mewithoutYou - Every Thought A Thought Of You

My best friend recorded a cover of mwY's song Every Thought A Thought Of You. It's quite chill and fantastic. I definately recommend clicking the link below and checking it out:

http://bandplayscaleb.tumblr.com/post/8857019452/so-my-best-friend-recorded-a

Last Night

I got a job as a music reviewer, and last night when I was supposed to be reviewing an EP by Forest Swords (quite good, if you like ambient music), I wrote this instead:


I am never quite sure how to start a novel. I’ve tried, many times, but the words can only flow for so long before I realize I don’t have a plot. I get so lost in joy of the medium that I totally forget that there needs to be a meaning as well. Even now, in these self-aware meta ponderings, I have lost a sense of direction and meaning.

I want to create. Put forth something beautiful, something staggering. Something that will nudge a column that holds up your idea of self, and suddenly you’ll be unstable, ever so slightly. Not because it’s unnerving, or shocking, or disconcerting, because these days that’s the easy way out. No. I want to write something that will leave you lost simply because it is so beautiful the only way it can be experienced is through a loss of self, a death of what you know, and a rebirth of the way you view the world.

That is what I would like to do. But, while I am not at a loss for words, I am at a loss for what those words should be about. I have often heard it said that things are often heard to have been said, but I feel as though the idiom is a dying breed. These things we hear said, we’ve only read them; echoes of a decade that has moved into offices and cubicles. And us, this new generation, inheriting their figures of speech, their ideas on figure, their ideas on our ideas; often the power of a generation is spoken about, the potential, the ability to affect such change that the children us children give birth to will tell their children to be like us. We imagine ourselves to be models of the future: the superman. As did those before us, as will those after.

I’ve often heard it said that to the victor goes, not only the spoils, but also the history. But what of in the battle of self? You will inevitably win, and remember the war of becoming so very differently than it really was. And what of our rebellion against time? Nothing stops the hands of the clock, they massage their face in an endless cycle, and we are terrified voyeurs to it’s autoerotic leanings. Like children drinking rum, we’re all just toying with things we’re not old enough for. First substance, now ideas: We hold justice on such a lofty pedestal, but that’s all we seem to do. Hold it. Look at it. Sometimes we pick it up to see how it feels, but it usually just sits there.

Morality is the new adolescent. Everywhere, clustered, but entirely misunderstood.

I’ve decided into crafting adages. Writing is masturbation. Everything is masturbation.

An Odd Moment of Clarity and Contentment

I was just standing in my kitchen, washing down the lovingly combined tastes of nutella, peanut butter and banana, thinking about a recent development in one of my friendships, mulling over the dynamic of my small group, and staring out the window into total blackness, when I noticed that this random plant that my mother has hanging over the sink had a flower on it. Which was random, because I didn't know it could flower. What was really cool though, was that the flower was oozing nectar. There were little droplets of it.

And it smelled amazing.

And I just felt so happy. Standing there, thinking about how incredibly blessed I am by G-D's love, and the friends He's placed in my life. The quietness of life. The joy of the little things, like bananas and flowers and watching people interact with each other, and learning the answer to a question you resolved to never ask, and lists where the things listed start off as single nouns then graduate into full blown sentences. And meta-lists.

Just so content right now.

I'm going to go smell that flower some more.

If I Ever Make It Past the First Pages I'm Sure It Will Just Snowball

Something I started writing early this week before I got bored.

I think one of the saddest things about my life is that I never knew my parents. Maybe that isn’t too sad; there are enough bastards that the ubiquitous nature of it has destroyed the intensity of the tragedy.

No, what’s so incredibly depressing about my state is that both my parents are still alive. And together. Yet somehow I have missed out on knowing them. Ask me their names, I can tell you “Mac and Brenda,” ask me their professions and I will probably lie, mostly from embarrassment. Ask me any detail of their lives, and I could probably answer: when are their birthdays, what are their favorite colors, favorite fish, favorite shirts. But ask me if I know them, and I will change the subject so deftly that you wouldn’t even realize.

I have a necklace that I wear in the summer. It’s a coin that I cut the inside out of, and I attached it to a cord I stole from my mums jewelry dresser when I was younger. I feel as though when my parents die, that’s all I’ll have of them: things I took when I was younger. There was a time when we could’ve grown in each other, but I let it slip away. Now I return for family holidays, and we laugh and hug and give each other gifts, but it just feels like it’s all happening on TV. We’re all actors playing a part, with our little quirks and ticks that make us ‘us.’

So Frustrated

This week has been incredibly unhelpful, and an ambiguous blog will patch things up. Maybe.

Basically, I'm annoyed because I got what I desperately wanted like 3 years ago, and it sucks. Discontent breeds discontent.

I actually got a lot that I wanted, and it's annoying because it either a) does not bring the type of satisfaction I convinced myself it could, or b)the things I wanted have all combined into one disastrous amalgamation where I am not objectively doing anything wrong, but the outcome is horrendous.

What's worse is that I don't fully get it.

And I'm annoyed that I'm even writing this in the vain effort that you'll see it and have some useful advice.

I'll probably delete this, since personal issues belong with friends or in therapy, not online.

But I might keep it as a reference point.

Excerpt: "Pit or Tunnel"

Whilst engaging in some therapeutic writing today, this line came out:

People love writers, I could show this to the right people, say ''It’s all hyperbole" then sit in the security their admiration affords me

It's not quite as punchy or sensible outside of it's context, but it's so freeing to write for oneself with no intention of ever showing an audience. I'm sure once I've gotten sleep and go and reread it I'll think myself a crazy person that should be medicated, but for now, I rather like what I've done.

Velvet Drops like Love Sex , Elvis Stars Wins God

Rob Bell. Blah blah heretic blah blah new book blah blah John Piper blah blah Mars Hill.

I finished Love Wins a few weeks ago, and I thought that it was high time I took my thoughts to the interwebs to give the American people a piece of my mind.

After reading four of his books (Drops Like Stars, Velvet Elvis, Sex God and aforementioned Love Wins) , I've realized that my subjective view of him fits in perfectly with an objective truth:

Rob Bell is a raging hypocrite.

No more, no less.

There's at least one or two 'almost' paragraphs in each book that talk about 'restoring creation' and being 'stewards to creation.'

Yet

he insists

on writing, not like a normal human being

(I can only imagine the way his keyboard at home must look).

I expect every key is normal sized, save for the enter key.

Because he seems to press it

every

other

word.

Except he seems like the type to use a Mac, so it's the Return key that takes a beating. Either way, it doesn't mesh with his whole Pro Nature rambles; if he loved Earth that much, he wouldn't waste paper by spacing his words out so much.

End of story.

End of conversation.

Lets not even argue this because my opinion is the only one that is correct.

So

Are you

Really going to allow him to

Continue with this

Absolutely vile

(Satanic possibly)

Message?

Let's drag him into the streets and beat him mercilessly to save trees.

(Also, in order to fully appreciate this post, (especially if you don't know me) you might need to alter your perspective a bit.)