Petit mort over easy books

Mostly all immature, one way or another, and when you stop you're looking forward to a time when your emotions don't touch that level anymore, except to wilt in the kind of nostalgia that reminds you how old you were the first time you read Lolita or heard "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl." Then you'll need the immature to activate all those fading sympathetic neurons, and maybe that's why people have kids or grow to be old people who go to the park just to see kids and even the emptiest claims to hype and pride in the youth of our great nation today can't quite ring hollow.

(other words from June 12:)
If they all trooped through your house in the summertime, just missing each other, how would it look? Not troubadours nor tourists but the curly-headed and lonely, and if they don't say it they're awake late. Mike Kramer really come down on the Spirit or the Holy Ghost and we'll play their old album in the dark or watch the whole film and dancing until we collapse from not eating and if you smoke then you got me hooked and if we drink let's get fucked and if you're down I'm in the morning then eggs I guess.

It's funny because this is exactly how it is right now. There's more on the next page that sort of falls too fragile. If I do ever think of my audience it's to be afraid of them, this reflex from middle school when I learned not to write straight-up but to layer it all down and reverse and evaporate so you feel this shadow of the sense and only I recall the specific. If you ask I will always try to explain, I say, it's a rule like all my rules everywhere (no changing sentences, no removing posts or comments, never any promotion, only your own photos, exactly accurate timestamps, always come back to write again no matter how long it's been, face up to everything you have ever promised as often as possible and as long as it takes in life do not forget what it has meant to you), but no one does so that's where that leaves us.

Park that car, drop that phone,
Sleep on the floor, dream about me
Park that car, drop that phone,
Sleep on the floor, dream about me
Park that car, drop that phone,
Sleep on the floor, dream about me
- Broken Social Scene, "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl"

(I've never much cared for BSS but I think this is like what I want to create in you when you read all my nonsense writing. I'm measuring my life by these really small adjustments, moving from one bedroom in my apartment to another and working through one stack of albums to review. It occurs to me that I've always written about music and to music, and that if I've never known it's because I haven't been reading about music. I want to pore over the greatest future epigraphs of contemporary albums, stay up late at my desk absorbing rock'n'roll writing as if it were the great modern genre. It's already too late, spiraling in on itself into a pinacle of pretension and redundancy, but then so am I.)

Disjoint diptych

On my first night in here:
And so I'm listening to The Suburbs in the summer again, because this is how it feels when the room is empty and smells of carpet cleaner. But what are you doing sitting in the center of the floor alone? they could ask. I'm writing, I'll lie, and if you aren't you could think about it. I live on the second floor and I haven't been down in a day and a half, as if I live pacing a stage or inside of an ant farm or on some future planet with high-rises to its core. I'm doing nothing and learning all the things you learn eavesdropping, that the dog next door only knows commands in French, that Kara is explaining who Phillip Glass is as she's hooking up all the audio cables (FR, FL, RL, RR, all on golden gossamer wiring that looks like the nineteen-fifties). I'm considering views, not planning ahead much beyond this week point five.

And my first night sleeping here:
Two now, I feel embarassingly like a child counting down, developing an obsessive tic like I'm comsumating something no one knows exists, like I'm going to be lying facedown and turning around and seeing you and hastening my death a little each time. For times when everything seems meaningful (what does it say about you that I read the first sentence and jumped to the end to ruin the inevitable sarcastic twist?), for times when I can't stop writing about writing, can't stop writing about can't stop waiting, the one in the form of the other over and over til I don't want to think about it. Sometimes like I'm living in syrup everything swoops in so heavy, and I don't know if we're down or drowned.