September 08, 2009

ITEMS

- On Maxwells "Little Wings", on the chorus, he sings the lead "wangs" and then in the harmony/back up/chorus he/they sing "wings" rather crisply. "Little Wangs" is not so much a hitmaking slogan.

- Grief as a default setting, something that I can click into now. Easier or maybe different with age? When you are young, death is the impossible, not the inevitable. Over the weekend, I thought about the death of everything and everyone. Not as morbid as it sounds. More like, practical thought, what would that mean, what would that mourning be like. The cats on up to some sort of pestilence taking the city whole, a sort of The Road type of scenario.

- For this week, I would like my job to be painting a superhuge mural of Wyatt and Monkee, instead of writing about music.

- My memory is stuck in one spot, smearing around there. I found an old journal, from 24-25, the era of the smeary spot, in with stuff we were moving and removing last night. I could barely stand to read it, but I was touched by pages and pages of my own eager sort of willful stupidity; amidst months of meaningless in-depth about an especially lame boyfriend (it would eventually span years), my own burgeoning spiritual ecstasy blotting out the encroaching obvious. There is also a two page bit of off the dome poesy on Lungfish and capitalism --TWICE!--I must have been working on something. It's tempting to burn a slim volume that reminds you how much time you wasted being warped by some lackluster living right smack in the middle of your youth, but the reminder of it might have more value. Maybe I should wear it around my neck like an albatross. Read a page every morning to inspire fruitful projects, make up for all that idling. Shaw was right that youth is wasted on the young, but grievous regrets at 33 and three days is a waste as well. I don't think of regret as a totem.

- Just finished Herzog's Conquest of the Useless this morning and wish I had an epic diary about the madness of the jungle, the punishing eroticism of bird cries and local Peruvian chieftans offering to kill Klaus Kinski for me as an unsolicited favor.

Posted by jessica hopper at September 8, 2009 11:01 AM | TrackBack