Monday, June 26, 2006

Midnight from the Inside Out

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Sometimes when you shut your eyes tight and allow the music to flow through you, and the city and trains surround you, and you have your friends around you, sometimes, you can forget that tomorrow that you will go back to paying the bills and sitting in the chair that you don’t want to sit in anymore. The lights get all in swirls and people are all dancing and the smells coalesce into a potent mixture of grass and sweat. And you can pretend that your knees don’t hurt anymore and that you aren’t old anymore and that when you wake up you won’t regret staying up past your bedtime.

Photo – N
Words – S

As a postscript, we would like a chance to talk to the rock stars of the world. Because sooner or later, we are going to get our own band together and blow you all off the fucking stage. So in the interest of helping all of you, we’d like to give you some advice. We know that you all like to jam out, but we need to be at work at 8. So that means that, for now, until we start doing coke and hitting the road, we’d like to hear as many songs as possible. Not just drum solos. And the encores? We know you’re coming back out. Why not just play, take a break when you need to (really, we’ll be understanding) and then say, good bye when you’re done? And don’t clap for yourself. It all seems rather incongruous.

Anyways, you have a year or two to be rocking. Because that’s about when the two of us will get fed up with the direction of the way things are rolling and get together and be like, The Velvet Underground mixed with De La Soul. Or something. With lots of feedback and drugs.

Monday, June 12, 2006

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The rain fell like tears. Big drops falling slowly. The book lay in
Tatters, dirty from years of thumbing and flipping. Dog eared pages and a faded cover. The irony of the situation was not lost on me. A weary book, reeking with despair and teeming with sadness. Wet in a quarter box on the edge of the West Virgina line. You ask where the irony is... well this book changed part of history. Its pages are filled with tales of woe about the very hills it is a stone throw away
from. Once upon a time, this book sounded the horn for the people of the Appalachia, causing millions of dollars of aid to be sent to the mountains.

Now, who will sound the horn for it? I tried, but the pages crumbled beneath my fingers and fell like the rain, finally resting in the mud.

How easy we forget our prizes. I look around at the people digging through bins of junk searching for treasure. Keep looking; it’s there – hidden messages, pieces of history, and long lost wishes rest at the bottom of the $1 bin.

Photo - S
Words - N