"proof that love's not only blind, but deaf"

Because I don't want to hear it!

This banner is slightly disconcerting to me. Sounds like global domination.

I could love you like Eve, before she got all ashamed
Eve is the transition between happy day and dark night

-It was flattering and heart-wrenching. I want it with a smile.
-It was flattering and sweet, and an infatuation is what I need.

I was shakin' those white girls hips for you (until the black girls started dancing).

I felt like an idiot at robotics when I finally got the reference, "Like Frankie said, 'I did it my way.'" Seriously?! I'd previously put conscious thought into wondering who Frankie was.

Press my buttons. Turn me on. Flip the switch. I try using my imagination, but I think I'm getting to be a guy, where I need visual stimulation. I hate it when female porn stars fake pleasure. Or say things.

Hey baby, are we losing touch?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon

Shit, the Pixies are good and I keep forgetting they exist. They're another band that "fit," even if you don't like their sound.

Doughnuts are toroidal.

If I ever write a short story about segregating individuals from a mass into groups "adjective" and "not adjective," the person doing the sorting will be named Maxwell.

[Edit: Oh hipster blog, your sad and apathetic musings are rarely for me, but damn, that is right on for every girl with a cell phone.]

You Did

During the times when friends and acquaintances are struck by sorrow and heartache, the art of comforting them is a delicate and varying skill. Sometimes the wrong words are exchanged, and it stings. In vocal communication, the awkwardness is obvious. In text, the unnoticed sting can fester into resentment. "You're hurting me. Stop." I'm fairly awful at comforting. Most times, I am reduced to silence and a hug, simple words issued as an excuse, "I don't know what so say" or "I had no idea." It's not asking for an explanation, but assuring them they are not alone for this moment. The visible reaction is important too. If someone is in need, or crying, they don't want the added burden of stopping to relieve their friends of having to see their exposure, forcing their emotions away for the moment in order to appease the norm of social conventions.

The sting still festers in me, the resentment at ill-comfort, even after the irritant has been relieved. "I don't want to loose you." "I really care about you." "What happened?" "You did." I remember those moments, where I was, my emotions, my surroundings. It's not something I dwell on often, but the present has resurrected many things to dwell on. I was loosed. No, you don't. I got hurt. Ow. It's also easy to remember the times where I failed in comforting. I'm sorry. I let you down. I was your friend, but I could not be there in your time of need. Those hurt too.

Shoot the Moon

Norah Jones has had her debut album out for a couple years now. It won a bunch of Grammys for a debut solo artist and in the jazz composition, but I'd never listened to the whole album. The lyrical expression is enveloping and personally identifiable, but the sparse accompaniment leave a feel of distance. In this expression, jazz possesses more personality than any other musical styling. It is whole-ly American and the music of my childhood. Jack claims I'm smarter because we stopped listening to jazz when he was two or three. On Ocracoke, the warm tones of French or Brazillian jazz flow over the wooden structure to the open porch, an emblem of lazy summer.

I don't know how I ever appreciated Led Zeppelin's rockin' second self-titled album before last Christmas Eve. In a strange camaraderie of role reversal, my mom and I talked about the expansion of sound and the musical experience while in an altered state. The cacophony of percussion instruments, howling vocals, and brilliant work with stereo dynamics combined with the vivid imagery of Zeppelin lyrics is dumbfounding. Okay, so I actually do know how I appreciated it before, they're still one of the few bands with talent and an electric chemistry. The Doors were similarly a band that "fit."

One of the reasons I took up guitar, besides the Romantic attraction, was so that I could be the "queen without a king" (they say she plays guitar and cries and sings), from Zeppelin's "Going to California," on what I consider their masterwork, LZ IV.

The nostalgia for vinyl is something I am accutely aware of. Physical changes are visibly apparent and have a noticeable effect on the sound quality of the music. The physical world can't touch modern music. Even in the creation stage, computers are more important to popular music than chemistry or talent. While there has been a resurgance in music issued on vinyl, the primary appeal is the artists who originally had no choice in the matter. Springsteen, Pink Floyd, the Beatles, The Doors. I have their albums on pressed plastic, encased in an artful sheath of protective paper. Plus, it's a very appealing "unique" thing, to be able to say that I am a girl who collects vinyl.

It's an intimate relationship between gospel, soul, and blues. "O Brother, Where Art Thou?," a family favorite, released an award winning soundtrack as noted by NPR in Matt's posting of the Decade in Music. My uncle Mike, possibly the most tech savvy of my relatives, got the original soundtrack on CD. On it is the song "Lonesome Valley" by The Fairfield Four. It joined my other recording by Pete Seeger and Joan Baez, my favorite folk singers. Both focus on the musicality and interplay of vocals, rather than instrumentation. The Fairfield Four are an a capella group that I assume is comprised of older black men. There is power and emotion in their voices, a near lamenting cry over rumbling bass. The second is a duet of warbling soprano Baez and the musical speaking of Seeger. It's a religious, old-timey song that reminds me of my easy and innocent past.

"Why I Feel Sorry for Orange."

In English class, our free-writes have become less and less and inspiration for brilliant writing, and more a half-assed attempt at observational comedy, practical use of irony, and attempting to oversaturate our writing with puns. This possibly has something to do with the decline of the prompts, but also to do with being lazy hooligans. In order to spark a fire of literary passion, we had two quick-writes today. The first was a picture of a gender-questionable figure titled, "The Astronmer." The second was the title of this post. Immediately, I knew what to write about. Frightening as it was to find spontaneous inspiration in that statement, it flowed. For some time now, I've disliked the color orange. While generally associated with a fruit, a vegetable, and Trisha of the past, it reminds me of JoeKat, specifically, his social faux pas regarding me and prom. Orange was, and possibly is, his favorite color. It's completely unreasonable to make the association to such a specific event. Colors have never done anything against me, and I'd assume they're unaware of my existence. Still, I insist on this unjustified persecution of orange. Finishing the prompt, satisfied with my answer, Mrs. Arters said, "If you know anything about the word and the English language, you should get this one." and asked the class to answer in choral why they felt sorry for orange. There were two responses.

"Because in English, the fruit was named before the color and it's having an identity crisis."

"Because it doesn't rhyme with anything!"

My blundering response was unheard and inappropriate for the mass of voices saying the same thing. Apparently the only child in the room who had not realized the loneliness of the unrhymed word, it was a "D'Oh" moment. Eric wrote about a girl named Orange, who will never have a song written for her because of her unfortunate fate. While that temporarily issued smug relief (because I have a song written for me), I still ended that prompt with an awkward taste in my mouth.

News and Notes

Today in math, I was writing a letter to myself to organize my thoughts. I'm nearly always writing or thinking about what to write. It was a free day, as our midterm is tomorrow, and Lauren asked me to write a letter to her instead of to myself. It is very difficult to write a letter to someone you barely know, except to express admiration or curiosity at their lifestyle. Despite this, I am an experienced letter-writer, and half the appeal is simply looking at cursive. I'm fairly certain I am the first person in the English language to conceive the phrase "boysenberry razzmatazz," but she giggled all through the letter and was appreciativ, saying she'll work on a response. I spend a great deal of energy in writing an engaging, personal, and sincere letter no matter who it is to. There are five classes of people I send letters to: friends, family, boys I have crushes on, acquaintances, and celebrities I am a fan of. This summarizes to people I adore and people I don't know very well.

Facts about Letter Writing:
Anna asked for a letter, and I have been under obligation to write a post-card response for a week or two.

The last two letters I've sent out via the post were ill-advised, even if one is still in transit.

Stamps are annoying, and I feel I should be personally excused because I'm one of possibly three minors who uses the USPS for letters that are not addressed to Santa.

URLs

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v229/Trigger_89/070220.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v299/Kanaro/babies.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/65d27585a27cfd54990173dd10fd62d9981edea5/2137a9950nf3.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/9b2d2bded6f3efef295b55df2c8f4bd04800f96f/t/whatwhy.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v739/farkingbastage/ridindirty.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/9673dfe7d3db35441eb86a0a290dbe420127646e/pandas%203.jpg
http://i153.photobucket.com/albums/s238/LimeGouda/turtlemind.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/975f528ac51c583cafa09792e55fc944f387f89d/33.6.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/d1cf9bc21859697d633764c1512b3c19d4527786/oh-the-huge-manatee.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v102/kingofallblahs/523th5vze4.jpg
http://img.waffleimages.com/67f1892a6fff6a2c4ff93488457ccdd9089d10b6/074_apathy.jpg

482

I was going through my drafts, clearing out old ones or adding more to make them post worthy, when I stumbled across this batch of urls. At first, I didn't even bother to look at them, figuring, "If I don't remember, what's the use?" Luckily, I saved this post from destruction. I would've swore I'd never seen any of these photos except the first one. I don't remember, even stranger, if I did, I don't know if I'd understand.

Jesus Never Sent Old Judas to Hell

"Should a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"

I still wouldn't recommend the book, meaningful as it is. Though it's encroached upon my conscious thought, the hipster adoption of the alienated man-child, I'll wait until someone else recommends this particular piece of so-so writing from an author who understood the human condition. It's not an enthralling read. It's not a particularly good read, more a collection of separate events that reveal a contrast between adult, child, naive sincerity and hypocrisy. Still, the book has personal meaning because of the way other people use it.

I've Conditioned Myself to Salivate

I'm much farther emotionally removed than I ever recall from my past. Was it drifting? I'm fairly positive it wasn't a sudden shift, but I can't see a gradient. My words are not meant maliciously. Little things go unnoticed until they're big things that barely raise an interest. There's such an emotional gap it's not worth the effort to fix anything. I'm surprised when things escalate, seemingly without provocation, but I'm not angry. I'm not sad. I don't hold resentment. I simply don't think about it. I feel less human for it, but my daily existence is satisfied happiness.

I don't want a job. I don't buy things. At this point in life, I feel that if I get a job, I will start having expenses that I didn't before, and they will be hard to break. My favorite place to shop is Goodwill. It's out of necessity now, but I don't feel awkward there. I don't have a car and prefer to walk. I pack a lunch. I dislike going to restaurants. I dislike going to movies. I'd much rather have a cooking party with friends followed by conversation, with the occasional possibility of popping in a $3 rental. Even in a professional future, I feel so worn down by the Garnet Valley interpretation of middle class that simple aesthetics are more "fit" for me. I want job satisfaction and at least a barely livable salary. Unfortunately, that leads to long stretches of unemployment, as I have to figure out which jobs will provide that first.

In writing that, I realized there's really no such thing as "popping in a rental," because nobody rents VHS anymore. Online movies stream, and DVDs slide in I guess. I don't think it's the same verb, or it shouldn't be. I still need to watch a bunch of movies from my New Year's Resolution list. I think I've only gotten 5 of them.

I used to think this was a meritocracy. That idea's been a long time dead.