I’ve been listening to this song on repeat. Pixies. One of those bands that everbody says is great, rah rah rah, and I’ve never listened to. Final part of Fight Club has this song play as Norman Rockwell takes whassnames hand as the buildings come down. It’s fucking brilliant. The guy’s voice is raw, strung out, you’d think it’d annoy, but instead it captivates, and you listen as he changes registers, drops to an almost laconic conversational tone and then ratchets it back up to the near hysterical, chiding mother-in-law quasi screech. The guitars at times a raw thrum, then dropping back into a lilting refrane, melancholic and awesome. Melanchawesome. I’m going to find more of their stuff. Get myself an education.
I like bland beige carpeting. The kind you find in new apartments, the pile pseudo soft and thick, the edges not quite meeting the walls right, revealing small tufts with their plastic undergridding. I like the smell of them, the feel against your cheek as you just lie down, sprawl out, relax. There’s something about cardboard walls, beige carpets, white paint, popcorn ceilings, formica counters, generic porcelain toilets, white plastic blinds, folding shutter style closet doors with their endless slats. Those wire shelves like pretzels dipped in white chocolate. That clean, impersonal smell. That sense of endless rooms, houses multiplied down the block, throughout the neighbourhood as if one Platonic ideal were caught between twin mirrors and expanded throughout eternity.
What’s up with drum circles? Can you really get that much variation in anything but rhythm? Are fires essential? Can you drum more than 30 minutes before getting bored? Is booze a requirement? I don’t get it. I know its a link to our more primitive past, an honored instrument, etc, but so what? I get drums when mixed in with guitars, bass and whatever. But just a circle of drums? Dunno, mate.
I love the apartment in the 5th Element. The compact utility of it. In college, I stayed a summer to bum around. I was erroneously assigned to a room the size of a closet. Just barely enough room for a bed, a desk, and nothing else. You had to squeeze between the two to reach the window. The foot of the bed cramped the closet. If you through a tennis ball, hard, it’d bounce six times before hitting the floor. I loved it. No waste of space. Focused, as if architecture had been refracted through a compact lens into its essential basics. Not that I’m a fan of Murphy beds, per se. I like seeing the bed. Being able to flop down on it at a moments notice. But I could deal with it, if I could get a package 5th Element deal.
Where is my mind.
Where is my mind.