styofa doing anything
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Xuebing Du
Show & Tell
if i look back, i am lost
JVL
Mike Driver
d e v o n
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trying on a metaphor
blake kathryn
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sheepfilms
oozey mess
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
Product Placement
izzy's playlists!
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@lemonofthemind-blog
(after Rachel McKibbens’ prompt #79)
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Sean turned my name into knuckles
I hit him so hard that day in the field I became punch-through-fire-proof
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Vince curled my name into a slimy tongue
I could no longer tell whole truths with
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John made my name feel like quiet...
This is so great. Plus she used my name in it!
‘All moments’ (2009) by.alidarosie Inspired by novel Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut (1969)
WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER WHEN YOU ARE IN A BAD MOOD?
When I am in a bad mood. I revert back to childhood. When the only thing to do on a bad day. Was to jump on the bed. Laugh with a friend. Throw a tantrum. Shake it out. And when it's all done, run outside to play. Never take yourself too seriously.
The Box That Holds Everything.
The bookshelf in my room is my favorite place in my entire house. There, I can go and sit down, open a book and transport my mind to anywhere in the world. It holds stories by people from many different place and times, belief systems and fictional situations. I arranged it alphabetically by the last name of the author, as most libraries do. But there is also a section for graphic novels, arranged by theme. And the bottom shelf holds reference books and trail guides for the mountains of Colorado.
Sandwiched between the reference books and the trail guides, holding everything in its upright position, is the story that tells about my life. This story doesn’t have a proper binding and the words are few, but it tells about the places I have been and the music I have listened too. It doesn’t have a title yet, and it probably never will. Because the only name it’s ever known, is the box of ticket stubs.
The wooden box that holds the world has a latch that sometimes doesn’t want to close. The hinges open warmly and the lid is held ajar by a brown ribbon and two thumb tacks. The spectacular thing about this box isn’t in its appearance, but in the way it holds so many pieces of paper that for one night made all the difference. When I open it, and let the light shine in, the little stacks of contents gently expand as if they need a breath from the neatly enclosed life they live. Peering into the open box I say hello to what I feel like is the center of my soul.
It is apparent that the top of the box is sometimes a catch-all, because there are miscellaneous business cards for tattoo studios to which I have never been, and business cards for graphic designers that I went to art school with. There is a sparkly green wrist band that says Get Smart Tobacco Free and I don’t remember where it came from. Those things are taken out first, and set aside. What’s beneath gets more of a visceral reaction from me; I take a deep breath.
I can tell that the contents are happy, as they are gently lifted out, because they kind of slide across the floor to breathe. Once most of the contents have been removed; two Chinese fortunes, two fortunes taken from tea bags, a piece of yellow string that served as a bracelet for years, and a one dried rose; remain at the bottom. It has been a while since I’ve done this, and I can tell the time has come. There is an excited feeling in the pit of my stomach, as I prepare myself to take inventory of my memories.
Over the years I haven’t saved everything, but the collection feels anything but incomplete. I kept all of the ticket stubs as I thought of it in the moment, still some got lost in the middle of the adventures they got me into. Of those that remain there are; fifteen concert tickets that resemble the nights of sound and movement that they represent. Some of them are faded like the Apex Vibe concert at the Gothic Theatre where local bands played reggae music until the air felt like liquid and whole crowd looked like we were dancing underwater (and then the ticket sat in my dashboard for a long time as a warm reminder on a cold day), so now it’s sun bleached too.
There is a Matt Costa ticket from the Fox Theatre, where we knew they words to every song and we sang along too. After the concert we waited on the sidewalk outside the venue, having felt like the show was not quite over yet, then Matt came out with his guitar strapped on. He asked the remaining crowd for a smoke and proceeded to play three more songs before shaking hands with us and leaving.
There is a green ticket that tells about the Cold War Kids concert. It was more than three years ago, but I remember the moment the band came on stage and blew us away with the sporadic keyboard and hypnotic lyrics. The entire audience cried “HANG ME UP TO DRY” perfectly synchronized at the chorus of their most popular song, until it became that song that never ended because the band kept playing and playing for us. In that moment, we the audience morphed into this huge flexible organism, our entire purpose was to keep blood pumping to the band who kept the music pumping to the organism.
A blue ticket stub is slightly wrinkled but clearly reminds me of my first reggae show at Cervantes Ballroom, where a reggae lover turned me on to Luciano and taught me how to dance my heart out. I remember having black X’s on my hand, sneaking sips of beer and how the joints and bones in my body were replaced with the joints and bones of Gumby when the rhythm is undeniably moving. And it then it moves you with the flexibility and spirit of a child.
There was a ticket to the Bluebird Theatre, which was the mellowest venue I have ever set foot in. This one was interesting the music was folky with bluesy undertones so it was a chill event. I remember that Ben was wearing skin tight pants (they may or may not have been painted on) so we spent much of the night mesmerized by his thrust dancing skills (this dude worked the tight pants). And a girl with X’s on her hand got 86ed (by a BIG bouncer) for sipping beer off the cup of her friend, and I may never sip beer with X’s again after witnessing this.
One large ticket has creases in it from being folded to be pocket concealed. That took us to hear the Pixies at the Fillmore, where we fought our way to the front of the venue so we could get a closer look at Kim Deal.
Sometimes music is given freely, such as the RAIN Beatle Tribute show. My neighbor, who was a theatre major, used to pass free tickets along to me when he couldn’t make them. For the RAIN show, we got the tickets 20 minutes before show started, and had to dash madly eight blocks downtown to make it to the Buell Theatre. By the end of the show we were on our feet, inspired by the music, and grateful for impromptu concerts.
There is an orange ticket that was self-printed and then suffered a lot of water damage. The greatest thing about this stub is not only the blurred words “Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Rain or Shine” but the fact that it survived being rained on for hours. This was my first time being rained on at Red Rocks (no ponchos) and having been rained out a few times since, I would elect to see these guys in the rain again. We saw Slightly Stoopid and Pepper at that show, and they kept it jam enough that our dancing kept us warm, even though we were soaked to our bones.
The last ticket that I will tell, is the least weathered because it was the only used a few months ago. But the show was monumental. The show was at the Ogden, and we saw TV on the Radio in their first Colorado show since their bassist Gerard Smith passed away last April. It was my first time seeing them live, and we spent the whole time nearly mesmerized by how beautiful they played. But the paralysis of musical appreciation didn’t carry on into the night, because we ended up going to an after party at a nearby bar where we danced to our hearts content. The band showed up at the after party, so we were able to shake hands with each of them and tell them how moved we were.
Looking down at the rainbows of tickets in front of me, I think each of them have made a some sort of contribution to my style of dancing, but they also light up my smile and my soul. Reminiscing about each of these shows, reminds me of all the other shows from which the ticket stubs didn’t make it home with me. There could be detailed conversations about the similarities and difference of each show, each crowd, each night the music you know and love is played live. And these conversations could last for hours, because every show has a life of its own and no two will ever be exactly the same. But they all contribute to the way we feel about music, and the world, and to the way we express ourselves.
My life always good, then someone played me some live music (and it was in a friend’s unfinished basement), after that it was inspired. With every song, every dance move, and every show the inspiration continues to grow. So read on because this is only the concert edition of what is in the box that holds my world.
We held on fast
To love that was written in the sand.
I left my <3 in San Francisco.
People in the streets
Who used to be children
A world
That is now to big for them
Where are the mothers
Where are the fathers
What do they teach
Why do you suffer
Feed on the nipple too long
The world is a bottle
You suck on
As fast as it's spinning
You can't hold on
People in the streets
Who used to be young
Are drowning in years
That took them no where
(So Long)
The Magic carpet ride
Has their identity
Sewn inside
Takes them so high
Leads them back to
Their mothers
Now underground
Too dark to see out
The name on the ground
Is their father's
The cloud over the sun
Won't see it
Sisters & brothers
Who are grown up now
They look down
To remember
The sound of our voices.
We used to be children
Looking out The window
Can't go outside
Build our own town
Out of legos and lies
There we can go
And live without care
Like we would out there
But we can't see how
And we can't wait
To be grown up
Like everyone else.
And now
The people in the streets
Can't wait to be children
Running around
Free of responsibility
Only one way to grow from here
And that's out.
Tom.
If only we’d listen to Tom.
Then things
Would flow smoothly
We could never do things his way.
Never follow the rules.
A wasted generation (that is what we were)
Born to question everything
Speak daft.
Speak strong.
Naïve rationale
The flip of a switch
Tom is on the intercom
He is signing to the blind.
Holding braille to hands that can’t feel
We don’t speak the language of our leader
Shun his responsibility
Take it on our own
Create our own world
In shallow disobedience.
"Constantly writing. I never loved poetry. Revisiting the pages. It was poetry I was writing all along."
It's never cold where we are
Fighting in the desert
By nighttime our skin is cooling
Boen's reaction theory
Temerperatures rise
No matter how high
The cooling down
Creates something real inside
We find when we go looking
There's love inside
Wink at me again
I know what you're thinking
I'll find you later.
Barefoot on the carpet.
& I can't live with her.
Without a word
We're making love
On the living room floor
& I can't live without her
Nothing else matters
But the smell of her hair
Roll around together
Further & further.
Fall in love a little more.
Where would I be
Without my lover.
Until she disappears
I wonder. And wonder.
Amatuer.
Monmarte. Just observing.
Bicycling talent in Paris is phenom.
She pedals. In a skirt.
She pedals. On the phone.
She pedals. As she smokes.
She does them all at once!
The scenery. Hey Lady!
Wire frame. Wrists leading the way.
Straw brimmed hat. Floppy.
Green polka dot skirt.
You are wrinkled just as you should be.
Under a gorgeous Parisian sun.
It wasn’t a lie.
They’re sweeter when you try.
‘Je ne parle pas francais’
To the crepe vendor.
‘My dear, there is no need.’
A man and his dog.
Looking lost.
At a stop sign, biding time.
I’d be lost here too.
It would be too beautiful to find my way.
