October 30, 2007


It turns fall and I can hardly do but sleep; I wake up every morning thinking of Neil singing "It's better to burn out / than it is to rust". Pre-hiemal rusting, writing rusting, rocking rusting; r n' r never dies but everything else will. Everything I ever needed to know about getting older I've learned from Rust Never Sleeps, "Welfare Mothers" and "Sail Away" are the only two songs that aren't predom. set in the past tense. N. Young pressing on down memory lane, thigh deep in Pancho's gtr scruzz, all "I wish" "I remember" "I wanna" I'm gonna" and "I was"--almost no now, everything at a distance--inextricable, unwindable behind-you or some runaway, gotta get over that lies just beyond the horizon. Woeful and unmoored in the present --all he knows for sure is who he was then, which is hardly a comfort to begin with. Pocahantas as his fantasy girl--longing for something pure that was dead before he was born, to keep his heart young. With this new knowledge born of age, he knows he can only ride through the old neighborhood--there's no going back now, even on that llama. "Powderfinger", as ever, still up for some debate--hee-hawist sympathies? Post-colonialist comment? Vietnam hangover? Good old bad America, ancient blood and sanguinary motives in it's mouth? It's the bulb of un/certain age, exploding--a gun shot spray of WAS; '77 was his Jesus year.

In my dream last night, I saw Keith Morris on La Cienega. He was bruised round his eyes and edges; he'd just had a face lift and he knew my name.

Posted by Jessica at October 30, 2007 02:22 PM | TrackBack