They never get uptight when a moth gets crushed...
Dream:
I'm in an unrecognizable house, watching a talent competition of sorts. I'm bored by the predictability of the scantily-clad girls with quivering voices hoping to mask their inability to hold notes, rivalled by flannel-clad Dave Matthews wannabes. Suddenly I hear the unmistakable guitar intro to "Tomorrow Tomorrow" and squeal, "Oh my god, I love that song!" On the couch opposite, holding an instrument that - in typical dream-style- looks nothing like, but sounds everything like, a guitar, a boy is singing one of my all-time favourite songs. I distinctly remember him singing, "They took your life apart/They called your failures art," a line that I've always found particularly poignant given the circumstances. Suddenly I realise that this boy in the green t-shirt is none other than my boyfriend. After he's done singing, I am in a tizzy; I hug him sideways, stand on my toes and kiss his cheek repeatedly - I feel the warmth wetness of my lips against his cheek, as he smiles shyly, his greasy hair falling in his downward cast eyes. It was only this morning when I woke up that I realised that my "boyfriend," this boy I was endlessly proud of, this figure of Orphic beauty was Elliott Smith.
Now those who know me will know that I'm such loath to say such things, but I took it as a sign. In my 4th consecutive day off work (I'm so fucked), I listened to "Roman Candle." It just might be my favourite Elliott album (note the use of the word "might"). I think, for me, its beauty lies in its reluctant nakedness, unsheltered by Beatlesque influences, unfettered by the self-consciousness of (relative) fame. As I lay in bed, recovering from the clammy efficiency of Panadol ActiFast, I listened like I hadn't listened in a while - I allowed myself to be engulfed by the guitars twinkling like insouciant stars, while soul-secrets filled my earphones like the tears filling my eyes. The track-and-field pace of the title track, the excoriating sweetness of the "No Name" series, the shimmer of "Kiwi Maddog 20/20", the vituperative breathlessness of "Last Call," the impossible brilliance of "Condor Avenue" - over and over and over, until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
I woke up feeling happier than I have in a while.
I'm in an unrecognizable house, watching a talent competition of sorts. I'm bored by the predictability of the scantily-clad girls with quivering voices hoping to mask their inability to hold notes, rivalled by flannel-clad Dave Matthews wannabes. Suddenly I hear the unmistakable guitar intro to "Tomorrow Tomorrow" and squeal, "Oh my god, I love that song!" On the couch opposite, holding an instrument that - in typical dream-style- looks nothing like, but sounds everything like, a guitar, a boy is singing one of my all-time favourite songs. I distinctly remember him singing, "They took your life apart/They called your failures art," a line that I've always found particularly poignant given the circumstances. Suddenly I realise that this boy in the green t-shirt is none other than my boyfriend. After he's done singing, I am in a tizzy; I hug him sideways, stand on my toes and kiss his cheek repeatedly - I feel the warmth wetness of my lips against his cheek, as he smiles shyly, his greasy hair falling in his downward cast eyes. It was only this morning when I woke up that I realised that my "boyfriend," this boy I was endlessly proud of, this figure of Orphic beauty was Elliott Smith.
Now those who know me will know that I'm such loath to say such things, but I took it as a sign. In my 4th consecutive day off work (I'm so fucked), I listened to "Roman Candle." It just might be my favourite Elliott album (note the use of the word "might"). I think, for me, its beauty lies in its reluctant nakedness, unsheltered by Beatlesque influences, unfettered by the self-consciousness of (relative) fame. As I lay in bed, recovering from the clammy efficiency of Panadol ActiFast, I listened like I hadn't listened in a while - I allowed myself to be engulfed by the guitars twinkling like insouciant stars, while soul-secrets filled my earphones like the tears filling my eyes. The track-and-field pace of the title track, the excoriating sweetness of the "No Name" series, the shimmer of "Kiwi Maddog 20/20", the vituperative breathlessness of "Last Call," the impossible brilliance of "Condor Avenue" - over and over and over, until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
I woke up feeling happier than I have in a while.
posted by Auri @ 6:13 PM
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