I'm listening to Vincent Gallo's Recordings Of Music For Film currently. I've owned this album for over two years, listening to it only sparingly because, when I find it, I'm usually looking for something else, which is a shame, because its' dark, subtle charm always worms its way into me.
It's one of those strange days in Portland where the sun occasionally wrests control of the sky from the clouds, bringing blue and piercing bright in through the windows behind me. It's two in the afternoon pacific time and my hands feel sticky and harsh, the unfortunate psychosomatic side effect of not having slept enough. The light traces of bar on the skin of my face and neck is the kind of felt smell that doesn't wash out fully, the kind that comes from stress, eustress but stress just the same. Hairs are growing inward again, painful and swollen at the base of my neck, and there's a rash on my right collarbone which, really, is just dangerously dry skin.
Being Black has its drawbacks, at least in wintertime.
Probably my favorite thing about my music collection is that, no matter what, I can listen to something that embodies my mood.
I kissed her yesterday, I hate to sound greedy but a half-hour of desperate restraint feels like little more than stolen time, pressed my lips gently all over her cheekbones, under and behind her jaw, behind her ears, under her neck and chin, apologizing briefly for my not having shaven, avoiding her lips, the lower one pierced a week ago and still tender. I was still angry that she'd disappeared for a day, standing me up and making me distrust her, a feeling that won't go away for a while as much as I wanted to, but whose kernels of doubt and distrust I find somehow reassuring, making me want her more, (she's like me in all the wrong ways).
I want to ask her what happened then, she explains it lightly and yet something feels amiss, I can't decide if it's just her being herself or if I'm actually perceiving something I should be perceiving. Oddly enough, I'm peaceful, and content, perhaps because I'm comfortable with or without her for now, I simply want her.
The air is dry in here, sterile and motionless and painful, and the light is hurting my eyes. I have money to waste on bills that will never be fully paid, I have money to buy music that will be a greater investment than any second of my useless fucking education, I have money to piss away as my meaningless, useless, fleeting life hurtles through oblivion like everyone else's.
This album is beautiful. I need to listen to it more often.
It's one of those strange days in Portland where the sun occasionally wrests control of the sky from the clouds, bringing blue and piercing bright in through the windows behind me. It's two in the afternoon pacific time and my hands feel sticky and harsh, the unfortunate psychosomatic side effect of not having slept enough. The light traces of bar on the skin of my face and neck is the kind of felt smell that doesn't wash out fully, the kind that comes from stress, eustress but stress just the same. Hairs are growing inward again, painful and swollen at the base of my neck, and there's a rash on my right collarbone which, really, is just dangerously dry skin.
Being Black has its drawbacks, at least in wintertime.
Probably my favorite thing about my music collection is that, no matter what, I can listen to something that embodies my mood.
I kissed her yesterday, I hate to sound greedy but a half-hour of desperate restraint feels like little more than stolen time, pressed my lips gently all over her cheekbones, under and behind her jaw, behind her ears, under her neck and chin, apologizing briefly for my not having shaven, avoiding her lips, the lower one pierced a week ago and still tender. I was still angry that she'd disappeared for a day, standing me up and making me distrust her, a feeling that won't go away for a while as much as I wanted to, but whose kernels of doubt and distrust I find somehow reassuring, making me want her more, (she's like me in all the wrong ways).
I want to ask her what happened then, she explains it lightly and yet something feels amiss, I can't decide if it's just her being herself or if I'm actually perceiving something I should be perceiving. Oddly enough, I'm peaceful, and content, perhaps because I'm comfortable with or without her for now, I simply want her.
The air is dry in here, sterile and motionless and painful, and the light is hurting my eyes. I have money to waste on bills that will never be fully paid, I have money to buy music that will be a greater investment than any second of my useless fucking education, I have money to piss away as my meaningless, useless, fleeting life hurtles through oblivion like everyone else's.
This album is beautiful. I need to listen to it more often.