Music and Literature

I don’t like to boast about menial things- momentous things, maybe, but certainly not ordinary things. I went through my fair share of breakups in and around the time I was in college. It had an overwhelming, almost addictive effect on me; one day I’d be lost in innumerable hours of intimate conversation, and the next- well the next would entail a cyclic melancholy I soon became vigorously attached to.

Musical allegiances would change overnight; From Portugal. The Man to Neil Young. From Noori to Tina Sani. My mind reacted almost preemptively, all set for a week of brooding with a hint of revelry as I blasted tunes; decibel counts increased as every track repeated itself, once, twice, and then if I was feeling extra miserable, a third time. I’m sure it must have been torturous for my neighbors, but I never quite heard from them- or rather, heard them- during these stints; I’m sure people plotted my eviction. But I was an island by my own volition, and quite happily so, as contradictory as this may sound. How could I do justice to someone’s effect on me if I did not mourn them?

My choice of literature also three-sixtied. Perhaps I was always attracted to nostalgic accounts of lovers in great cities, but I sure pretended that I wasn’t when things were honky-dory. I’d put the half-read Salingers and Miranda Julys down and pick up thumbed-through Nerudas, Kunderas and Murakamis. They too, it seemed then, were happy to entertain my sudden revolts. It could be that I simply read them because I missed them, but I’d like to think it was something more than that, something innate. For a short while, I’d be the guy on Facebook putting up deep and heavy statuses. I’m sure I was a bore.

I’d become calmer, less like myself, perhaps more like myself- one never knows with these things. I have to say I liked myself a bit more when I was muted. Arrogance, and the desire to appease bled right out of me. For a few days, I became tolerable. I think young love is a beast of its own and it seems socially adequate to appear grim in times of apparent turmoil. Human emotion is relative after all.

Maybe I now long for the day when this distinction between the real me and the true me becomes as binary as it once was- but maybe this is just fine.


Trying Difference

I might fit the bill.
I walk to the window and open the grill
I’m heavy on liquors Irishmen distill.

Believe me, I’m brave.
Her shirt slips away
There’s ink on her shoulders that finds its own way.

He prays for his sister.
Slumped in a corner she pleads for assistance
Called him last night then fucked with the system.

You caught my attention.
You fought me for love and broke through these fences
Hundreds of multiplicities you never dare mention.

Most people don’t care.
She resumes a hundred-year-old affair
And facts rain down on waterproof ears.

I find this pretentious.
I looked through your past and know you’re relentless
I’m thinking in voices that spread like infections.

He probably think she’s kind.
She fights for a place in his mind
Contingency plans for a place that she primed.

We fucked with the system.
Lurking and stalking we end up with blisters
If you look t0o hard you might even miss them.