The morning always smells like what you remember in your head
When you see a picture and associate the smell….
Thunderbirds flapping enormous wings
8,000 lightning strikes in just one hour…
Somewhere out in the Pacific underneath a sky of constellations
Which I know as only two dimensional renderings
Here in the radio graveyard hours of the west,
Where I keep seeing the Ghost birds and revisiting my past.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
Charles Baudelaire



Ancient aliens, Nels Cline, and the ghost of D. Boon
Good morning America

A selection of cover songs...
Often clear plastic sleeves....

....gritty, stark, violent, smart, provocative, and utterly American.

Friday.....
Graveyard 4 complete one more to go...
a day off 6 days of the same
So far insulated as not to be materially affected by the attractions of neighbouring stars...

"In most cases, being a suburban teenager is, more than anything else, boring as all fuck. There’s nothing much to do that’s legal. Your life is ultimately subject to the whims of people who can’t really get it. You, your friends, and the people you’d like to sleep with are all way too inarticulate and inexperienced to really communicate. You spend most of your time waiting for something to happen. "

The above is the lead off for a review of the new J. Mascis solo record, but he nailed exactly what that is like. I remember it from my own youth and see it rising in my daughter's life daily....
suburban summers spent waiting...

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
— Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

God bless amnesia
And the things I've suppressed
I can reframe the image
I can discard the rest

A history of holes
Where the pieces that won't fit
With the story you told yourself
And your place in it

And I fear that it isn't enough

So put on a brave face
Straighten that tie
And speak like you mean it
Give truth to the lie