Detached Extracts...

vampireweekday:

Okay so usually every day (I’ve been slacking lately it’s only been a couple of times a week oops) I search google and youtube for “LP3” and “Vampire Weekend LP3” and obviously nothing ever comes up but I’ve been hopeful and just now I searched google and nothing came up but then I searched youtube and I came across this titled “VW_lp3_track_6_demo_ver_3_take_2_01-06-2012.mp3”

Which obviously is a file name that stands for “Vampire Weekend LP3 track 6 demo version 3 take 2 January 6, 2012” (seems kind of excessive omg) and it was uploaded on March 7, 2012, it already has almost 30 views and it was uploaded the user fernandolodeiro1

So I did some research and googled his name (Fernando Lodeiro) and he has a website but nothing Vampire Weekend came up so I googled (Fernando Lodeiro Vampire Weekend) and on the first page the Contra wiki page came up and if you scroll almost all the way down under “Production” look whos name comes up!! It says Fernando is the engineering assistant (I looked on the wiki page for the self titled and he wasn’t there) so anyways to confirm I looked in the Contra booklet (you can too if you own Contra) and on the second last page near the bottom it says “Engineered by Rostam Batmanglij, Shane Stoneback and Justin Gerrish, assisted by Fernando Lodeiro”

So in conclusion this seems pretty legit and it sounds like them and wow of COURSE I listened to it and I can’t even handle myself I can’t put anything into words so for your listening pleasure, here is an audio post of the song. Enjoy bbs!!

This indecision is killing me, literally. There are five drinking vessels on the desk beside me. One is an opalescent gaudy terracotta, cute cup missing it’s saucer. It’s empty though. Also there is gaudier, schlocky, glass with neon yellow doughy text: “SCOOBY-DOO!” it reads and below that a cartoon image of a van with wheels, primary colours all the same. Yet the glass isn’t important, it’s what keeps sliding down through my parted lips which is of greater concern. Saccharine but acrid aftertaste, they call the flavour amaretto.  Then there are three other glasses, two of similar size to the cartoon glass but without the element of pop culture. Between them both a taller one, embracing pop culture at its apogee: “Coca-Cola” filled with a luxurious yet ineffective yellow liquid. It, I suppose, is the most natural product on this desk. The two other smaller glasses are also filled with liquid. The riveting clarity of one glass blocked a third of the way up with a cherry colour, where the light catches it there are small shapes the colour of a red traffic light. Finally the other smaller glass has in it something with the tone of dehydrated urine, rusting.

I’ve had it with the caustic Amaretto, I’ve moved on to the, what I realise is now luminous cherry liquid. It’s nice but the niceness is dulled by a lurking acridity so I pour it into the orange juice: it turns a dangerous cranberry red. I realise I’ve corrupted nature.

As I continue to take drinks at regular intervals my eyes make passing glances to the left, to my crazily patterned duvet cover, bitter colours of the entire spectrum rising and falling like one of those machines in a hospital. You see them on the Soaps and trashy dramas, you see it when it is normal, creepy mountain shapes and then its suddenly irrational, the peaks becomes mere humps, and then it’s flat, flat and normal, peaceful and dead. Yet I can’t remember what the machines called. Presently I can’t remember much.

yet i am back. I never did go. Think of it as an unintended hiatus, vacuous memory. Also creating new blog: fashion inspiration for myself. 

Making many clear cut lifestyle changes and I like it. Steely changes. Gleaming metal, strip of blood, water. Slicing (that type).

Oh how lovely it is.

See you on Friday for some ruminations.

:)

I sometimes feel I am floating around in a soft brown swamp of coffee, perhaps it is karma for all the disposable Styrofoam cups I have thrown into litter bins. It is probably an omen of the third circle of hell, which undoubtedly I will have to languish in after I die. Although I wonder how many other people meander around in coffee for most of their lives. Alice’s mum as an example consumes seven mugs of the stuff a day. It must deluge her body: I’ll have to listen carefully next time I see her, see if I can hear it swamping around in her, glugging.

But why do we drink it then, or tea, hot chocolate even? - don’t think you can get out of this so easily. I mean drink it excessively, drinking it like people smoke cigarettes or gnaw away at chewing gum. Humans have a prerequisite for distraction to do things: we have Churchill drawing languidly on a cigar, someone else chewing, and anybody else sipping intently during an evening out. Even in sincerest but halcyon conversation with our friends outside in a swathing heat of summer we won’t look at each other intently, we’ll be picking grass, or looking out in front of ourselves. Eye contact isn’t earnest, it’s what you do in interviews when you’re projecting to somebody else an unobtainable functionality. Look me in the eye: I will tell you about who nobody is.

We instinctively bypass focus. We want to buy the time not sell it to another thing, person. Even Dante’s brown swirling pit of excrement is third time lucky: if shit and slush are falling perpetually down on you, at least you don’t have to think about lying in the stuff. Why, though do we have to be there and not be there, even often when what we actually want is simply to be in that one place, ubiquitously and finally? It is at this point I surrender.

I glance to my right and see the etched lustre of the undulating silver coffee flask. It swishes with coffee, and I drink some. I never do get to the answer.

werewolf-weekday:

Um…yeah.

Source: j-anice

“A word after a word after a word is power.”

Margaret Atwood

Here is where the action begins in this new year, another new day. It is a spectacular year: 2012 is the Olympics, a leap year, immolation; yet our own experiences are suffused through these epic cornerstones. 2012 is just as much the kettle breaking and the Television pixelated as you watch some swimmers swimming in a swimming pool, late July in a decadent building, London. Drifting like the waves behind the swimmers in the distorted spot light reflections.

Yet you/I needn’t drift, it’s just that it’s easier to drift. As we can not walk on water we must plunge into it and that takes effort, not to mention 365 days of courage - allow one day to loll each year. The waves, though, take us to places we do not wish to go as I found out earlier today, or perhaps just realised once again.

I arrived at 8:30am after around four hours and thirty minutes of sleep, to be informed by a crinkling lady with jaundice streaks in her hair and a voice loaded with the deceptive glee of nonchalance that “You don’t have to be here till 10:15: it’s just us saddos that have to be here this early.” Another lady of a similar appearance but of a heftier stance later elaborated that this meant I must leave at 2:30pm rather than 12:30pm. I didn’t agree.

So I have plunged into 2012. In trepidation of what I must do tomorrow my body stirs: monochrome images in my head of the people I must tell and the entire workforce aghast that I dare refuse to work. It is filthy to refuse to work, especially as a person under the age of 25, today. I am bound into a net, either the one on the left or the right. My renunciation of my duties is reprobate insolence or a depraved example of the incorrigible idleness of British youth today. Shit.

Yet to think shit you are required to care about your reputation, even if (Joan Jett style) it is a bad reputation. When I didn’t agree today, when I left before the time I should have, reputation was put aside. There was no fear. Reputations prosper under fear, so let’s be without fear, or we’ll/you’ll coast to were we don’t want to be, nor are wanted (which is exactly were 2:30 pm is).

Rostam is absolutely gorgeous on this, but really that song!!! FANTASTIC

(Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa, Reading 2008)

WHY would somebody want to tweet something indirectly at you?

Prologue:

This something was a facetious remark about a previous few tweets which were all quotes from a small selection of books by my favourite author - Margaret Atwood in case you wonder. The tweet regarded how some people have to type quotes from books because other people don’t read as “enthusiastically in their heads”. Well I must say that I myself don’t read enthusiastically in my own head when I read: I prefer to ascertain the tone of the prose and read  (if either apply) with as much enthusiasm or despondency as is required.

This tweet also rested on the incorrect presumption that I was reading a single book by Margaret Atwood at the time. In fact I have not been reading a book by Atwood since the summer, and don’t intend to till 2012. If this conceited and persnickety girl had read the source of the quotes I tweeted she would have understood that I was quoting from two books, as well as Atwood herself, in a matter of single figured minutes between each quote. I was clearly reading a single book which was so enlightening I had to quote a sentence from it every four lines… Unless she thinks I  can multi-read: a sentence from one book, a sentence from an other book?

Hypocrisy:

However aside from the quaint trivialities of my life (relative to all other ones), the internet’s social networks: Twitter, Facebook, and low and behold Tumblr have become a platform of Oratory for every malignant person and every irate thought. Particularly on Facebook some people have adopted a sort of hypocritical stance of posting in which one reproaches others for their depraved attempts to seek likes: “Stop sharing your photo you ugly cow - how desperate can you get for likes”. For these snippets of conventional wisdom, these people receive likes in double figures from other users, therefore continue to hold in contempt a minority of users (which creeps into the majority of users when they must find another quirk of people to criticise). However by then the majority don’t mind been scorned as they absolve themselves from their wrongs in a click of the word “like”. The word “like” no longer represents association: it is instead the cornerstone of separation: I like it therefore I am not what I have liked.

It is a pity that we are so keen to assert a moral order on the internet: what could have been anarchy has become opportunist authoritarianism. A status or tweet or blog is the truth of the powerful and not so powerful (you don’t need the shield of body language to confront or condemn a visage of a person in your mind or on a screen). Alas, the weak, the vulnerable, tweet the untruth. We are right and they are wrong: and they are always in the minority.

I am them, not us. I will state what is false and I will be hated for it. As the aristocracy of the internet orators ubiquitously quote on their profiles: “better to be hated than loved for what you’re not”.

because he’s dazzling. :)

I’ll attribute it to anxiety.

Anyway I will be posting tomorrow (anew) - It has been ages since I last posted and there won’t be much more flailing of furniture (for now anyway). Temporarily feeling stable…

How can I face every day?

Confined to such sinister

dissolution.

Here’s how I have so far: from splitting out lyrics and waving around my hands.

I then scramble off the cabinet of my room and I am a catastrophic mess on the floor:

What I feel: Expressionism, the abstract kind.

Sprawled vitrolically across, through and off this canvas,

I scribble words, the words even I, yet, can’t comprehend.