Hello my pretties. It's been ages. Come to think of
it, I haven't posted since I got this new email
account so this is in a way a second debut. Please
excuse my voice, it's scratchy from the long winter.
Yesterday all the trees started blooming and today I
sang Joni Mitchell as loud as I could in the car. "A
Case Of You", no less. How two years ago.
I have this terrible habit of trying to relate songs
to my life. Who was it that said that all the world's
a stage and I'm the bloody star on it? Probably me.
Anyway, this habit is all sweet and harmless until I
start thinking about how cool it would be to break up
and have all these great songs at my disposal to
commiserate with. See, the boy and I, we're planning
gardens for ten years from now, and Jay Fergueson's
heartbreaking "Are You Giving Me Back My Love" on
Sloan's latest album really doesn't belong. Christ,
that man can sing a love-gone-wrong song to make you
weep.
But then I remember that time when we almost did break
up, and it was all my fault. The
icy-hand-around-the-heart thing doesn't fade much with
time, does it? Luckily I've got "You Are My Joy" to
pull me back from the brink. Even though I think the
video with the kissing dolls is a touch on the creepy
side, don't you?
Listening to Arab Strap is also dangerous. All the
smarmy bitterness of "My Favourite Muse" is darkly
attractive, probably because of its blatant personal
impossibility. I've got an ex, but we're unlikely to
meet again due to geographical inconvenience and even
more unlikely to shag due to it being kind of an icky
idea to me at this point. All the same, I still
(stupidly) kind of lust after the illicit thrill of
having someone familiar but forbidden you could share
a disappointing sexual experience with.
But who needs an ex when you've got someone to sing
"Here Comes The Sun" to you as you step off the plane?
Not me. It's been a long cold lonely winter indeed
here in Canadiashire.
Still, the Beatles face stiff competition with the
Lucksmiths. Hello, Australian Massive. I know I've
never met any of you, but your countrymen have
convinced me that you are all enormously clever and I
can guarantee that the minute you open your mouths
I'll have ridiculous adolescent-sized crushes on all
of you. Girls too, prolly. As I said, ridiculous.
But when I skip to "A Century of Elvis" I am reminded
of my own lad's cute brogue. Later I'll get him to say
"very", "fine, whatever", "maybe" and "berries" over
the phone line for my amusement. I don't ask for much,
just to have my bidding done, that's all. And also to
have random words recited so I may giggle at the
accentric pronunciations.
So what is the point of all this?
Self-indulgence? Mais bien sur. Isn't that what this
list is all about?
Okay, I've got content, too. And I'm not talking about
the throwaway B&S reference above.
Awhile ago (actually, kind of a long time ago, by
now), Stacey (dahling) asked us what we thought about
Sinister, about the friendships and relationships on
and around the list. I didn't say anything because I
didn't feel I had much to say. I've been here...oh, I
don't know, about seven months, and I still feel like
Mummy gave me my voice last week. The whole thing
feels a bit...big, I guess. Bigger than my world,
bigger than I have time to manage. And now that I have
the absolute slowest dial-up imaginable for the next
two months (while I'm here at home before I get out to
Glasgow for a YEAR!) I have even less of an
opportunity to figure it all out. My two attempts at
#sinister were rather pathetic, especially as they
represented my first and second times ever in a chat
room. Sorry, guys. But I'm not trying to accuse anyone
of coterieism or anything. I'm actually trying to pay
the list a compliment.
See, all the stuff I said up above, I don't really
have anyone to say that to. Even the boy kind of gets
it, but just kind of. I have not met any of you
(although I hope to remedy that starting the second
week of July or so) but I think that someone out
there, in the 1500 or whatever number we're at now,
will understand what I mean. Yes, it's silly, but it's
*me*. We're all very different people from very
different cultural and musical backgrounds, but I
still feel like when I spam the list with this
nonsense, someone will get it.
I know I talked about the list, but really I was
talking about you, Gentle Reader.
Hope everyone has fun at the Winchester Birthday /
Glasgow picnic / B&S gig and I'm insanely jealous I'll
be missing it by barely two months. Meh. Honestly,
didn't they get the memo about how the world revolves
around me?? By the way, I recommend two braids for all
the frizzy-haired concert-going sisters out there.
Cute, and keeps the curls under control.
Anyway. Night, kids.
(thank fuck for that)
marisa
p.s. What happened to the Poetry Parrot, by the way?
Hope he didn't get caught in the Bermuda Triangle.
Terrible things happen, I suppose. Poor wee guy. ms
______________________________________________________________________
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