The biggest lie

Just a glimpse, from a distance, and I lose whatever grasp of time I used to think I have. Walking by myself on the way back, humming a tune to keep me company, I think that the feeling of that moment is all I need. Looking back now on such moments' scattered appearances through my life, I'm of course aware of the almost comic nature of my actions, or lack thereof. I don't doubt that I will find myself with a host of regrets that can match any spiritual compatriot, and the thought does sadden me. At the same time, part of me thinks: what does it all matter, anyway? While other paths may bring a richer, deeper experience, in my eyes at least I have seen a larger hand at play, and have received joy from it. If it were to take me from this world the second my eyes fell down, I wouldn't feel robbed of anything. When it comes to you, what hurts the most is that I must instead walk on, knowing that each time I look back, the longer it is that I will find what I am seeking.

1) American Music Club, "Jenny". Eitzel's nihilism is sometimes melodramatic, but for the emotionally misaligned there's nearly always something to grab on to, and occasionally marvel at, lyrically. In this portrait of a husk, I find it in the consistent imploring that home (alone) is the worst place to be, ably supported by a pliant melody. Perhaps these lyrical tricks are just that, but I can't deny that they work on me.

2) Elliott Smith, "Sweet Adeline". More fleshed out musically than earlier songs, but no less astute in squeezing out emotional details from a well-delivered lyric. I like that he hints at a misery he tries his best to escape, sedated or sober, but which never seems to want to go away. I think the explosion at the end tells us which way he goes this time, but I'm skeptical he's escaped it for good.

3) The Soft Boys, "Underwater Moonlight". Hitchock seems a likeable weirdo, and this is a melodic fantasy (I suppose) tale I find myself liking on its own terms, not thinking too much about the retro vibe and all that. Evocative imagery, too.

4) Morrissey, "King Leer". If you get in my good books, I'll give you a lot of rope. At this stage, anything I haven't heard from Moz that has any distinctive edge is likely to be similarly rewarded. But partiality aside, is it just me or are the put-downs of his sweetie's goon the best?

Sitting on a couch in the deadening summer light, marveling at how the wheel turns once again. I used to have one less thing to worry about. Why do I have the king Midas touch in reverse? I can't afford to think about this anymore. I am paralyzed, in a web of my making. All I wanted was to feel what I felt when I first read that Simon Singh book. I had no other business with your planet or your ways. I am sorry if I offended.

You could call it the arrogance of youth, if you wanted to be uncharitable. The thought that anything can be conquered with a bag of memories, a melody for every occasion and a good book in hand. Challenges can break you. They can show you who you really are. I've been having fancies of starting anew and putting to rest whatever minor demons the past brought. That's funny, it sounds pretty familiar to my ears. Now what seems like hell will in time likely seem like child's play. The best acts are yet to come. That's how it stands today.

Why is it that everytime I get the urge to write something bombastic and fiery about the inadequacy of the modern world, there is a voice that urges significant restraint? You would think that after 8 years in this business, I'd know by now that there is basically no external reason for censorship. And if I am not to express things that occur to me frequently, what good is this place? So anyway, here is something I miss: the mystery of the arts. I remember a time when we didn't know what everything was, when its full backstory was not laid bare before release, when its secrets remained so for yeas, serving as fodder for all manner of fantastical imaginations and stories. I see why it may seem jejune to the believers, but each time I am reminded of its reality nowadays, I grow a little colder, and I'm not sure why. Recurrent realization of time slipping out of hand, perhaps. I'd like to think it's because a little more magic has been lost, though.

It is unfortunate that this earlier time was also my childhood, so perhaps I am conflating the two. Ah, what did those times mean? They are wispy memories now. I can hardly believe they happened to me. During my exile I feel even disconnected from my more recent naivete. This fiend I have become, sedated by the steady access to entertainment, takes empty steps each day and ends up where he started. What are we living for?