After the last rites, my first thought: "Time is an ocean of endless tears".

1) Bright Eyes, "If the Brakeman Turns My Way". The only way I can judge rock poetry is how easily the lines resonate with me; invariably, many lines from many writers do, and I decree those the talented ones. This is necessarily then the only explanation that's needed as to why I find myself liking Oberst's work, even though there is a massive rebellion against him, one that I was once part of. In this particular song, even discounting the ever capable sense of  melody and delivery, just analyzing the words when the music stops unearths their inherent craftiness: friends and sedatives, dreams playing spoilsport, et cetera. After the third or so line that requests a smile, I put my hands up and admit that the man has impressed me again.

"Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope"

I used to try to believe in greater things, in the master's hand. But lately, these fanciful notions have been soundly beaten out of me. Not that I would deny the remarkable (laughable?) perseverance of hope, but I can say that it seems in short supply these days. Perhaps I would've found myself in this place no matter which road I had taken; I don't know. But in this, the only life I know, I have a pretty strong suspicion as to the decisions that precipitated such a remarkable fall from grace. Speaking of which, I'll soon be attempting an exit from this spiritual prison, and some people assume it's a cause for celebration. Hah. What's the sense in celebrating as you sit bereft of even a spark of life? Some say that all said and done, survival is by itself a great feat, one to be proud of. Perhaps for most, but not for me. You and I know how I managed to stay afloat for so long. By stopping to believe, and embracing the nihilist I once thought I had conquered. (As if!) Indeed, my victory has been so pyrrhic that one may conclude I take pleasure in watching myself fall. Not entirely true. But I think I did always expect heavenly arms to reach out and lift me away. I'm not saying I deserve it, or that I am surprised (in hindsight) that it is a dream that came to naught. Only that I have learned all too well the truth in the saying that it is challenges that bring out the real you. Yup, we've all seen what it is I'm made of. And what a terrifying sight it is.

Who am I kidding? I deserve nothing.

1) Cockney Rebel, "Loretta's Tale". With time, I've become convinced that Harley's intonations are my favourite this side of Dylan, maybe McComb. At this stage, his first record is also edging out competing records by other marvellous weirdos - Sparks and Roxy Music - as my favourite from the early 70s. The protagonist of this song symbolizes something to Harley, but what exactly I haven't a clue. I do know that it's a show I haven't found myself tired of sitting through to find out. What to say except that it is the sort of music that speaks to my inner mirror freak, music whose strange tales seemed at first listen inescapably true, the mystery of the mind and its dreams put to song.

When caught in the familiar trap of reminiscing, I remember thinking at one point how interesting it would be to see people grow on blogs, and to contrast the writing from youthful petulance to older wisdom. I'm not really in a position to comment - as all I do nowadays is tell you what songs I like or complain about how everything's screwed up - but it is sad that that has largely come not to be. Mostly, it's because people have moved on from blogging, into either living real life or the next internet trend. Many who continue with regularity seem to have realized the value in giving up the journal flavour, and instead going for something with more purpose. All of which are certainly indicative of changes, I suppose, but I dreamt of more: what I really imagined having access to was the change in internal dialogue that once was deemed appropriate and mildly worthwhile to document.

It's getting close to a decade of cataloguing for me, and in many respects, I detect only changes for the worse in the writing. Youthful fury at life's perils has given way to older apathy and/or defeat at the same, which you could call gaining wisdom and realizing how to pick your fights, but I'm sure the younger me would have called it failure. How many times can I...oh, so there's a change for you: there I go again with attempting to unravel the present and the past. Then again, what does any of it matter? What sense in doing otherwise when the party's over and you're sitting by yourself?

I sometimes think that if I put my mind to it, I can come off as charming. Don't tell me I may actually be right for once.

1) American Music Club, "Blue and Grey Shirt". To be honest, I don't know whether I really like AMC. It's always the case that on reflection, I think to myself that no one component of the music itself particularly stands out. But I seem to be oddly attached to Eitzel's lyrics, because of the uniformly pessimistic worldview they espouse, without falling into an overt sense of gloom. Eitzel's style is more of a matter-of-fact analysis of the successions of defeats and disappointments that he's dealt with. That these are occasionally melodramatic is likely an objective flaw, but it goes down just fine with me. Anyhow, this early song is an example of my dilemma: it's a pretty nondescript song, really. I think it succeeds because of the unusual details, like the favourite shirt of a particular style, which make it seem like something that might've actually happened. Plus the delivery is fittingly weary, to say nothing of the resignation in accepting that all he's got left is to wait around for people that are gone. He also says he's tired of speaking for every tired thing, but I'm not sure that I believe him.

2) American Music Club, "Now You're Defeated". Apparently the first line ends with "dream", not "drink" as I am convinced it was intended. But as if that changes the message. Which is, I think, take defeat square in the face, so that you may stand up stronger. Or because it's easier.

I've interacted peripherally with a few ancient peers of late. I can't comment on whether or not they are successful, but I will say that they seem to have at least made headway when it comes to forging a path for their own. They also seem generally content, though of course each likely has their own problems and worries. Keeping up, or comparing oneself with the neighbours is likely the road to perdition, but at the same time I think it's just embedded in our nature. In my case, I do find it strange that I should be spending my time on, let's be clear, pointless intellectual pursuits that seem to drive me further into solipsism, while providing not sufficient enjoyment to make not notice this (in no small part because I seem quite unsuited for said pursuits). At the same time, each thought of leaving sees the ground turn to quicksand. Somewhere along the line, I seem to have crossed some line through my inaction, and landed in a state where I make sure that every door back to civilization, I shut myself. I especially make sure that any reminder of the past is kept safely at bay. Best that I remain as a memory of whatever minor virtue I used to possess, instead of whatever it is I'm supposed to be now.

I suppose it isn't surprising, but I realized the other day that the internet doesn't have enough serious emotional reaction to music. You can find pithy platitudes in droves, and serious reviews too, but not much in terms of actual discussion of how something affects someone deeply. I suppose for one thing, these reactions are genuinely personal and likely private. For another, they're likely hard to translate into words. And probably no one else would find them interesting, except me. But I do wish sometimes, when I feel a rush on listening to a favourite song or artist, that there were voices out there that expressed their thrill about the same.