A new song. Forgive the roughness... I put down some voice-over vocals.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sacred Memories with My Sister
I'm seven or so, and already an aspiring artist. I sit in my sister's room, while the pencil in my hand makes careful and deft movements. Occasionally I glance at her, seated at her desk, beneath her True Love Waits poster. Hunched over her own pad of drawing paper, dressed in a jumper made by our grandma, she oozes awkwardness. But not to a boy wearing a heather gray sweatshirt with a duck painted on it. While she specializes in drawing trees and human faces, my forte is in the realm of lifelike animals. Mainly the Teenage Mutant variety.
I'm fifteen. I'm in my sister's room again. Her stereo is much better than mine, and holds 5 discs to my 3. We sit, talk about our dating lives (rather, ambitions), and devour music. We've come a long way since 4Him, Lisa Bevill, and Benji Bear and Squittle Squirrel. With downcast eyes, we bob our heads as we breathe deeply the notes, the melodies. We don't simply listen. We ingest and digest. We gnaw and worry and work out their meanings. Billy Corgan, Chris Cornell, and Stephen Jenkins never had a team of more honest, more devout critics. It was edgy and honest, and holy. Later that year, I stole a peek my sister's diary and found out that she swears.
I'm twenty-five. My wife and I sit across the table from her. Our conversation is nearly as dense as the cigarette smoke above our heads, and our solutions to our convoluted lives as cloudy as the beer in our cups. Husbandless, directionless, virtually godless, my sister tears her heart out of her chest and squeezes, spilling and spraying all of us. We argue, we sip, we laugh, we share, and we stare at the table. Never was there more beauty in the breakdown.
I'm fifteen. I'm in my sister's room again. Her stereo is much better than mine, and holds 5 discs to my 3. We sit, talk about our dating lives (rather, ambitions), and devour music. We've come a long way since 4Him, Lisa Bevill, and Benji Bear and Squittle Squirrel. With downcast eyes, we bob our heads as we breathe deeply the notes, the melodies. We don't simply listen. We ingest and digest. We gnaw and worry and work out their meanings. Billy Corgan, Chris Cornell, and Stephen Jenkins never had a team of more honest, more devout critics. It was edgy and honest, and holy. Later that year, I stole a peek my sister's diary and found out that she swears.
I'm twenty-five. My wife and I sit across the table from her. Our conversation is nearly as dense as the cigarette smoke above our heads, and our solutions to our convoluted lives as cloudy as the beer in our cups. Husbandless, directionless, virtually godless, my sister tears her heart out of her chest and squeezes, spilling and spraying all of us. We argue, we sip, we laugh, we share, and we stare at the table. Never was there more beauty in the breakdown.
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