1) Robyn Hitchcock, "The Sleeping Knights of Jesus". The melodic rush. The whimsy. How it just takes a line to open the doors. I think to myself, there is a light that never goes out.

The early Fall moon in sight, I close my eyes and dream. Maybe one day I will no longer be able to go back. Each time I do, the bridges seem creakier, the landscape hazier. But when I catch sight of her, my eyes awake.

1) Bright Eyes, "We Are Nowhere". Back when this was released, I used to think unkindly of the band and their lead singer especially. This was based purely on the hype that surrounded his talents, in particular comparisons to the Master, which is something I still don't take very lightly. But there's nothing that time doesn't heal, I suppose, because these many years later I'm happy to report that my purely emotional reaction to the music has been positive. As with any musician you come to like, you have to learn to overlook the obvious turn-offs, like the sometimes overfelt quaver in his voice. You instead learn to tune into the undeniable lyrical strength, and the surprisingly resonant melodies, even if the latter are in no small part due to one of the Master's old friends.

2) Elliott Smith, "Needle In The Hay". Were I slightly older, I could imagine writing the same thing about this man, who is fast occupying a privileged zone wherein I feel an artist can do no wrong. I vaguely knew this was supposed to be a classic, and was bracing myself for the classic tale of initial befuddlement followed by gradual enlightenment. Turns out I just needed to hear him deliver the opening line for me to become a believer for life.

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?

I'm not sure that time spent away from chronicling my thoughts here is time out of mind, per se. But I have noticed that these warm-up posts are generally based on realizations that would be at the front of my mind during periods of more intense introspection. The latest instance was a moment of interaction with people whose backgrounds largely mirror my own. I was struck that there is a big difference in how well-adjusted they were, how effortlessly they conducted themselves in situations that have filled me with palpable tension for long as I can remember. It made me realize how unusual my social awkwardness really is. I suppose I've had vague ideas that this was at least partly borne from nurture, but I don't think that holds any creed anymore.

Now, not that it's any strong consolation, but it may be that there is a selection bias involved here. Perhaps it's just a miracle I've made it so far in a path that naturally encourages like-minded people to politely excuse themselves and seek another calling? (If this other calling involves listening to music by myself all day, then I'll be set.) Ah, but that's the thing: these are supposed to be the social misfits and outcasts, aren't they? What does it mean when I'm the odd one out amongst them?! Either I just haven't seen these lads in a wide enough set of social situations, or (what I'm leaning towards) this outcast theory is something that may have been true 30 years ago, but no longer.

Sometimes, when reading of other people's lives, and contrasting them to my paltry existence, there is a resurrected fear that whatever consolations I've tried to offer myself as to why things have turned out a certain way - that things being any other way would involve choosing to forsake some things very important to me - are simply baseless. Where that leaves me, I don't know.