Franz Ferdinand
The scales fell from my eyes. Perhaps live bands are lost to me now. They were good. Very good. Even their new stuff worked. But I understood what was going on and, inevitably, understanding is debilitating. Not at the time. Hips and shoulders moved in an involuntary way, and not just to avoid the shattered bunch of boys in front. Post consideration is the problem.
Apparently the under 18s were behind the barrier. Maybe they were emo. Maybe they were just the generation after Y and therefore unfathomable.
I think I know what the people standing around me bought into. Does that make me clever? I bought into it too. I kid myself that I'm here for the art. The visceral. The guts and the brains of it, but the right parts of each, not like everyone else who's here for the product.
Is it all a product, even sheer excitement? What if I can find that kind of excitement now elsewhere in more prosaic things? Perhaps I don't need a sweaty hall? Don't need to know how it works, just that it does. They are them. I am me. I feel superior.
Then the past and future collide. It's unsettling to my grip on the now. And just plain unsettling. I find myself repeatedly replacing but with and and vice versa.
He tells me Happy New Year with no sincerity. I try a new mental take to balance the retrograde rejection bank. At the time of course it was in his favour. Me at his considerable feet. What do I understand now? I understand that rejection happens in a moment and also over a considerable time. I understand that (probably) he rejected me over a considerable time because I rejected him in a guarded moment. Eleven years ago.
The lead singer used to be taller. Surely. Especially when he did that pistol gesture with his thumb and forefinger in 2005. Tonight, though, he seems tired and therefore eager to converse on his own turf, but somehow our turf too. The Apartment. Picnic at Hanging Rock. A copy on the coffee table in the gloomy lounge room made for cable television and a pop-art picture of a small yacht on a pixelated ocean. Almost a week now. Miranda...
We walk out past the security guard who donned a pair of black lycra gloves in order to warn the shattered boys.
But today as I drove to work a man who used to play guitar for the Uncanny X-Men walked along the street carrying a can of paint. I knew not only where he was going but that he was going there to paint the floor.
The moon is no more than a quarter yet bright as I walk down the slope toward the railway line. A man wiith two dogs on the opposite side of the street makes to speak to me. My new heels are loud on the blackness below and I do not hear what he says.
(p.s. Lindsay, we're really sorry, we went to Franz Ferdinand but we could only get three tickets.)
Apparently the under 18s were behind the barrier. Maybe they were emo. Maybe they were just the generation after Y and therefore unfathomable.
I think I know what the people standing around me bought into. Does that make me clever? I bought into it too. I kid myself that I'm here for the art. The visceral. The guts and the brains of it, but the right parts of each, not like everyone else who's here for the product.
Is it all a product, even sheer excitement? What if I can find that kind of excitement now elsewhere in more prosaic things? Perhaps I don't need a sweaty hall? Don't need to know how it works, just that it does. They are them. I am me. I feel superior.
Then the past and future collide. It's unsettling to my grip on the now. And just plain unsettling. I find myself repeatedly replacing but with and and vice versa.
He tells me Happy New Year with no sincerity. I try a new mental take to balance the retrograde rejection bank. At the time of course it was in his favour. Me at his considerable feet. What do I understand now? I understand that rejection happens in a moment and also over a considerable time. I understand that (probably) he rejected me over a considerable time because I rejected him in a guarded moment. Eleven years ago.
The lead singer used to be taller. Surely. Especially when he did that pistol gesture with his thumb and forefinger in 2005. Tonight, though, he seems tired and therefore eager to converse on his own turf, but somehow our turf too. The Apartment. Picnic at Hanging Rock. A copy on the coffee table in the gloomy lounge room made for cable television and a pop-art picture of a small yacht on a pixelated ocean. Almost a week now. Miranda...
We walk out past the security guard who donned a pair of black lycra gloves in order to warn the shattered boys.
But today as I drove to work a man who used to play guitar for the Uncanny X-Men walked along the street carrying a can of paint. I knew not only where he was going but that he was going there to paint the floor.
The moon is no more than a quarter yet bright as I walk down the slope toward the railway line. A man wiith two dogs on the opposite side of the street makes to speak to me. My new heels are loud on the blackness below and I do not hear what he says.
(p.s. Lindsay, we're really sorry, we went to Franz Ferdinand but we could only get three tickets.)
posted by noonie at 12:42 AM
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