Merlot and Dr. Pepper

So I didn't get a synthesizer.
Bummer, but I went to Steve's today to check out the sales for this generous day that is boxing, day and wasn't surprised. They cost more then Elizabeth's ass.
Maybe I'll just get a keyboard.
But, I got an ipod from the family. I've already lost a few. A pattern is occurring.
Went down to the market, all the best stores were locked. Got into a few, gave up and bought a burrito. The ultimate give-up.
That's been christmas. Mixed with a bit of redundant parties, some 20-some great aunts, and the best sweet potatoes freedom can afford and Christmas is just as glamorous as New York City's'.

Side note, Merlot and Dr. Pepper. Aces.

I was scared, for so long because I felt like that immaculate, uncensored, honest feeling of this season had outgrown me. When you're family doesn't laugh at everything you say because what you say isn't innocent, because they know you aren't oblivious, because they treat you like an adult because you are one. It really is the worst, when the people you thought loved you the most were so gentle and courteous because you were young, you were fragile. You're a young adult now you've basically been to Vietnam, Germany, and Iraq- your treated as a veteran. You know life sucks, they know it too, you mutually fall upon a silent agreement that talking for the sake of talking won't propel any of your conversations. So they ask,

"How's your acting going?"

"Good, really good. Doing the best I can."

"Oh of course, don't forget us when you're famous."

Clever.

And every single one of them means it differently when they say it. So it never dries.

And in the midst of those redundant parties with the great aunts and uncles, and my Merlot and Dr. pepper my little cousin grabs my arm and pulls me into the other room, and tells me to play with her.

"Play what?"

"Play!"

And I knew what she meant. And I told her we were in the jungle and we were hunting for treasure. And we had ballgowns on, and we had puppies, and the treasure would take us to Disney Land. And that lasted a good 30 seconds. Not surprisingly.

So now we're playing house. She's my dog, I'm her lovable owner.

And I'm watching her crawling on the ground and I'm looking out into the other room at the great aunts and uncles and I'm thinking.

They treat her like a princess. I know where she is right now, fuck it's the best feeling in the world when people fuss over you and give you just what you asked for. You get your synthesizer. She's only 6 but she will remember every single Christmas. Because everyone is here, because this is the only time she will get what she wants. She's forever away from having to make choices, having to suck it up and grow up.
And I want to leave her because I'm bored but I can't, because I have to give this to her, I have to let her play. No one else will, and I guarantee she will remember this Christmas for the rest of her life, because I gave her what she wanted. When you're young it's never the gifts you remember or when you're older, miss, but it's just when you're given more love then you will ever feel for the rest of your life. People can't help but love you when they know you don't know better.

That feeling will never leave her.

So I saw her, and I saw that point in my life in Aunt Dorothy's basement, and I surrounded by relatives I didn't know and didn't really care for but who loved me effortlessly. And I felt it all again. I think there's a lot you can let go of. Memories that will always leave you. These ones don't. Don't hunt them down and ring them dry. Just feel the wave when it hits you, for however many seconds that is.

Take away for Today:
Leah Hennessey and Max Lakner
http://babymanque.com/index.html

Man oh man.

sitting in the office.
i am. an intern.
freaks and keaners in and out. one guy has a necklace with winston churchill on it.
i need it.
xmas shopping done. bought a few unnecessary presents for people i wanted to cozy up to. and a few gifts for old reliable friends and confidants. even if our archieve of secrets is outdated.
i bought the office folk a new coffee pot. the old one smells like ass. it was needed. less of a gift and more of a I'm-worried-about-you-not-seeing-your-kids-graduate shpeel.
ben's coming in a bit. we're busing home. maybe get some caffeine.

(SMILE)


havn't had coffee all day and i feel like i'm going to start perspiring anger. it looks like tabasco sauce in my mind. if you needed a visual. smells like Lone Star restaurant.
but. i like being addicted to it. it's a mutual courtesy we both have. my body needs it to survive and it needs me to boast about it.
but black. black coffee. too much glam in a coffee is awful. my coffee is unshaven.
christmas break is here. i'm ready for the celebration. i'm ready to see family. and i'm ready to relax. something I haven't done in a while.
but have earned a new respect for.

take care everyone.
love.
SJ

"...and what her mind melts."

woke up at a party.
friend walks in the room and goes "shit someone wrote a novel"
he's holding a pile of post it notes.
here's what was written that night. in the raw. unedited. bear with the spelling.
i bet you feel special:

So she sat in the kitchen, Drinking black coffee, unsatisfied with the high. Caffine could stimulate her text, but not her libido. She was brilliant when she was drunk. Mindless in her reverse. Numb with diaologue. No one cares when your drunk. It's assumed your thoughts are manicured. Blanched with liquor - that ignites inhibition, honesty, and jealousy. So she relies on her pen to relieve herself in the midst of angst. Coffee and cigarettes a companion before the caloused hand of sober personel. People can only give you so much of what you already have. Problems you already had and have no time for. It's not nice to unsurface that old black and white childrens novel. You have wisdom thats too arrogent to enlighten and friends to stubborn to accept the voice of reason. Reasonably speaking - reason depends on the person. Coffee and cigarettes. Two of the greatest kicks you will ever be introduced to. You can feel sex in your thighs, man you can feel cigarettes in your calves. What 3:52 in the morning. Fuck steve. I'm smoking in the house. Everyone's asleep and she's drinking coffee and having the best damn cigarette she's ever had. Jessies neck is out, chen's being a friend, Liza ad Dodson are fucking and she's content. Lonliness is as asset. It teaches you to be realistic with yourself. Forces you to embrace shit and your own bullshit. Bordum can lead to great things for an artist. Take me. Had friends who worshipped the bible and played truth or dare at birthday parties. Now she's fucking every week, addicted to caffine, and drinks brandy to relieve emotional instability.
But thats the cost of beauty.
Fuck.
Dropped the cigarette in the noodles. What the fuck. Can't even flick a fucking ash and its in the noodle sauce. Fuck it it taste fine.
The sound of hot ash hitting a wet surface.
Ace.
5:59
4:00
Perfect.
Even. Even numbers fuck me up. What wants to be even. Being fair is bullshit. Why not fondle rucass. Being even has never taught anyone anything. The joy of winning, the mediocrity of falling just short. Never created war, never introduced democracy, or flaws in communism. Games, gambling, drinking, anorexia, divorce. Being even is the end all be all of history.
Being even to others will never introduce humour. We all fight to be more interesting that others, to impress. If we're all even then we're stationary. Everyone might as well be friends. Again, bullshit.
Smoke in the eye.
Balls.
Blinking it out. Gone. Thank Christ.
Stabs the cig in a wet plate.
Hisses.
Cat ticks behind her against the tiles.
And she wishes she had someone to come out and watch her. Someone who cared about her. Who understood and got her art. dillusional art. Who she could play demure to but really by super fucking flattered they showed up and started a conversation dispite sleep sickness at 4:07AM. She wishes that person was reckless and impulsive. A night and morning person. Had a taste for everything. Respected their parents but found away around guidelines.
And she's at a loss.
She doesn't wish she was prettier, she just wishes she had less pimples. She doesn't wish she was skinnier, she just wishes she had a better metabolism. She just wishes, fuck, a guy or girl could read her mind and share her electricity for life. Pessimism is old and 90s and Nirvana. She just wants to live the best life she can and won't let a bad moment or money or disbelief inhibit her from running as fast as she can. High. Down a street. Covered with trees. Alone. Dodging. Hitting branches. Getting scarred. Acknowledging the blood. Making her self better. Learning. Moving on. Craddling every moment as a chance experience. Pure oxygen.
No. No one will ever understand that.
Ever.
It's too real.
And we're 17 and we live in disney. And we're trying to find ourselves and we live in a fog of opportunity and personalities and no one knows what belongs to whom. But She does.
She's found hers. And she's lonely. Because the ones she loves will only find it in another few years. And she'll have to live alone that much longer. Perhaps a change of scene will spark a new title of bodies. Who may know her, and what her mind melts. But who knows.
No one knows how to chase what they love.
She will chase it until she is blue in the face. Until she is crucified.
Know what you love, love what you do and do it for the rest of your life. That's real. That's adolesence. Not trying to escape your house and find yourself. You've already found yourself, the next step is embracing it.

-**********
4:19
Dec/2009

take away for today:
www.brettisagirl.com
awesome artist. my favourite is togetherness. i bought a few prints for my friends this xmas.

A Mantra

he's on the phone as i type. fiddling with his guitar. i'm hunched over cradling the phone between my left shoulder and ear. i tried speaker phone but its harder to hear the movement on the line and he's on speaker phone as well so the quality is less than spectacular.
i shouldn't have poured an entire cup of tea. i'll never finish it. its unrealistic. i eat fast. i digest fast. i focus on eating when i eat. i drink slow. drinks are special. food sits there. your aware that it is now apart of you or rather than your absorbing its beneficial nuances. liquids, are ghosts. your aware of its presence and warmth (or chill) as it reacts on your pallet and down towards the core. but it is without body. it is substance without matter. although science tells us otherwise, the only place we feel the drink is when it punches you later in the bladder. you don't know what you've gained from it until the doctor checks your blood later. Be it good or bad. I enjoy the moment. I enjoy the pace. I become aware of what's around me when i drink. It's eased tempo allows me to take the time to enjoy whatever is in front of me and not beyond me. Things i'd miss if i was eating, because eating is a race to satisfy.
i live fast. i react fast. i am fast in wit and fast in processing.
i exist slow. i love slow. i grow slow.
quite honestly
i'd rather drink.

Take away for today: www.cr8apes.com
DJ mixes posted. Fun for parties. Or alone time.

Suck on THIS Entrepreneurship '09!

There's a lot of immaturity in trying to be mature.



There's an abandoned farm about a 10 minute bike from my house. It's stationed on an old, swervy, no side-walk road across from my high school. By abandoned I intend to mean owned by land relaters hoping to make a new suburban jungle and is visited by one of the later owners family members occasionally. To make sure no one is throwing parties on the property. I've only been there twice but I feel like it's mine. Mine and my friends. It's quiet and precious. And while it's lonely abused atmosphere may make a a good haunted facade, it feels safe. I don't feel like there are dead bodies, lingering spirits or bad imprints. I feel like I need to explore. Do crazy shit. A place to have your first kiss and get felt up. I want to read mark zusack there. play baseball. run through the generous property. It's the cliche of the childhood theme "nothing lasts". I know it will be gone eventually, and i won't be devastated but i will cry. I don't know why yet but i will genuinely be moved by some currently-incomprehensible emotion. It's the loss of a life long dream. The need I've always craved for adventure and danger and discovery.
I feel like the freedom we gain there has a price. Something will happen and we'll pay for being too happy. Happiness is a sin. We lose sight of the immediately pertaining issues and reality when we drown in bliss for those moments. So very few of them. It's where we only speak about dreams, about others, about ourselves like no one can hear us. It's all very selfish and immature, but one can't go on living awaiting the day when the mechanics a line and you're sudden an adult. common sense no longer beneath you. There's a lot of immaturity in trying to be mature. We deny ourselves of experience and learning. The powerful surge of adrenaline in the face of danger. We suppress inspiration if our common sense calls it impossible, unattainable and incomprehensible. What the hell have we created when our children are forgetting to be children? Fear adventure because they may be scolded for improperly using their time? Ignore adventure because it's useless? Life might as well be abandoned. If the worry comes from one's physical and emotional health being at stake then they might as well be dead. We're always under an attack. And it's that prodding that makes us say "EN GARDE!". Forces us to be courageous and innovative. confident and imaginative. It's the fun that we have and the risks we take as kids that dictate the open-minded adults we become. I've seen the people who don't. My business teacher. Bad posture, doesn't look people in the eye, his attempts at hiding his lack of self-confidence makes him look self-absorbed. Clearly watched CBC news and played pong, masturbated to Lisa from weird science and ate white bread and butter sandwiches.

Take away for today: If you can get your hands on it before it leaves the shelves
UK's LOVE magazine sent Starworks’ Greg, their Senior Fashion Editor Francesca Burns, photographer Bruce Weber and designer Alexander Wang around the globe to find extraordinary talent and personalities under 21. Great read. Awesome articles. Cover's no names, to notable bloggers such a julia frakes and tavi, to more celebrity status performers.
http://www.thelovemagazine.co.uk/

Never give, Undone

Wow
I haven't written in a couple of months. Though I don't feel guilty.
I've been a busy fucker.
I'm struggling to get over vocal fatigue. I'm slowly teaching myself to rest. Which is difficult. I'm not truly happy until I have my hands full. I panic when I'm unoccupied, when I have time to relax. Not necessarily time to myself, I have time to waste. But time to sit down, watch re-runs, do nothing. I like crafts, but only when I'm bored. I like biking, but only when I'm bored.
Things to satisfy my stigma to swell the vacancy the that exists in my day.
I will push my body. I want to be physically and intellectually swollen. I want to have discovered something colourful. Within myself or outside. Exhaust all protein.
My subconscious and my libido work in a kinship. I lust for most things. People, food, adventure. I lust for self-understanding, and self-admiration.
I'm far to critical of myself. But perhaps that's the only way one can grow. One should always dislike something about what they've done. One should search for the flaws in their work. That is when we begin to seek improvement. We become more involved in what we do. We lust for critical respect. People who pride their work will never become more than what they are. Those is see the imperfections in the makeup will always grow, be humble, and continue to impress others.
Self doubt will flower excellence.

take away for today: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scotchsofa/page1/
someone who knows how to have fun. doesn't take herself too seriously. grows with every moment of her life.
sees a mistake as a masterpiece.
we need more people like this lady.

Circle in the Square

writing is a lot like drifting
to be truly poetic is to drift out of mind and write without conscious care.
drifting is a lot like winning.
been in so deep. so inescapable. so you give up the fight when all they want is just that. skin leverage.
when what you're worried for has ended you gain peace. when what they are united for has ended, they lose sight of why they enjoyed the others company to begin with. in hindsight they may note the persons distasteful qualities, and in return noting the same mirrored in themselves.
so drifting seems a way to outsmart. to belong senselessly to a strict meditation that belongs to a lifestyle and a character that exists just beyond the machines living room space, its banquets, its movement and its circles. To exist as the rectangle that encompasses the circle, at some points nearer to the circumferences, at some points untouchable is a fine way to mind ones own self. It's the distance I enjoy, but the homecoming I distance myself for.
Maybe I drift to test love. But I suppose I do it mostly to run into people tenting around the perimeter of the rectangle. When searching for isolation, it's nice to find camaraderie.

take away for today: www.margaretdurow.com, http://www.flickr.com/photos/margaretdurow/page1/
beautiful. like a voyeur ghost.

Favours

An old short story I found. I think i wrote it last year. It made me laughing finding it again.
Enjoy.
-S.Jones


Marla bit into her turkey burger.
She was watching her weight.
She asked for light mayo and no onions, because onions clung to your breath and your fingers. Your toung and your fingers were always in a gambling position to be asked to do favours. Marla wanted to do favours. She had a shopping list in her front pocket. She poked it and watched the stiff fabric pop like a bottle cap. Shopping for grocery's were not a favour. She was not doing herself a favour. She was doing her wife a favor.
Marla, loved Rachel. Rachel was in a constant passionate heat for Marla. Marla felt a need to wade submissive towards Rachel's blistering horomones. For all she knew she was gender split and fucking impregnated her. Which wouldn't be bad. Just really weird. Like there are things you can laugh about and be happy dispite the situation, definately not one of them. Her walls were probabaly rough with callas from a lack of arousal before Rachel lit a candle stick and inserted the waxy base. Rachel had an obsession with fire. Marla first made love to Rachel infront of a fire place. Earlier on she thought this cliche, she now realized she was feeding Rachel's fetish. Which made her happy.
She was once asked in a 'would you rather game' if you would rather never have someone please you or never be able to please someone else.
She was unable to muster a honest answer. or a wholesome answer. but the question itself was debatable. an answer she felt more opinionated to say.
really, Marla was unhappy.
Marla was bisexual. Marla wanted to try something new.
Marla wanted to do favours.
Inexpensive. 10 minutes or less. Simple and efficient.
Like the burger drive through.
Marla was done her burger. She moved onto her fries.
She balanced one between the pouch of her lips and her finger tip.
She slid it in. Swallowed it. Whole.
Marla looked out her window. Kevin was putting out the flower and garden sales area in the parking lot of Rona. Kevin watered his flowers and and took photos of his cats in seasonal costumes. Kevin carried a costco card, a debit card, an emergency diabetes card, and a pepsi card in his wallet.
Kevin needed a favour.

take away for today - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_miHFxG1yuQ&feature=channel_page
this is who they have sex too.
looks a bit like jesus. but jesus probably grooves better.

Be Afraid

I have a close friend. Who has healed more wounds for me than she will ever know. And has exposed me to myself, without fear. But sometimes I am afraid for her. She follows a wave which has an luxuriously peaceful high and then a tragic low. In her deepest hollows I suppose there isn't much to say. I would like to hear and sort out her matters for her, but I am not her mother, and I am not her conscience. To be at conflict with ones own psyche is a confrontation that must be met. Without exterior characters trying to build ones own character. One can only find peace when they are able to find realism in their own issues and second guess their own opinions. When you create a smarter, more intelligent self beyond bones and skin and blood.
I love her. I don't think I've ever loved anyone else more than her. She is striking and captivating and inspiring and truly unscathed by culture. She patriotic of her own domain. She is lost in an era years beyond the one she was born in. One with class and dignity and chivalry and experiment. She is a never ending cycle of occasion, with a persona that never settles in one suit for too long. She is challenging and mocking and curious. She is morning noon and night and the time in between does not exist because she doesn't have the time for it. She breaths sweet simple one line melodies. Absolutely the most impossibly lost person I've ever met. But in that lack of, she is perfect. To her I say, if you're cutting with a knife the gentlest gesture you can give beaten by the bat end. Whether you return the strike with a counter blow means a few fist full of apprehentions hugging your curves. Both ends have bitter endings, both ends are open ended. Will he decide to cut you or force you. Every white limbo has a corner, but the colour spills often just a few paces from where you began to feel watched. Running makes you more obvious and walking is an easier target. So is standing. So you're fucked. The best thing to do now is not exists, but unfortunately you are made of matter, and until you blow space between your atoms you'll continue to feel. Fear is the most unacknowledged emotion. Not that we ignore it, we are aware of it, but we can't just hate it. Because we hate too much of what's necessity already.
Fear will help you. Let it build a scent. Let something hunt you. Listen to its hunger. Listen to it's thoughtlessness. Find it before it comes out.
Be afraid.

Take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/wheatiemattiasich

Listen to Sugarcane.

Shaking Hands

I've fallen in love with illustration.
There's a massive, translucent line or lagoon at odds with the incision between what we see and can communicate with, circumference's us, and how we exhibit and frame the physical things response to our acknowledgment, it's own language, and the manifestation of that through a picture. When one analyzes the two, you begin to see within this lagoon, not an abrupt laceration of the two sitting abreast the other, but rather an inconceivable blur as one becomes the next. It is in the blur where the breathing earths metaphysical characteristics evolve into something more cinematic and charismatic. Using ones extremities to lasso a ghost or an aura within ones self or an object. To then invite that to the page. To portray it senselessly as it does not affect our senses. Miraculous.
An artist is never fully acknowledged for their work because one never fully understands the artists motives. How they felt and what they saw. What is often more frustrating is when perhaps the picture portrays an idea that conflicts the artists own personal message. But then, art will always continue to be different for everyone as we are all approached by art differently. As we are all judged by people differently. In the art community you must be willing to be judged for your work, because your work will judge you. Art will judge you.

take away for today: inventive and standard setting.
Russian Ark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J--TDEHizVA
Vassilis Zidianakis: http://www.atopos.gr/rest/english/index.html

Heaven told me it would hate me

Pouring a martini into a coffee mug is so satisfying. If the heat won't be there to warm you the burn will, and the familiarity of a toasty mug is complimentary. The comfort of the two together is enough milk ones way into addiction. Which is an issue i fear I'm battling currently. The mug makes it easier to drink, and far less casual. Casual would be with a stem attached to the bottom. Habit is an ikea mug, a zip up hoodie and Seinfeld. So i'm working my way into an illness, and it startles me, but not as intensely as say an addiction to tobacco would. I worry about the smell of cigarettes, i realize I'm not going to reek of alcohol on Monday morning. Perhaps I will one day. For now i enjoy fruity mixes and red wine. White wine tastes like liquid gravol. Sorry lovers.
And then there's the friends who smoke. No i don't know if i like to smoke with neighbours. I don't spin. I like spinning. It's wicked obvious as well. It billows. I speak 7 years pre current age. Sub socialistic. Unopinionated and horrifyingly simple with dialect. It's a mock of the sapience and a farce of my poise. I am unknowingly conveying the unornamented version of me. Though hard to say, is no one i would put a name behind. And still, I will continue to, in isolation, use. By myself my mind is macabre. For the rest of my life then I will continue to enjoy chilled wine and bread. Simple food. Soul food. An addiction to une vive.
I could hide this addiction. I could fuck this addiction so hard.

Take away for today: http://www.parasolmag.com/

lovely. free. mindful.

Weather

Hello again.
It's cold outside. Cold for spring. In the sun I feel warm, the wind slaps me across the face in some form of natural envy. And they work to see each other give in to the others polar currents. But then again perhaps they work in acknowledgment of each other. In a close kinship, one isolates the other to make the human who's feeling one of the two weather extremes, feel an abandonment of the other. Than the other relaxes as the human begins to urge the presence of the other extreme. One is far too much. One cannot be exposed to one thing for too long.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Tastes change, but subtly. Someones tastes do not fully change but adapt to the years they are becoming. With each year comes a new ear, new skin that is touched or perhaps dimpled, and new sight. And one may pray that they observe something in a new light or learn to love something more, but it's the exposure to the positives of this 'thing', or the unexpected and enlightening, that truly evolve one's senses.
I've been exposed to many new sounds and faces, especially last summer. And I can't decided if it's the distance between me and that 'thing' that has built this admiration or rather a change of tastes. Whether I've grown to love it because of the memories so potently attached to the thought of it or because I've been through enough to realize this 'thing' can be categorized amongst many things that now, with maturity, suit my interests. Perhaps I over think the effects of growing up. And perhaps it's what I'm supposed to do. Maybe everyone does, it's just an absurd topic of conversation.
take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/bellorchestre

I would've never listen to anything instrumental last year. I see the story telling now.

Storytelling

I once had a history teacher that told me my English mark would always suffer and that if i were to pursue a career in business I would face the same issue because of my writing. She cradled her criticism with the reassurance that if I were patient enough to devote energy to spending time in a null state watching a novel build and leak in the heart of my head, I'd be famous. Now I suppose that's how i write. That the ideas do not exist until I have derived that one before from the idea before that and the idea before that, and so on. It gets messy. Often the ideas have no real link until the end which often leaves my fingers sticky and uncomfortable to rest together. It's only then i consider the best way to rest my hands to avoid odd looks from neighbours and to be able to rest naturally. I suppose if the substance is sheer on your hands you have little to worry about, just act like nothings there. I feel that way about acting too, act like nothings waiting to be flushed out of your mouth to support the scene/your character's purpose/the other actors intentions. Rather to pretend, scientifically, your brain sparked a reasoning function of sorts, and with the intention to respond sincerely to the person speaking to you on the set, instantly connected with the nerves in your lips to communicate your thoughts. I don't feel like I'm writing when I'm writing. I feel like my brain is communicating with my hands. And I feel like I'm running. I feel like I'm out of breath. If i run a bit further I'll reach a goal.
It's nice to achieve that. So everything ties together in the end. And I've discovered something new about myself that I perhaps just wasn't really aware of before.
Writing is about discovery. So is reading. How do you intend to grow if what you know you must experience is already planned. It's definitely why I've never been able to write essays, I try to explore too many ideas within one thesis. Growth happens because of the pull of ideas and the circles they spin. The moments that make you speak to yourself aloud inside your head. All call to arms. You can't always get what you want. Each idea is a powerful trigger that leads to the next, much like each milestone in life is a circumstance that helps you deal with the next that will surely follow. Unless you are dead, Wake the fuck up.
take away for today:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q85xVaTfdgE&feature=PlayList&p=8701FEDF5CDD4253&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=19

sorry if you don't laugh. you don't really have to pay a dollar. but shit happens some times.
you can't always get what you want.

Thursday Is a Dead Day

Afternoon.
This city could be the most beautiful city in Canada. I can hear the train horn wailing just beyond my house. Besides it's landscape and stereotypical Canadian nuances, it's exceptionally dull. I am faithful to Tim's, but I feel the need to Americanize and mingle with the Starbucks socials. The indie junkies and the AA hipsters. God bless them. They try so hard. It's the kids with the 'space camp '05' member t-shirts that's the balm to my dried independent roots. Swollen lips from talking like I know every band you don't. Sore back from obsessive blogging. I really know nothing. Within this blog community I will admit it. Anonymously and without shame.
Let's take the time to devote our time to things we honestly care about, rather than maintaining our wishful thinking. We try to hard, and we forget what we really want. And we force ourselves to enjoy things that I swear our human makeup is not designed to enjoy. Black Dice was the biggest slap in the face for me. 1 week straight. Good for them for doing what they do and brewing a new taste, the taste unfortunately does not sit well on my pallet.
So just like comfort food, its time to introduce this 'not-so-underground' community to the things that warm our minds and hearts. Help us unwind and remind us of the good 'ole times.

Take away for Today: www.myspace.com/wearealltalltrees
very cute. they're new, just starting out. they'll grow into something great one day. keep an eye on them in the next few years.

I figure, if you love a sound. You want it to grow. If you were a sound, you'd want to be known.