Volcanoes melt me down. I’m prone to eruptions.
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Maybe that’s not true. Maybe I stand near volcanoes at the wrong times, unaware of the waking caldera. Or maybe I make volcanoes erupt, and then they melt me down.
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This is all connected, you see, through a series of events, you see, and thoughts, you see, and everything has meaning, you see, and that’s why cannonballs and pirates make me lovesick and not seasick. Everything sinks.
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Pirates of the Caribbean was only really good because of Keira Knightly, and she’s only really good because she looks like Natalie Portman, who is the reason why I saw Star Wars in theaters more than once even though the movie sort of sucks. They should have stopped with the original three.
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The look on your face was delicate.
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Natalie Portman reminds me of attractive celebrities, but she’s nowhere near Mila Kunis or Autumn Reeser. Remember Autumn Reeser, from The OC and probably nothing else? I watched that show. It made me love Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah even more when I thought that wasn’t impossible. It’s just one of those songs. I wish he didn’t drown.
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Mila Kunis has no place in this blog, but I sort of want to see Friends with Benefits. I just have no one to go see it with.
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That song, Hallelujah, and that moment of television, The OC of all things, made me cry. I remember talking about it with my friend. He cried, too.
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It's a cold and it's a broken, Hallelujah
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No, I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Buckley. Not in this case.
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We’ll both forget the breeze, most of the time. A line from a song, but I’m not italicizing it.
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Read me your favorite line. Another line from another song and again, I’m not italicizing it.
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Lately, during conversations, I speak in song lyrics because I’m never sure what to say or why I’m saying it. I wrote a story a few years ago about a student who had a disease—he could only talk in song lyrics. I did a very poor job executing it, but I still like the idea. Maybe I’ll come back to it, eventually.
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Eventually.
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Part of me loathes that word, but then Damien Rice reminds me that there’s always time, so pass me by, there’s always time, just give me time, and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on.
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I’m listening to Damien Rice too often. Today I floated on a raft in my pool with a wet towel over my eyes, listening to both cds. I think I’m sunburnt.
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I like being sunburnt. I hate peeling. I like living with pain. Like when I tore my hamstring and suffered severe internal bleeding, and broke my tailbone, and have a horrible scar from a bike accident, and two concussions, one from a car accident and the other sledding, and how I never saw a doctor for any of it, and how I never see a doctor for anything.
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I’m fine, really, and I’m not talking about the above paragraph just now.
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No, I’m not fine. That would be lying. I’m a horrible liar; I tell the truth, and too much of it, too often. I can’t just be fine. I’m not good at that. I blame myself, and how I live through images, memories, ideas, but mostly just images and snapshots and reflections, and how I see everything so clearly, and remember words so well, because that’s what I do, I write images and moments, and people, and how they interact, and what’s said, and what happens, and those subtle nuances, those cautious smiles and widening eyes and longing looks and despaired sighs and words spoken too quickly and awkward silence and silent silence and brief moments of weakness and truths when weakness is really strength and belief and the truth is the truth but the truth isn’t always easy so you ignore it but don’t forget it, and I dissect them, and I see people, and I understand people, and sometimes I don’t understand people, and then I realize I might not understand anything.
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It’s not that I don’t have a good memory. I just save my memories for things that truly matter, what I want to remember, and do.
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A lot a lot. I roam and work mindlessly at work, and then Damien Rice sometimes plays on the satellite radio, and sometimes I ask myself how do you think of something else when all I can think of is one thing and then I tell myself I don’t know but I should probably find out.
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And then I don’t find out.
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Cheers, Darlin is my favorite song of his, Damien Rice. I think we’re back to that again. The live videos are even better. The man is a genius; his songs are more than music. Here’s a link; he’s just acting drunk in the video—it’s a performance and a song. A story.
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Running in the rain. That would have been a good idea.
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Accidental Babies is his second best song.
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I enjoy wine more than beer.
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Today is Friday, but the week feels later. This has been a very long week, perhaps because I have seen three sunrises. This also has nothing to do with the above paragraph, so I guess I ruined the trend I started pages ago. It’s as if I was creating a constellation and suddenly decided to tear it apart.
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Stars rhyme with scars. We could come back to that, but we won’t, because I think we’re almost finished now, here.
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And that would absolutely break my heart.
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I hope that that’s not true, but I think, maybe, it is. So we’ll come back to that.
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