This is where you live. You wake up in your own bed, arms around your mutt and half a suitcase unpacked. You start the coffee, finish the quiche from last night. You play the song you were dreaming about, the one that’s so terribly important these days. Softly. You start the laundry and then finish the book you were reading on the train.

There is disappointment on your face. Nothing in the thirteen hours of travel, any book in the Strand, any room of modern art or any sauce from a street vendor that told you anything you didn’t already know about yourself. The movements you’ve made in the last year still only mean so much. (Little.) You’re still devastated. You’re still so afraid of what you want, to make a fool of yourself, that it paralyzes you. (The small steps are not enough, not enough to catch up to twenty-seven years of slumber.) But you have more to talk about now, with friends and with strangers who you’re trying to sleep with. That’s something.

Here’s the point where you realize everywhere you are has one thing in common: you.
And if that bums you out, well, it’s going to be a long life where no place feels any different than the last.

Surprise yourself today. Tell the whole truth. Everything else will follow.

Jenny Holzer “Living: There’s no reason to sleep curled up…” Bronze. Housed at MoMA.

Chain bookstore in Tri Cities Virginia. Bookseller is dressed fancy for upcoming date: black dress, boots, scarf, etc. Patron sits in magazine section and stares at bookseller each time she walks by.

Patron: Excuse me, I wanted to ask you a question.
Bookseller: Yeah, sure! What can I do for you?
Patron: I was wonderin’, like, if you’re off sometime, if you know, you wanted to, like, go to Buffalo Wild Wings or something.
Bookseller: <smiles graciously> Oh, that’s really sweet, but I have a boyfriend and I don’t think he’d appreciate that very much.
Patron: Well, we don’t have to go to one around here.
Bookseller: <hides horrified face> I’m sorry, but no.
Patron: <puts hand on bookseller’s shoulder> Well, all right. Have a good one, then.

Annie Clark is something else entirely. I knew this when my live-in lover, author of the vitriolic review column in the local alt weekly, jacked off all over MARRY ME upon its release. The package that is St Vincent includes Ms. Clark’s gorgeous and fragile voice, intricate and confusing guitar work, surprising sounds and just the right amount of madness. I have always been left awed and wickedly amused by St Vincent and after years of missing her live performances because of one tragedy or the next, I finally made my way to Charlottesville to right the wrongs of the past.

This was my first time attending a performance at the Jefferson. It’s located in one of my favorite places, the downtown mall of Charlottesville. While I can’t recommend the pub across the way, I can say it’s a wonderful, though slightly inconspicuous, place to have a live venue. Inside it is quite pretty, intimate, a little disorganized and ultimately a pleasure (and not just because they serve Star Hill beer which is delicious). Arriving just ten or fifteen minutes before showtime, we were able to stand almost directly in the front and were treated first to Sweden’s Wildbirds and Peacedrums.

And let me tell you: THEY ARE FUCKING AWESOME.

Their sound hinges on the hypnotic percussion work of Andreas Werliin and the jazzy yet droning and sort of scary a la Polly Jean Harvey vocal style of Mariam Wallentin and they are exactly as they say: wildbird and peacedrum. Watching them I felt as though I was being taken in to a very primal and intimate place. In my mind there were no walls, just trees and sky and there we all were, dancing around a fire fed by the basest human sentiments. Does that sound dreadful? It was actually very lovely.

St Vincent promptly took the stage afterward and before one note was played, it was evident that this tiny woman with her lady-face on (read: bright red lipstick) and wearing an amazing dress where the angles were mostly coming off of her shoulders, held the crowd in the palm of her hand. She opened with “The Strangers”, the first track off ACTOR, with an incredible violin interlude by musician (ZOMG) Daniel Hart, who I happen to be incredibly fond of. (And, yes, yes I was the person cheering VERY loudly when Annie told a story about touring through Charlottesville with him and then later introduced him to the crowd. What of it?) Suffice it to say, I was a goner from the very beginning.

Each musician in St Vincent played with crispness that Annie’s material is owed. Each foray into a new arrangement or extension of the songs phrasing felt deliberate, but not overly rehearsed. The set focused on her new record with appearances by “Jesus Saves, I Spend” and “Your Lips are Red” from her debut. Now, it’s impossible to bring all the magic of St Vincent’s records on to any stage. What I hoped for was a celebration of the songs I loved so much that reside in their own sonic kingdom. I got much more than that. In their new arrangements, I had the distinct pleasure of feeling as though I was hearing these songs for the first time.

Some of the most delightful moments of the night were covers of songs by the Beatles and Nico performed only by Annie herself. And, well, that went a little like this (and exactly like that):

I was spellbound the entire night. I could have stood there for a few more hours. If you are not yet on the St Vincent bandwagon, you should consider hopping on it the first chance you get.

(And here is some Daniel Hart for good measure:)

I have this knack for signing up to live with narcissists. This past year was no different. I should have known. I should have known when my friends met her and they said, “Oh, my, god, that girl cannot stop talking about herself.” It took me a little longer to notice. You can imagine the trouble this causes, disrespect and lack of consideration being just two things that become extremely prevalent. She wronged me in these two blindingly huge ways:

—I got kicked out of my house in favor of a girl my roommate was actually sleeping with, right before New Year’s, with two week’s notice. There would be no waiting until I moved out. Suddenly all her things were in my living room.

—My dog was poisoned by chocolate in a box that was oh, so, idiotically placed on the kitchen floor and spent the night at the emergency center. There was concern, but no responsibility felt. My dog could have died because she’s a thoughtless asshole, but he didn’t so everything is hunky dory. Jokes were even made about it. I will forever be furious.

I said precious little about these things because I didn’t want to make my days harder than they were. And, for all my teeth-baring and pointed jabs, I am a lady.

My reconciliation with my father took a turn for the worse when he took up dating again and forgot all about it. Suddenly he is lover/caretaker to a disabled cancer survivor and signing up to pay for her house in the neighborhood where I grew up? What? Is this a Lifetime movie? Well, that whole thing didn’t last, but—did I mention he’s not legally divorced yet?—it hasn’t stopped him from hanging up the phone with me when one of his new ladies calls.

My search for apartments was an arduous one. There is precious little I can afford on my own and you’d be amazed at what some people would try and sell you for two weeks pay. I had been approved with a certain local rental company who received an F from the better business bureau and was advised not to rent with them. Since they were the only ones actually calling me back and showing up for appointments, I almost signed a lease with them anyway.

I found the place I’d been dreaming of, but couldn’t afford myself. I kept it in my back of my mind just in case…And then my best friend since age five secured a job interview here in Richmond. We had just finished breakfast when they called and offered her the job. I was just happy that she was working, having been unemployed for the past six months after being laid off, but now this meant we would not spend another month living apart and I could get us moved in to the place that I wanted most. And that’s what we did. And I don’t think either of us fully realizes it yet.

I live in a house where I am loved. She insists on cooking for me and gets incredulous when I won’t be home for dinner because of work. She does the dishes while I’m sleeping. Soon she’ll teach me how to paint rooms like a pro. And she’s here. She’s really here. It won’t be easy; her being away from her family and us probably fighting about this and that for the first time ever, but it feels like home already. There are plans for a garden, composting and a few more places to sit around here once our finances recover from moving expenses.

I’ve developed a small obsession with Amanda Palmer. I don’t think she minds.

I’ve worked my way through the Sandman proper and am moving on to the various related volumes that are currently being loaned to me.

It amuses me to no end that Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman are in love and are getting married. It almost restores my faith in modern romance, etc. Almost.

I have things to get back to. I’ve barely seen my friends these past few months and I believe they are starting to take it personally (or have for a while). And I miss lazy lunches with my surrogate dad. I haven’t been writing at all, emails included. I haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up, too consumed with this and that. I’m at that age now, where everyone around me is getting married and having children or making increasingly horrible life decisions. I have quite a lot to say about that. And I need new glasses. Yes. Glasses, having lost them last year for the first time since I began wearing them at the age of three.

Right now, I’m going back to bed for a while. The combination of the stress that was knotted up in my stomach being released into my body and playing in the snow this weekend has taken a toll on my health. I love you and I will see you soon.

How it is meant to be:

As a lullabye:

I think Stereogum liked this, but I didn’t really.

And it can be explained by the following:

And also this. (Pointed even though my beau is not white.)

It’s my birthday on Thursday. As I creep ever closer to thirty, as I feel like a completely different person every year at this time, I’m going to wax nostalgic on you with a few songs that have signified milestones in my life, without which I would not be who I am today. So, with the aide of YouTube, may I present…

Tori Amos — Siren

1998. I could write a novel loosely based on this woman and all the ways she’s inspired and informed my life—and maybe I will—but not today. I’ll just say this is the song that got me hooked, that opened the door to each and every lesson, each thing I discovered about myself when I listened closely enough. I had a mother I didn’t always trust and a best friend who couldn’t always be there when times were the dark. Strange. Strange to have such a personal connection with someone you’ve barely even met, but there are days when I owe my life to her, to myself because of her.

Death Cab for Cutie – Transatlanticism

2003. I was slumped over the steering wheel, parked in front of my apartment. I was leaving the first man who’d ever loved me. I’d lost sight of what I was and what I wanted or maybe just realized I never knew in the first place. I felt disconnected from everything. Hearing this song was like a having another hand to hold. When I met Benjamin, I thanked him and he reached out and held my arm and spoke to me so softly, so warmly and while he’s long since forgotten, I never will. To genuinely care about someone is the greatest gift you can give them no matter how brief or insignificant this gesture may seem.

Mountain Goats – Island Garden Song

2005. Chills. I still remember how the night looked and the exact feeling in my bones upon hearing this song for the first time. Autumn. Monument Avenue. I was wearing his fat black headphones and they were attached to his soon-to-be-outdated iPod. John Darnielle’s voice cut through muscle and marrow announced the arrival of two things: the love of my life and one hell of a brave and brilliant musician. It’s a song about new beginnings and how sometimes you have to leave everything, destroy it all, to make the life you’re supposed to lead.

Francoise Hardy – Je T’Aime

2009. Maybe everything can be fixed with eggplant parmesan, the Glenlevit and a handful of French pop songs.

The wall was a window and the window faced east. It was the afternoon and he was watching her. Her eyelashes shuddered and her mouth twitched with some dream or another. She slept on her left side clutching the sheets in one hand and the pillow in the other. Her left breast and shoulder faced him, bare to the sunlight. His arm moved slowly, his fingers careful as they moved a few errant strands of blonde hair from her face. Short, though, they would not stay where he’d directed them.

Then she was smiling. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s impolite to stare?” She stretched beneath the sheets, languid and delicate, feline.

“Didn’t yours ever teach you…” and she was on top of him, searching out the next few words with her tongue. With her, sometimes, it was like a flash. She would pin him down with her hips and before he even knew it…

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood straight, stretched once more against hot air. She walked across the room to the bookshelf, slid a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the front pocket of an oversized bag. She frowned into the carton and extracted the last one from the pack with a clumsy haste. The bed frame creaked as she sat facing the window, crossed her legs and lit her cigarette. She tilted her head back as she exhaled.

Outside the birds chattered and the cars ambled down a city street. It was ordinary except it was the one she was watching. The heat from a full-speed-ahead summer was like another person in the room. They both pushed against it. She reached for a glass of water and then an ash tray. He continued to look at her. She had the kind of beauty the seemed to unfold the longer you stared. Her long neck was met delicately by her fine blonde hair. Her back was strong and straight. Her skin was exceptionally fair and unclothed it gave an outer worldly quality to her movements that was arresting even in daylight. A young man had once told her, “You’re skin is so soft; I hate it.” This was not the young man who looked at her now.

This one, he put his arm around her waist and laid his chin on her shoulder. He kissed her neck and then, with his lips to her ear, whispered.

He saw the corner of her mouth turn down and nearly fell when her shoulders sank.

“And this was going so well…” she sighed.

At first, he laughed. She had the sense of humor of an old fashioned rogue and always replaced compliments with insults. It wasn’t until she turned around he saw the seriousness of her face that he lost his breath. She averted her eyes from the sting in his face, his furrowed brow and the stone straight stature he adopted to cushion the blow. When she was in the doorway, she finally looked into his eyes, even darker now with confusion. She didn’t allow sympathy to soften her face.

“I’m going to shower; I expect you to be gone when I’m finished.” She had not put out her cigarette. She was holding it midair, level with her chin. One arm wrapped around her waist, resting the elbow of the other against her hand.

“I don’t understand. You’re acting like I insulted you, but I just told you I’m in love with you.”

“Which means you’re either a fool or a liar; either way I’m insulted. Good day.”

Green Black Brown (Blue) or
Here Are Some Ideas

You are not color; you are (white) noise.
You are not progress; you are recoil.
This is not love, but it’s not opposed to…
I want to clean your bones with my teeth
and turn your words into grains of sand.
Honest as your self and just a translucent.
Let your body slip through my fingers,
forget your own name and where you came from.
Moment to movement and breath to beat.
My heart is more real than your fright and I
want you to hold this like the pavement holds
our shy, steady steps enamored but pretending to forget.
The long line of knowing is slow to be sure.
Intentions roll lazily through laborious heat.
Now that we have met, how can an afternoon
hold any less promise than my hand
on your
hand?
Unmade the same as unbroken, un(born).

jej

I feel a little embarrassed to be a party to this money-making venture that was only beneficial to the members of the band. I would have done well to listen to my former partner and skip the show, sell my ticket for $100 to some poor sap and stay home peaceful and quiet-like.

I like lyrics. What was the point of anyone singing that night?

I like being able to breath.

I like listening to music without being in physical pain from the MUSIC.

I’d like some new songs, mother fucker; you’ve had 18 years.

I like rockets, too, but Jesus Christ.

Mogwai is loud AND pretty. I like Mogwai. I don’t like you.