During our layover for BestWorstYear, how about some music? Here’s this week’s BWY soundtrack. Enjoy.
I have been sitting at my desk for the better part of an hour trying to think of her name. The initial spark–the first clumsy glimmer–the awkward stumble down a seemingly endless flight of stairs–the unmoved mover, and in this case, the vague impression whose name I always thought would be a lingering looming shadow. She, the origin of longing’s echo. So much for memory; so much for making a lasting impression, I guess. I don’t know if this means I’m old enough that the names of extinguished flames have overlapped and collaged the walls of my heart to the point of creating a black veneer of wordless indistinction or just that I’m damn fickle and haven’t really grown up. Continue reading
BestWorstYear is on the way. While we wait, how about this week’s soundtrack? Spin & be well. @sundoglit
A new Best Worst Year is on its way. Here’s this week’s soundtrack to tide you over. Spin and be welll.
A tiny capillary ruptured in my right eye last night at the gym. A micro pink nebula surrounding my iris, a flare of blood diffuse in the sclera. I had been pushing harder than normal, heart pounding in my neck. Like I was being chased. Or was chasing. Or was just trying to push against an unnameable inevitable. According to my heart monitor, everything is fine. I’m normal, but the flutter hasn’t gone away. So I work harder. I push harder. Lower my head. Ignore the fire slowly consuming my legs. Knees reduced to cinder and ache–volume goes up. The Stooges’ Fun House album gets louder. Iggy’s sneer adopts my profile. Guitars tangle around my heart. Scott Asheton’s drums thump against the walls of aorta. I am untethered. Focused. Force amplified by speed and divided by a stationary horizon. For a moment. It all vanishes.
Clarity in exhaustion. Clarity. Brief. A blink of acknowledgment.
My heart has a flutter, or at least that’s what this pocket monitor and companion cell phone is trying to determine. It’s been slowly growing in frequency over the last month and change. It feels like a rippling under my breastbone. It’s not painful. I don’t get lightheaded. It’s quick but deliberate. It’s random. It’s like a wind-up toy winding down but not stopping. Flutter. Continue reading via @SunDogLit
With the exception of the mournful tone poem which is Magic and Loss, Lou Reed’s late 80s guitar punk resurrection, New York, is probably my favorite post-Velvet Underground LP. Right from the quick, the stutter-start guitar intro to “Romeo Had Juliette” is everything you’d ever wanted in wrap-around RayBan cool–streetlight poetry, switchblade swaggering riff, the whole song can turn a Southern Wisconsin interstate into the Lower East Side of teenage imaginations–seductive, dangerous, happening.
Read the rest of this piece at SunDogLit.
Ten years ago this week, we lost Elliott Smith. Like any good cult of rocky mythology, the shadow he casts grows taller and darker the farther he gets away from us. Somewhere in that lost identity, we come to create a narrative which makes sense to us–privately…
Continue reading on the @SunDogLit blog.