Secret Pop

Mar 10, 2004

Flawed. Organic.

I would like a place I could call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain of my wounded heart

I was grateful for things today. Sunshine. Motivation. Something like letting sandbags go from a hot air balloon. Even when I get caught listening to songs that tug at overused heartstrings. It's all going to be all right. Even when I listen to that Coldplay song and know the story behind it and remember hearing it played live at the Hollywood Bowl last summer. Oh, take me back to the start. It's just music, isn't it? Maybe it's something chemical and electromagnetic. You listen to it and something drips into something else in your brain and produces that sensation. I'm going back to the start. That heaviness in your chest. Exploding heart syndrome. Longing. Fondness. Love. Anything but regret. Just don't let it be that. Anything but that.

Cyndi Lauper is underrated.

Do dogs get sentimental? Do cows? I'm just made of meat and organs like them. But I have many kryptonites. And I get no pleasure from chasing rabbits. Nor from the taste of fresh-cut grass. And I nearly never go apeshit when I hear the phrase "treat treat".

I'm getting ideas. I need to go do something about them.

You may think that I'm out of hand
That I'm naive, I'll understand
On this occasion, it's not true
Look at me, I'm not you

I think my path will always be littered with reminders, strewn with the fallout of everything I do. It's like that with me. Everything reminds me of everything. Everything is a link to everything else. Bumpers in pinball. That one key on the organ that you push and it makes a bunch of other keys go down. Something automatic. Killing a flock of birds with one stone.

Just wait till tomorrow
I guess that's what they all say
Just before they fall apart

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