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18 August 2008 @ 10:39 am
British funnyman Russell Brand is expected to take the lead role in the remake of cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show, according to reports.

The original 1975 movie, which starred Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon and Meat Loaf, is set to be remade, with studio bosses were keen to replicate the original's success.

And British comedian Brand, who kicked off his film career in Forgetting Sarah Marshall earlier this year, is favourite to take on Curry's coveted role of transvestite scientist Frank N Furter, according to the London Paper.

A source tells the publication, "It would make sense for him to be Frank N Furter."

If there is any truth in this, I think I may plotz.
Mood: ecstaticecstatic
Music: the stills - snakecharming the masses

Claire sold Daisy. I have been crying inconsolably for the last hour, going through fits of disbelief, loss and, more often than most, anger. I can't fucking believe Claire. We had an arrangement; Daisy was ours for the summer. But she just disregarded us again, disregarded the fact that we were paying for her board to ensure she didn't get sold during the summer. She didn't even bother to call us, as is protocol, to see if we were planning on buying her. I guess those years and years of volunteering that Kaileen and I have both done mean absolutely nothing to her. I can't fucking believe this. I don't know if I even want to go back up with Kaileen on Sunday. How can I possibly face Claire without wanted to throttle her?

Daisy and I had a connection. I was the only one who knew all her itchy spots, and she was always happy to participate in a mutual back scratch. She would follow me out to the field and back and was constantly jealous if I paid even the least bit of attention to another horse. It didn't matter that I was too short to reach her back, or that her legs weighed more than I do, or even that it took me a ridiculously long time to get her white coat clean, I loved Daisy more than I do most people.

She sold my horse. She sold my Daisy, my snuggle slag, my fat bottomed girl, my Daisy Duke. And I didn't even get to say goodbye.

DaisyCollapse )
Mood: draineddrained
Music: elliott smith - waltz #2 (xo)
I have asiago cheese in between my toes.
Mood: nauseatednauseated
Music: grey's anatomy
15 July 2008 @ 01:07 pm
Kaileen and I have been back in Windsor for the past week and a half, having been kicked out of the cottage so that builders can come and stay while they build a deck. It's been a relatively busy trip home; we went camping with the Muzzer and the Brother at Wheatley for a couple days on this absolutely lovely site. It was completely secluded, with it's own little drive way, and no one was camping around us, so it was like we had the entire Boosey Creek area to ourselves. We played an alarming amount of Shanghai, and on a trip into town we bought a Beatles trivia game for the Father and took the liberty of playing it ourselves (to study, you see, as the Father would kick our asses otherwise).

After returning from camping I went onto mls on our neverending search for a farm that can accommodate our plans for a horse rescue/organic farm/B&B. The week before, back in Lindsay, on a day when Kaileen just dropped me off at the school and I spent the entire day on the computer watching Doctor Who (and reading hours upon hours of speculations for the finale*), I had gone job hunting for the Father. I discovered the perfect job in London, at Labatt brewery, for $35.92 an hour. So, with wild and probably slightly unrealistic notions that the Father would get the job, I began searching farms in the London area.

I can't even begin to describe the farm that I found. Perfect is the word that comes to mind. "93 wonderful acres of pasture, paddocks, woods, trails, streams, pond, deer, turkey & other wildlife. If you`re looking for a country property that`s an easy 25 minute commute to London or St.Thomas, this might be it! The 5 bedroom triple brick, Georgian-style home was built in the 1860’s & has been tastefully updated & renovated with wood floors, high ceilings, crown moldings & pocket doors, wood cookstove in the cherry kitchen, fireplace in the spacious living room & woodstove in the large master bedroom. Lots of space to relax or entertain. There`s a fenced in-ground pool, family fire-pit & 2 decks. Outbuildings incl a 24x24 concrete block shop with woodstove & attached woodshed, 14x24 livestock run-in, 64x36 pole barn with loft, a 24x36 ft fruit stand & fully insulated home office/hobby building with heat, hydro, high speed satellite internet access, phone, cathedral ceiling & skylight. 2 paddocks, 13 acres of hay and 15 acres fenced field." All this and more for just half a million dollars.

It's just so utterly brilliant. It has everything that we could have possibly wanted and more. We're going to go see the place this afternoon, and I'm going to take a billion and one photographs. Our only (and the most important) problem is money. Where the fuck are we going to get enough money for a downpayment? And what bank is going to take us? So we've started to write up a business plan, in hopes of getting the money from Farm Credit Canada. It is a slow process, but we hope to have it completed by the time we return to Windsor in a couple weeks for the family reunion.

I made the mistake of letting the Muzzer cut my hair last night. All I really wanted was my fringe trimmed, but she convinced me that my shag wasn't very shaggy and needed more layers. So I trusted her, and she began chopping, and fifteen minutes later my lovely outgrown series three Noel Fielding hair turned into something reminesant of his series one hair, but far more hideous. I think I began hyperventilating at one point. I began thinking up ways to lessen the hideousness. Should I just chop most of it off and get a bob instead? But no, she's put that layer too short now. So then I wet it, hoping it would tame some of the alarming bowl-like layers into something resembling normalcy. And it did, a bit, but it didn't hide the fact that my bangs were too short, and my bottom layers too long. An hour later I gathered up my wits and handed Muzz the scissors, instructing her to "just shorten that bitch, I need another layer there." And she did, and it looks rather nice and shaggy from the back and from the sides, but face on, something is very wrong with the cut. I've been trying to adopt zen-like qualities every time I look in a mirror, trying to remind myself, that yes, hair does in fact grow back. And I think that once it does grown an inch or so, and when my fringe lengthens a bit, everything will be okay. (I hope.)

As for the time I've spent up with Kaileen, and the adventures I'll have during the next couple months, I'll post a lengthy photo-filled entry when I return. I am quickly running out of time for things, as we're leaving tomorrow morning.

*Don't even get me started on the finale. I haven't the time, perhaps in another entry.
Mood: indifferentindifferent
Music: radiohead - exit music (for a film)
15 July 2008 @ 12:02 pm
Jarvis Cocker was DJing at the Mighty Boosh Festival on July the 5th. I must admit, I've never felt more jealous in the entirety of my life. My two favourite Brits, together, for only $100. Guh. I would have exploded with glee if I had attended. (Perhaps it's better that I didn't.)
Mood: enviousenvious
Music: holy fuck - frenchy's
14 May 2008 @ 11:29 pm
So, life then, an update.

I won Script Frenzy. Well, technically. Well, actually, in truth, that’s not exactly accurate. Quite frankly, I cheated at the end. But let me explain my actions.

I wrote the entire day for something like twelve hours. And in those twelve hours I wrote forty pages (which without the following wouldn’t have been possible: IAMX for the music that kept me going, Cucka Callie for the much needed kisses I demanded of her and the good people at Wampole for their chewable vitamin C). Throughout those long hours my computer decided to misbehave and must have frozen for a total of two hours. And those two hours were ones I desperately needed to complete This Picture.

With only ten pages left, I decided to cheat. I admit to excessive word padding. What can I say? After writing forty thousand words in one day I felt I deserved the pretty little certificate that the winners get. And also, in that last hour leading up until midnight, I promised myself that that weekend I would finish my script. I was probably fifteen pages away from the ending, and hell, what’s another seven pages a day?

But then Kaileen invited me to stay at the cottage for the summer, and things got hectic. Since then I’ve been packing, cleaning, mixtaping, reading and panicking (and not to mention procrastinating). In short, I haven’t looked at my script since.

My eighteenth birthday was comfortingly uneventful. We went to see M*A*S*H the play a couple of days beforehand. I spent the sixth watching Bill Bailey clips on youtube and Doctor Who episodes. (I’ve since watched all of the episodes of the 2005 series, and in less than a week, no less. I started watching because of David Tennant but fell in love with Christopher Eccleston’s character, so much that I was worried how David would stack up in comparison. It was silly of me to worry; he’s even more brilliant, if possible. I want to glomp him. But I now find myself lost; what do I do with myself without new episodes? I suppose I shall have to resort to fanfiction.)

I also made myself a mixtape for my birthday, entitled Today Is A Birthday (the me mixtape). I’ve no time to upload it at the moment. Perhaps when I return home in a couple months.

I’ll also have to post an entry dedicated to hair in the future. I cut my hair sometime in April. It’s a cross between Noel Fielding’s old hair and one of my wigs, all layered and shaggy. And yes, I have a fringe, and I love it. I even made a mix to celebrate, which I’ll post later.

Also, be proud, I spent two days going through my fifteen gigs of photographs on my computer and deleted more than half. I've only been putting it off for something like four years.

I’m leaving for Lindsay in the morning. I have a ridiculous amount of boxes to bring with me, though Kaileen keeps on suggesting I bring more, like my guitar and such. I’ve no idea where we’re going to fit everything in the jeep.

Kaileen and the family surprised me at dinner tonight with another birthday present: tickets to see the Cure tomorrow night in Toronto. I am overwhelmingly excited. I mean, I was excited enough just leaving to stay with Kay, but now this? I think I’m going to plotz.

This summer is going to be brilliant. I’m to become a groom to the racehorses Kaileen exercises, and we’re going to maybe trade off with Claire at Heaven Can Wait so we can get two horses for ourselves for the summer. There’s a road trip planned, Dirty Dancing to see in Toronto, camping every weekend, and perhaps another trip to Toronto to see Radiohead later this summer.

Well, that’s it for now. The lovely Sam Roberts is about to come on the Hour and I’ve still a list of things to complete. Ciao.
Mood: cheerfulcheerful
Music: sam phillips - if I could write
I am a person with a well of regret which, happily, has been rather stagnant of late. This is probably due to my lack of exposure to unpleasant events, annoying people, or, in short, the fact that I've become a hermit. So the fact that I'm feeling a strong tug of regret at my heart hasn't gone as unnoticed at it may have once.

I came across a man tonight while I was out walking Callie. I was out later than I usually am, Doctor Who episodes having successfully distracted me from the time. It was quieter than normal, Callie was calmer, I was walking faster than I usually do. I turned onto the main road and there, far in the distance, all the way at the other corner, was someone rollerskating. And it wasn't the kind of rollerskating that would usually send me flashbacks of my childhood, but rather, a tastefully skilled, almost natural sort of skating. The only way I can think to explain it is to compare it to a person who is seemingly born to ride. They meld with the horse, becoming once entity, ever so graceful.

As he became closer I began to think, as is natural when out walking Callie, "Oh bollocks, she's going to eat him." I stepped off the walk and onto the grass towards the road, shorting Callie's leash and he passed me. He nodded in greeting, and in the darkness I felt I recognized him. The black hair, the facial hair, the buttoned down shirt revealing a white undershirt, he looked exactly like Dave Navarro. Stranger still, as he passed Callie didn't do a single thing. She didn't pull, she didn't bark, she was utterly calm.

It's probably silly - it feels it to me - but I regret not speaking to him. I've no idea why this feeling overcame me, or why it lingers still, but I feel it with every fibre of my being. What is this? This longing towards a complete stranger, someone I would otherwise not be attracted to? Why won't this feeling dissipate?

I imagined what I'd say to him, a whole conversation that could easily be apart of a screenplay. And then I began to grin; what an utterly laughable meet-cute. Me in my ancient oversized sweatshirt (every other night I go out in actual clothing, but of course, not this night), out walking my dog who happens to have multiple personalities, and for once, isn't feeling murderous towards strange men (women/dogs/bikes).

The whole thing is ridiculous. I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to write about something so insignificant. But despite reasoning, I can't shake this feeling off. Sillier still, but did I just walk past my love at first sight? (If I even believe in such a thing?)
Mood: weirdweird
Music: iamx - missile
30 April 2008 @ 09:19 am
04/30/08 Because of a multitude of reasons - laziness being the most prominent - I find myself on the last day of Script Frenzy with fifty-one pages yet to write. But I've decided, after humming and haaing for some time, to just complete it. I'm to sit down after this and figure out the rest of the scenes and after that, write for the next fourteen hours. And write. I will write until I form a hunchback, a headache and a strong hatred towards myself and my over ambitiousness. But in the end, probably tomorrow, after a long deserved twelve hour sleep, I will be overjoyed with myself for accomplishing my first script. And that is the point of Script Frenzy.

Wish me luck.
Mood: anxiousanxious
Music: sigur ros - hoppipolla
24 April 2008 @ 11:24 pm
The only problem
with Haiku is that you just
get started and then
--Roger McGough
Mood: artisticartistic
Music: iamx - this will make you love again
24 April 2008 @ 12:21 am
The host of the American NME Awards is a fucking twat. If he says, "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up..." or yells another fucking introduction like he's at WWF Smackdown I'm going to fucking cry. I am oh so grateful to the people throwing random objects at him.

And what's up with the awards anyways? I've never been able to watch the actual NMEs, but I've seen clips, and they were brilliant. What's this crap lighting, crap sound, crap organization, crap host bollocks?

I'm quite happy about the bands, however. The Lemonheads was (were? How do you express a title that's plural when only one man performed?) brilliant, of course, and Mick Jones is adorable. And the guy from the Killers that prattled on forever made me giggily.

As for Jane's Addiction, I almost broke down after viewing such brilliance. Jane's Addiction is one of the bands I've always wanted to see live, but thought never possible, the second being Blind Melon. But now? Jane's Addiction is possibly back together, and Blind Melon is touring with a singer that sounds exactly like Shannon Hoon. I am overwhelmed over what this could mean for me.

Despite (forgive me, I have to repeat myself) crap sound, the band was just like they were ten odd years ago. Perry Farrell at 49 is as gorgeous as he was at 29. I wanted to glomp him. Actually, after watching this I realized who Chris Corner (Sneaker Pimps, IAMX), whom I love, reminded me of when I first discovered: Perry. (If I wasn't exhausted I would elaborate, but alas...)

And lastly, what is a Jane's Addiction performance without Dave Navarro shedding his shirt? I find myself giggling. It almost makes up for the rest of the show.
Mood: drunkdrunk
Music: lemonheads - it's a shame about ray
23 April 2008 @ 12:36 pm
by Joni Mitchell

I came upon a child of god
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going
And this he told me

I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to camp out on the land
And try and get my soul free

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog
In something turning

Well, maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe it's the time of man
I don't know who I am
But life is for learning

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song
And celebration

And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation

We are stardust
million year old carbon
We are golden
caught in the devils bargain
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
Mood: busybusy
Music: iamx - president
22 April 2008 @ 12:32 pm
by Sylvia Plath

How the elements solidify! ---
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie

Back to back. I here an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.

The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.

Then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard.
One touch : it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.

Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.

Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip

A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?

The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
Music: iamx - song of imaginary boys
21 April 2008 @ 10:53 am
This poem was part of the inspiration for This Picture.

Symptom Recital
by Dorothy Parker

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men...
I'm due to fall in love again.
Mood: discontentdiscontent
Music: the las - there she goes
20 April 2008 @ 10:49 am
by Boris Pasternak

Under the ivy-circled willow tree
We seek shelter from stormy weather,
A cape covers our shoulders
And my arms circle you.

I am mistaken. The trees of this thicket
Are circled not with ivy but with hops.
So better spread the cape
Flat on the ground.
Mood: listlesslistless
Music: taken by trees - julia
19 April 2008 @ 10:47 am
The Old Man
by George Oppen

The old man
In the mirror
But the young man
In the photograph
Is stranger
Mood: fullfull
Music: the smiths - there is a light that never goes out
18 April 2008 @ 10:47 am
Portrait of Anne Hébert
by D.J. Jones

The sunlight, here and there,
Touches a table

And a draught at the window
Announces your presence,

You take your place in the room
Without fuss,

Your delicate bones,
Your frock,
Have the grace of disinterested passion.

Words are arrayed
Like surgical instruments
Neatly in trays.

Deftly, you make an incision
The obscure disease.

Your sensibility
Has the sure fingers of the blind:

Each decision
Cuts like a scalpel
Through tangled emotion.

You define
The morbid tissue, laying it bare

Like a tatter of lace
On the paper.
Mood: curiouscurious
Music: the stills - snake-charming the masses
17 April 2008 @ 10:41 am
Where the Blue Horses
by Ray Souster

The street is quiet,
the noise through the wall is stilled,
the little cat curled up on the chair,
radio turned off, milk bottles outside the door.

And for now
nothing but sleep and dreams and thoughts of sleep,
not even love keep us awake tonight

as we sink into that strange land
where the blue horses toss
riderless and proud.
16 April 2008 @ 10:39 am
At Castlewood
by Emily Bronte

The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.

No star will light my coming night;
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not heaven would blast my sight,
And I ne'er longed for joys divine.

Through life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.

The grief that pressed my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hour was agony?

Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.

No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.
15 April 2008 @ 10:38 am
This is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you can see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
you will be able to see me.)
14 April 2008 @ 10:35 am
London, I'm Yours
by Lauren Watkins

Sitting alone in bright Australian sun
My mind has wandered far away
To a place where church spires pierce
The clouds that covers every day.
London, I'm yours.

This sad excuse for winter
Is barely nipping at my toes.
No blustering wind dances,
Or whips through my clothes
London, I'm yours.

The sprawling, heat-flattened houses
And the noisy passing train
Make me wish so very hard
I was in London again.
London, I'm yours.

I have time on my side
To return, over continents and sea
But stranded so far away now
Makes me realise where I'd like to be.
London, I'm yours.
13 April 2008 @ 11:44 am
Sorrows of the Elderly
by Leonard Cohen

The old are kind.
The young are hot.
Love may be blind.
Desire is not.

Alone At Last
by Leonard Cohen

How bitter were
the Prozac pills
of the last
few hundred mornings
Mood: enthralledenthralled
Music: love and rockets - all in my mind
12 April 2008 @ 12:25 pm
My Makeup
by Rochelle Kraut

on my cheeks I wear
the flush of two beers

on my eyes I use
the dark circles of sleepless nights
to great advantage

for lipstick
I wear my lips
Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
Music: razorlight - rock n roll lies
11 April 2008 @ 10:22 am
The Night Is Darkening Round Me
by Emily Bronte

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me:
I will not, cannot go.
Mood: indifferentindifferent
Music: art brut - nag nag nag nag
10 April 2008 @ 12:20 pm
Winter Night
by Boris Pasternak

Snow swept over the earth,
Swept it from end to end.
The candle on the table burned,
The candle burned.

Like swarms of summer midges
Drawn to the flame
The snowflakes
Flocked to the window.

The driven snow drew circles and arrows
On the window pane.
The candle on the table burned,
The candle burned.

On the bright ceiling
Fell the shadows
Of crossed hands, crossed feet,
Crossed fate.

Two shoes fell to the floor
With a thud.
From the night-light
Wax tears dropped on frock.

And everything was lost
In the white-haired, white, snowy darkness.
The candle on the table burned,
The candle burned.

A draught from the corner
Puffed at the candle's flame,
And like an angel, the heat of temptation
Raised two wings in the form of a cross.

The snow swept all through February,
And now and again
The candle on the table burned,
The candle burned.
Music: dirty pretty things - deadwood
09 April 2008 @ 06:15 pm
Heart-Shaped Box
by Kurt Cobain

She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your Heart-Shaped box four whole weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black

Hey, Wait
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice

Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath
Broken hymen of your highness I'm left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back

Hey, Wait
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Mood: gloomygloomy
Music: neil young - I am a child
08 April 2008 @ 12:13 pm
Pennyroyal Tea
by Kurt Cobain

I'm on my time with everyone
I have very bad posture

Sit and drink Pennyroyal Tea
Distill the life that's inside of me
Sit and drink Pennyroyal Tea
I'm anemic royalty

Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld
So I can sigh eternally

I'm so tired I can't sleep
I'm a liar and a thief
Sit and drink Pennyroyal Tea
I'm anemic royalty

I'm on warm milk and laxatives
Cherry-flavoured antacids

Sit and drink Pennyroyal Tea
Distill the life that's inside of me
Sit and drink Pennyroyal Tea
I'm anemic royalty
Mood: cheerfulcheerful
Music: ride - vapour trail
07 April 2008 @ 02:10 pm
Serve The Servants
by Kurt Cobain

Teenage angst has paid off well
Now I'm bored and old
Self-appointed judges judge
More than they have sold
If she floats than she's not
A witch like we had thought
A down payment on another
One at Salem's lot
Serve the servants - oh no
That legendary divorce is such a bore
As my bones grew they did hurt
They hurt really bad
I tried hard to have a father
But instead I had a Dad
I just want you to know that I
Don't hate you anymore
There is nothing I could say
That I haven't thought before
Serve the servants - oh no
That legendary divorce is such a bore
Mood: discontentdiscontent
Music: the strokes - what ever happened
06 April 2008 @ 12:07 pm
Swap Meet
by Kurt Cobain

They lead a lifetime that is comfortable
They travel far to keep their stomachs full
They make their living off of arts and crafts
The kind with seashells driftwood and burlap
They make a deal when they come to town
The Sunday swap meet is a battle ground
She loves him more than he will ever know
He loves her more than he will ever show
--Keeps his cigarettes close to his heart
--Keeps her photographs close to her heart
--Keeps the bitterness close to the heart
Mood: bouncybouncy
Music: federal drugs administration – androgynoel
05 April 2008 @ 11:59 pm
Kurt Cobain was a poet to his generation, and, like all great poets, will continue to be so for generations to come. I wanted to post some of my favourite Nirvana lyrics this week, starting today, fourteen years after his death.

Drain You
by Kurt Cobain

One baby to another says,
I'm lucky to have met you
I don't care what you think
Unless it is about me
It is now my duty to completely drain you
I travel through a tube
And end up in your infection

Chew your meat for you
Pass it back and forth
In a passionate kiss
From my mouth to yours
Because I like you

With eyes so dilated,
I've became your pupil
You've taught me everything
Without a poison apple
The water is so yellow, I'm a healthy student
Indebted and so grateful -
Vacuum out the fluids

Chew your meat for you
Pass it back and forth
In a flatulent kiss
From my mouth to yours
Sloppy lips to lips
You're my vitamins
I like you
Mood: sadsad
Music: new order - ceremony
05 April 2008 @ 11:29 pm
I woke up this morning and I hated myself. As the day progressed I began to hate my brother as well. We have become one day Nirvana fans. Every April 5th, we pull out our Nirvana records, pull on a Nirvana tee, search youtube for Unplugged and “mourn.” And then, April 6th, away goes our Nirvana collection and we resume our lives. As much as it pains me to admit this, and I find myself loathing myself more and more as I type, but I have to be truthful to myself. My With The Lights Out boxset is in the same location I left it last April 5th. Not once has it been moved for more than a bit of dusting.

Kurt deserves a lot more from us. Especially from me.

I wanted to make a mix today, of artists covering Nirvana, and I began to, but as the day went on, and the more and more Nirvana songs I listened to, the more ideas I gathered. The covers mix quickly led to another covers mix, this one of songs Nirvana has covered, and, on the opposite side, the originals. And as I listened to Grey Goose, D-7 and Here She Comes Now on With The Lights Out, I had certain cravings to make a mix of little known Nirvana songs that make me ridiculously happy to listen to, namely Do Re Mi, Opinion and Marigold.

While listening to Patti Smith’s cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit, I began planning up a mix of songs written about Kurt; About A Boy, Let Me In, Sleeps With Angels, etc. That trailed off into another idea for a mix, which is songs that were altered and dedicated to Kurt, mostly live and soon after the announcement of his death. The song that immediately comes to mind for me is Change by Blind Melon, which I think very ironic, considering Shannon Hoon died little over a year later, not being able to change himself.

I am not a musician. I am not a poet. But I feel as if my mixes are a media I can use to express myself, in this case, the overwhelming sense of gratitude I feel towards Kurt Cobain, Krist Novoselić and Dave Grohl.

Mood: indescribableindescribable
Music: nirvana - love buzz