I drank seven cups of coffee at work yesterday and I wrote down things that were on my mind while I was at work and while I was drinking so much coffee. Here is a brief account 
Cup #4: I think it's fresh. I have been making a lot of coffee this morning
The sounds in my ears just changed from the noisy break beats of Bumblebeez 81 to the sobering sounds of the blues compilation I bought a few years back. There is something about Sunday mornings that make sme really enjoy these really sad somber tones rooted in oppression, torment and slavery. Even though I have never experienced these same pains, I think in some degree that I allow myself to work in a place like this that I have a sort of kinship with these artists. Maybe I'm just exaggerating my work experience. I've just been really frustarated by the shakles of time and constraight that goes with having a work schedule that's out of my control. Spending eleven hours alone on a Sunday morning can really do that to a guy. I complain about it now, but I should be grateful it gives me time to write and draw, and I can waste as much time as I can right now and not be reprimanded for it. Also solitude like this is really enjoyable. Alone with my thoughts and ideas, and only restricted by my own creative impulses.
There is nothing like the heartfelt wail of a blues musician to really understand what pain is. Is it the worst kind of pain or is it just the most relatiable kind? These past few months I've started to learn, and realize that one of the worst pains ever is unrequited love. The morose howls of these men explain that the purest pain comes from the heart and there is nothing comparale to those laments. It's so awful and beautiful a the same time. The tonal groans, the picking guitar, the repetition, the ideas that push out of the mouths and into the ears. If distroted rock is an aural make-out session. This is a rainy afternoon consisting of cuddling and a good cry. It's therapeutic and necessary.
(I wrote like this for 4 pages! fuck)
Cup #4: I think it's fresh. I have been making a lot of coffee this morning
The sounds in my ears just changed from the noisy break beats of Bumblebeez 81 to the sobering sounds of the blues compilation I bought a few years back. There is something about Sunday mornings that make sme really enjoy these really sad somber tones rooted in oppression, torment and slavery. Even though I have never experienced these same pains, I think in some degree that I allow myself to work in a place like this that I have a sort of kinship with these artists. Maybe I'm just exaggerating my work experience. I've just been really frustarated by the shakles of time and constraight that goes with having a work schedule that's out of my control. Spending eleven hours alone on a Sunday morning can really do that to a guy. I complain about it now, but I should be grateful it gives me time to write and draw, and I can waste as much time as I can right now and not be reprimanded for it. Also solitude like this is really enjoyable. Alone with my thoughts and ideas, and only restricted by my own creative impulses.
There is nothing like the heartfelt wail of a blues musician to really understand what pain is. Is it the worst kind of pain or is it just the most relatiable kind? These past few months I've started to learn, and realize that one of the worst pains ever is unrequited love. The morose howls of these men explain that the purest pain comes from the heart and there is nothing comparale to those laments. It's so awful and beautiful a the same time. The tonal groans, the picking guitar, the repetition, the ideas that push out of the mouths and into the ears. If distroted rock is an aural make-out session. This is a rainy afternoon consisting of cuddling and a good cry. It's therapeutic and necessary.
(I wrote like this for 4 pages! fuck)
nastydanstudios:
maybe it's time to ween the caffine