honky cracker: This is a Rough Strumming Pattern "Did you know: The moon is made of solidified dreams, not cheese, the sky is pink and lavender if you squint your eyes, dolphins and mice are the most intelligent creatures on earth,all you need to know you learned in Kindergarten, and you are what you believe you are so believe everyday... Purrs and whiskers, "
That was left in my yearbook from the Academy, 1994. The author's name has been withheld to protect the innocent. (Though I bet you can figure it out if you look back in the not-too-distant Honkycracker archives.) But I really like it, in a 17 year old emo sort of way. Yeah, it's cheesy. But it's Seventeen. And if you don't like it, then fuck you, 'cuz I do. And that's all that matters.
I thought no one was home, so I plugged my guitar in with the intention of rocking out. Not sure why, but the first thing I started playing was a Radiohead B-Side called True Love Waits. Which is odd, because a) I'm not even remotely in like with anyone, never mind true love and B) at least consciously, I'm not waiting for anything. But the sentiment gets to me. I dunno, I guess, supposedly, it's a song about abstainance. But I don't take it that way. True Love Waits. It's like it's out there, but it waits. It's not dead. It's not gone. It's not shunning you. It's just... waiting. And True Love doesn't necessarily mean "True Love" in that "Geez, i really wish I hope I'd find that life partner I've always wanted!" kind of way. True Love is that thing you want the most, whatever it is, whether you know what it is or not. I dunno.. it could be that job you always wanted, or that thing you wished you followed up on but never did or haven't yet. Whatever. It's that Pie in the Sky. And it waits.
It's not dead. It's not gone. It's not shunning you. It just waits.
Anyways... I thought I was home alone. So I started singing along. And when I get into things, well, I get into them. Real world exits. My world enters.
I go outside for a drink of water, and all my roommates are home, gathered outside my door.
I've been found.
Encore? More? Shit, I'm already embarassed as fuck. Alright, lemme get a drink of water, go back in my room, shut the door, and pretend nobody's around. I did my cover of Jeff Buckley's cover of John Cale's cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" next. Just cuz I could.
That was a mistake. I don't normally dig that one out. That one really gets me going. Call me crazy Call me schmaltzy. Call me trite. Call me what you will. That one's a toughie for me. Those are some high-ass notes to sing. You ever get a massage, and the masseur-person hits some nasty little tense muscle you never even knew you had, and you start bawling cuz all that crap from life that you thought you were dismissing off into the air actually settles there... and burrows and hides in that spot 'cuz it thinks you'll never notice it if hides in a place that you never even knew existed within your own freakin' self? Yeah, those notes are that place for me.
Oh, I forget I can hit those notes. I like to think that my vocal range died the day I decided to stop singing. But Jesus, it didn't. It's still alive, albeit sleeping. And it doesn't like to wake up. It only wakes up if I promise it coffee and an omelette for breakfast.
The scary thing is, though... once it's awake, it doesn't want to go back to sleep.
