My window overlooks what are probably among the only natural growth trees in Manhattan. I moved my bed to what is arguably the worst place for it in my room just so that I would be facing this window. As I type, I look out the window, even thought my monitor is ninety degrees to my right. I can't look at the screen while I type; it slows me down and I make more mistakes. I'm overlooking some nice rooftops, as I'm on the side of a hill.
It's very peaceful. I won't say it has terrible much to do with this entry, but, hey, it felt like the right thing to do, literarily.
Today was good. I finally retired Shiner's Starless from my CD player to listen to Spacehog's new album. It is so good that I almost cried. And it's not a sad, sappy, Cure-type so goff it hurts album. It's a really happy album, or at least upbeat. If I ever have a Spacehog tribute band, I think I will call it Undefinable Funk, because that's what Spacehog has. There's something very visceral in their music that I can feel. I'm not saying that you, the reader, will feel this, but please feel free to sample track 05, A Real Waste of Food, and tell me that you cannot feel the groove.
I almost cried again, thinking about this, because I was thinking about how many of today's popular artists don't invoke this same feeling in me. I was very aware of it in the Cult's new song, but not so for any of the tracks on Staind's Break the Cycle. It's not even the same problem that I have with bands like Orgy, that sound way too produced to me; like they never played in the garage (How musically pretentious of me! Jerk.). Like they were just some guys and someone said, hey, come to our big studio with its music machines and distortion and other effects and make some music. Without production, Orgy to me feels like they would be nothing. It was the same factor that influenced my preference for Stabbing Westward over Gravity Kills. But that's not what I'm talking about... I'm talking about this visceral reaction, this living undercurrent most of today's bands are lacking. I feel it in Stabbing Westward, but not in Godsmack. It's like, yes, you're loud and hard, so I should like you, but I just don't feel you. I guess it's just a chord that needs to be struck. It's not like Staind sucks; Hell, Mudshuvel is one of my favorite songs; that song I can feel. They've got their fans, and not just vapid people who don't know music. They're some of my closest friends.
This is where the crying comes in. I was thinking about how I don't like these certain bands and Michelle does. I didn't say dislike. I just don't feel the aforementioned affinity for them. They are grounded, and I am electrically charged. They are lobster, but I am not magnet. Anyway. I was pissed; still am—about how I called "my" music "better" that day last week (and change) when I got all those CDs. She wanted me to listen to something, but I was like, HEY, I have TWENTY CDs of my own to listen to. We've talked about it; I was just feeling inadequate for not being able to appreciate some of "her" music. Doesn't make it right, that's just the story behind it. My side of the story, at least. It's a mistake I won't make again, to be certain. I don't ever like to repeat mistakes, though.
I also came home to unpleasant news. Becca's grandfather died. I was definitely not expecting it. It definitely made me sad; not entirely ending my good mood, but adding a somber note to the day. It's weird, but he was the closest thing I had to a grandfather for at least a little while, especially the night I stayed over at his house with Becca. I was flattered she called me, but I was also saddened. I hadn't realized just how lonely she was. I'm all off in Michelle-land, la la la, new girlfriend; and between that and work, I haven't had time for her, even though we're still pretty good friends. I had been worried about her, but minus crisis (also a cool band name, or maybe just album), I could put it up on a shelf; deal with it later. What a bastard I am. At least I still carry pieces of her along inside my solipsitic little world. I now say, "Excuse me," and, "Pardon me," to people in the street before I step on them or shove them out of my way. Bah, weakness. I used to just walk. Anything soft either moved or squished nicely beneath my jackboots.
Thank you, Becca. Some day, maybe, I'll make a list (or write down the list I made in my head when we broke up) of the things I have to thank you for.
When I tell people to take care of themselves, how many listen? How many understand? I don't mean, "Bye." I don't mean, "Don't get hit by any cars." I mean TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. You and you alone, first and foremost. "Live for yourself; there's no one else more worth living for. Empty hands and bleeding hearts will only cry out for more." Those of you who've known me for four or more years recognize that quote from the signature I used for a few of my early online years. Take care of yourself. It's not a casual note of parting. It's not just empty words. Take care of yourself; if you need, I'll take care of the rest of the world for you for awhile. It's what friends do. As Nemo said; "How can I take care of others if I can't take care of meeee?" Stop. Think. Will what you are about to do help you? Will it be good for you? Will it make you feel happy, or just empty? Don't do it unless you mean it. Take care of yourself. Keep barometric track of your mood and how you're feeling. Taking care of yourself naturally extends to others, if you do it right. You'll notice when you're in a bad mood, and acknowledge it, rather than yelling at the cashier at the store for being snippy for what you think is no reason. You'll be able to say, "My bad," or, if it's not, "Your bad," and why. Like today, when I tried to buy a one liter Mountain Dew. It was $1.85. No. I can buy 2L for $1.55. So instead of being indignant, I just told the fellow that, and walked out. Now he won't snap at the next customer, who won't then walk down the street and start a fight in my store. I don't believe in karma, but I believe that that is how things (tend to) work.
So now are you people who were clamoring for one or two posts a day containing all my thoughts happy? Or is it still too much to handle? =)
P.S. I am writing a lot more than I am reading these days. And you know how little (okay, infrequently) I've been writing. I am currently 200+ entries behind. I'll catch up eventually. Just don't feel bad if I haven't read something. Err... not that you care.