way to lose that time. It’s just gone. It’s not a reflection of my situation; it’s a reflection of my priorities. And my priorities are as fucked as my life.
I gotta find a way through this, but right now, I can’t even find a hand to hold. Not without breaking quarantine, not without finding that ultimate trust, a trust that would take 14 days to prove if it was well-placed or if it was a life-altering mistake.
Our lives are cars; our only job as drivers is to never, ever touch any other car with our own for as long as we own them. This is our new reality. Whatever the hell that’s worth.
Seriously, he’s picked up where PERTURBATOR left off after “New Model” (this album is heavy metal to me). It’s hard, it’s big, it’s loud, it’s ratcheting, and has all the space and pomp you would expect of a spacepunk soundtrack.
I’m happy where Carpenter Brut is going these days. He’s perfecting his synthwave sound. Part Giallo, part John Carpenter, part Moroder, part Vangelis. It’s all that I wanted to create my entire time of writing Glass Door songs, but never had the grit or honesty to achieve.