songs for...

Satellite.

right about

now.

sexy

I might want to rethink not participating is senior streak

Suddenly the idea seems oddly empowering 

Poetry for Breakfast or A Breakfast of Champions

Something to keep in mind as graduation looms and dreams get lofty.

Something

To remember

Upon graduation.

If I were to speak at commencement, perhaps I would say these words written by Dallas Clayton: 

 

REVISED YOUR “TO DO” LIST

Be a famous musician.

Be a famous actor.

Be a famous writer.

Be a famous basketball player.

Be famous.

 

There is nothing more nourishing than waking up with words running through the mind, your first gesture toward the carved wood cylinder filled with the lead that will draw the first symbols of the day onto smooth, cream paper between pale blue unsubstantial covers bound by a black fragile spine. 

The fragility kills and enlivens me. The narrow escape from boredom, which is nothing more than mindlessness, a lack of inspiration, a loss of play. The constant wavering on fine line of choice leading to experience, leading to possible moments of catharsis. Not only are our bodies ready to break apart at any given moment—not to mention our psyche—ruptured by loss or love or physical object. The euphoric moments, whether clam silent loud deafening subdued, are perhaps even more delicate than ourselves. They seem to be more easily missed than grasped, breakable as they are and so dependent on context within and without. Like a collage, they are sealed into our souls, sewn into the very fabric of our being. And so, in those moments when we are in need of a quilt to wrap tightly our tired bodies, our precarious minds, we’ve this patchwork mosaic of wool linen cotton hemp {I hope few polyester patches, some leftover from a less sophisticated perspicacity} to reach for.

Tuesday night was one of those serendipitous encounters, a chance of choice, and organic unfolding of and ascending toward happiness—always hoped for but elusive and thus unexpected. One of those evening-turning-toward-nights wherein I think nothing of the approaching early hour of obligatory waking, and if I do can only crack a teeth-bearing smile because I’ve found what makes such a dread obsolete, deaden: Life, simply. When the present moment outweighs and contributes to what follows. The heartening, sustaining, nourishing ways to begin and end a day. Uninhibited play grounded in brilliant talent—plus a dash of wisdom and understanding of course.

And the three who made the sound and the antics contributing to such a state. And now I am literally using the word swoon to describe not only the piano playing... but the piano player. 

Jukebox the Ghost

Plus Jenny Owen Youngs who came before, lovely in her own right and folkloricly comforting. This is not an afterthought. 

again.

I can’t take the credit for coming across this song by Megan Washington, which contained the first harmonic notes to greet my ears upon settling down on my bedroom floor. They had grown used to the steady tread of tires flying 75 MPH down dampened highways, Seattle to Portland.

And I walked through the door of my childhood home... don’t know if I can say home without a qualifier right now.

I felt as if melting into the shadowy 7 pm wooden floors, yes, right on the Oriental rug. Smelling by breathing so deep as to full my whole self with the place that is care and comfort and the sort of love, elusive, mother and daughter. So I began to listen to this song and watch this story. I listened some more and then turned around, looking up for some air and some sky. It had, in fact, ruptured. The sun was leaving for some tomorrow elsewhere and night was rolling along. But in between was a sky left layered violet and fuchsia. And now it is so coal black that my city tamed eyes widen at the shock of suburban night.

So back to this song. It’s buoyant, so that through one’s eyes shapes melt into one another and so do people, because suddenly you’re smiling so. The stripped down singing to you quality is such a catalyst for this.

Plus, there is tilt-shift, which I first came across here. An unlikely combination of trippy and charming, which I've never seen in motion... until now. 

 

anthem.

And then I was thinking

It's not so much a running away from as a running toward, or perhaps just 

running. 

That was before stumbling across this song by the Kahn Brothers,

 by way of a certain gash of creativity and consciousness,

and also had nothing to do with the message in the video 

yet, like many a time, these guys ended up falling into running leap

and muddy brawl along with my thoughts. Or the other way around. 

chills.

Loving The Gardner by The Tallest Man on Earth.

When I’m feeling under the weather. And the weather is all about a thin layer of entirely unexpected snow under bright blue skies.

Pull on an old thick sweater, brown and knobby, wrap up physically then mentally with plucky notes from a guitar somewhere is Sweden.

And feel the chills.