I remember a show that fed in to two house parties, one up, one down and it all melted on top of me and I slept funny on a floor and I felt okay. I woke up before everyone else, I often do, not creepy, just it's quite nice, like you steal some time for yourself, a plus. But anyway i'm waking up in this crazy apartment, this awesome band Talbot Tagora lived there then, Seattle, downstairs someone had recreated their room entirely out of cardboard - a room inside a room. That was cool. And this really nice guy, Robert, it was his house I think, had these stick and pokes on his knees: one knee said "PAR" the other "DEE". That's what I remember. So good. And anyway he just seemed such a nice warm guy and so everyone is asleep, it's morning and I feel okay and I get to the bathroom and this is pinned up in there and it made me feel really amazing and it stuck with me.
"I knocked over his trashcan. So the next night he shot me with his bb gun. You could've just asked. Next time it won't be your trash I'm eating...
...it'll be your remains. But not just me. It'll be all of us.
So here you go a perfect picture of someone else's dream realization cut and pasted on to the end of my own desire.
Fuck my desire got lazy. It's massive, my desire, I got ideas and distorting vision but this weight gets dead. It's getting dusty.
I vision. I motor on optimism but there must be deep down reason why I can't even pronounce that word 'procrastination'.
And words: I'm safe in them, I play with them, sculpt safety with them and
But they're like grids on nature, straight lines and squares. They're like maps and signposts that just direct me to what I know. They just take me home.
I got so lazy. Where'd my action go? Right now even my dreams of doing nothing seem like an empty effort. I'm searching to depend. Wrong search. I can't rely on anything. That up there is someone else's hammock.
Need edges and dirt. Need full steam, full attack but nearly collapsing. If we're about to fall off then please catch THAT moment. Focus on THAT not the big soft warm fluffy whole. The pick dropped and opened a door on to doors. The pick got dropped, the guitar frayed off the beat till the pick got back. It stayed on the tape, that moment. Band stormed on, noticed it's pulse there for a second, felt it's own fucked up heartbeat. Loved it. For a second there.
Now can we have that feeling all over the record please? Douse it. Drown the fucker so we fight back.
And then this falls on to my lap and resonates way more than it probably should: