Listen. And hear it.

Return of the Mack.

Hiatus is forcibly over! I am sticking to the man who, through university blogging assignments, had sapped my creative nectar and passion for getting my blog on. No more! Mutiny!!!!A brief summary of the past few days/weeks/months:
Slowly but completely removed myself from the confines of Griffith walls, settled into a space all of my own though obviously someone has stuck a sign on my back reading "This chicks single and wants a root" as the calibre of male I have been attracting is quite high, discovered how low my fuel gauge can go before it starts a-chugging, acquired 48 bruises in under mysterious circumstances, began running again, felt good then bad then wondrous then deep then silly then sleepy then high then numb, read 'Catcher in the Rye' for the first time everrrrrrrrr, kissed my dog, stubbed my toe, made some meals, drew some picture, listened to music, sang at the top of my lungs, became a closet rapper, smoked, drank, fell, felt the familiar pull of the ocean, missed my mum, felt the cold, worked a little, barely slept, felt a little lost without my blog.
Boy that feels good. Definitely never leaving it this long again.

A tear that hangs inside my soul forever..

I have become completely ensconced in Jeff Buckley the last couple of weeks. I mean entirely, thoroughly, utterly and undeniably consumed by him and his life and works. I have always lauded him as a musician above all others, but I have only just started reading his book and have since been listening exclusively to him, paralleling his journey in 'Dream Brother' with tracks from his albums. It is a haunting process. Even though I know the outcome of the book, where the story physically ends etc, I still can't help reading it with hope that he lives. That another album will come out soon. That this musical gift in the form of a waifish man will continue to evolve and develop and share this with the rest of the world.  It almost makes me ashamed the whilst Jeff's most important, and significant relationship is with music, almost everything else falls by the wayside, mine is with people. And don't get me wrong, I love people. I don't want to be a recluse, but I wish my passion took a strong hold on my like music did for Jeff. That was his one focus, ambition, desire, and fuel for life. It gave him energy and fire. Things which I do not possess. And then there is my blatant attraction to him. Oh god he is aaaaaaaaaaamazn. I am in love with a stranger.

Looking For Love.

Hi. I'm a 24 year old Uni student. I like double entendre's, dimly lit pubs and fancy dress parties. I spent most of my time thinking up creative ways to speak about myself. I am looking for someone who is definitely not stuck in limbo and can similarly morph to suit social situations.If this sounds like you please email me at: wakeup@idontknowwhere.com.fu

This ain't no fucking Disco.

So. Journeyed to West End last night to see British India: AMAAAAAZING. There were some definite sound issues, not sure Hi Fi has that part down pat yet, but otherwise it rocked my socks off. I love bands that still have the energy to throw themselves around the stage in the name of music, as well as not giving a fuck about what their hair is doing or how sweaty they are getting, as long as they play the shit out of each song. I swear the lead guitarist was shooting sex eyes in our direction as he played his guitar with his teeth. I am really digging on the variety, lyrically, that british India have. I like every one of their songs, even though they range from fuck the man to love. Amaaaazing. 

Limitless colour in a colourless world.

I sometimes wonder about the price people pay for seeing the world in a different light. Van Gough was such an amazing artist, painting pictures so vivid and of beautiful landscapes and yet he could not see them with his eyes as he was being kept in an asylum in Saint Remy, they were purely from his mind. I guess through art and song and dance and poems, its becomes easier to express an altered world view because you have the freedom to express it in an alternative way. 

Revolution, Evolution, Deconstruction, Destruction

Living in a white world with black boys and girls, 

Giving freedom in a box with rotten fruit and bugs. 

Its rags and dirt and mud and blood, 

Its cold and hot and feverish sleep, 

Its pain and anger, tears and rape,

Its sin and god and hell and man.

Eating fleshy mandarins,

Juice and sun run down their chins,

Letting dogs lick at their feet,

No scars, no blisters, clean and neat.

Briefcase, mobile, pager, suit

Mortgage, cable, shiny shoes

Harlem, Brooklyn, Alice Springs, 

Separation revelations when foreign accents sing.

Living in a white world with black boys and girls,

Hiding freedom in a box with rotten fruit and bugs.

Its judgement, fear and lies and war,

Its bombs and planes and guns and sand,

Its you and me and us and them,

Its sin and god and hell and man.

I miss you.

I wish you would come back to me. You left me wanting more, but feeling exhausted from all that we'd experienced already. I wake every day with the hope there will be some news of your return. I'll wait for you for years, but know I will see others. You were unexpected and amazing, you changed the way I listened. Ode to Bon Iver.

Cherry Popped

I think I have had too many of those nights of endless drinking and chain smoking of champion rollies, feeling bored in an overpopulated city, finding nothing in the realm of intellectual stimulation. Having something more than just to sit in a dimly lit drinking hole so I can listen to something resembling music, although I find the butchering of music sickening. I am definitely becoming cynical.
I don't often like the reveal, the exposure of thoughts. I find myself continually putting distance between whats in my head and what I put out for everyone to see. I think I just popped my cherry. Yeehaw.