Like a machine

they’ll fix you from the start.

Because you don’t give blood,

then take it back again. 

Hey, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we get out of here tonight? Get in the car and just start driving. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. Right?

Today was a pretty great day.

I woke up, went and crawled into my mother’s bed. Called my friend, discussed plans.

She picked me up along with another friend, and the three of us stopped at the grocery store (contemplated stealing a boat), packed a picnic, and drove out to my favourite beach. 

It isn’t a popular beach. Stone bottom, fresh water, cold. Grassy, a couple of picnic tables scattered in between a straggling selection of trees. The bay feeds into a shallow river, which is warm and thick with life, growth. At the mouth of the river tadpoles swim between your legs, and further in the bottom is entirely clay. You can dig the clay up, build castles on the stony shore. 

We found a felled tree turned driftwood with age. Two friends joined us, and together, we dragged it off the shore and into the water, our shoes falling off our feet and bubbling to the surface, laughing so hard tears came.

One of our friends couldn’t swim so we all held the log steady and helped her up first. Panting, we took turns trying to climb aboard. The hard part was the smattering of irregularly placed spikes coming out of the tree - stumps of former branches, now positioned in just such a way that if the log turned slightly, a spike would quickly sink itself into your skin. So between our cries of pain and crying with laughter, we road it out into the bay.

We struggled ashore, some of us on all fours, covered in scratches and bruises. A flipflop escaped - I tried to help, but was paralysed with laughter.

Never get out of the boat, never get out of the boat. 

We stumbled back to our picnic table, grabbed our blankets and towels, and collapsed into the grass. We lay there for a while, eating birthday cake with our hands, licking the icing off our fingers. A strange little girl tried to braid my hair.

We drove back into town. Went shopping, briefly. A patio umbrella launched itself straight up into the air, over a fence, and fluttered down in attack, its long arm swerving threateningly toward my face. I fought it back, bravely, laughing with incredulity. 

We had dinner, a new friend joined us. Shared a plate of fried dill pickles, hot pickle juice hitting our arms, burning.

And then we went next door, into a dark theatre, and watched The Deathly Hallows.

I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s two types of Harry Potter fan. I mean, specifically, two types of those that have grown up with him.

There’s the type that will always love him, without judgement and beyond reason.

And there’s the type that will always remember him fondly, but will gradually see loopholes, experience ‘Wait A Minute…’ moments, laugh at the dialogue. They love Harry, but they’re logical people, and they have outgrown him.

The lights came up, I wiped the tears from my eyes (relentlessly sentimental for life), and we stumbled out the door and home, our legs jelly.

It was a good day.

Strobe lights and blown speakers

fireworks and hurricanes

I’m not here -

this isn’t happening.

queenofthepumpkinpatch:

One by one. I suffer you badly. One by one. You’re all I don’t need. Is this the way to be?

I think my cousin made me listen to Swans a couple of years ago, after hearing it on Grey’s Anatomy. And then I started listening to some of the other songs on this album, and they’re gold. Similar but not exactly like old Coldplay. These songs could definitely coexist on a mixed CD with music off Parachutes. 

And now that death will grow my jasmine

I find it soothing, I’m afraid.

This is probably my favourite track from Binaural. It was written by Jeff Ament, the bassist, about his childhood growing up in rural Montana. It isn’t a happy song.

Musically, the song is incredibly atmospheric. Heavy and hazy, it almost sounds as though you’re listening through a barrier of sleep, or fog, or drugs. 

It’s the perfect night song, and always changes my mood when I hear it. The distorted guitar work is stunning - for me, that’s what really takes it to the next level. Pearl Jam’s guitarist, Mike McCready, probably explained the sound best when he compared it to “a plane going down”.

Nothing As It Seems by Pearl Jam. 

And all these words elope

it’s nothing like your poem. 

catsonmyhead:

City and Colour - Sleeping Sickness