Sunday, August 16, 2009

Sundays, lyrics, rhetoric and other such bollocks.

she was all right cause the sea was so airtight she broke away
she was all right but she can't come out tonight she broke away (Interpol - Stellar Was A Diver)

I hate Sundays. They are tepid days always fuelled with the faint feeling of impending homework or lately, riddled with hangovers. Today, I am in St. Kilda hoping that instead of smoking rollies and finishing the last night’s wine, covered in last night’s make-up, some sea air might convince me that Sunday’s aren’t entirely loathsome. I follow my nose to the beach, passed vegetarian restaurants, dimly lit bars and crab stalls until I catch it - that faint smell of salty air between a mixture of coffee and nicotine that hangs around the cafes invitingly. As I walk down a white-washed backstreet (I don’t know the area at all, I am literally chasing the smell) I see that first glimpse of the sea.

all this time you were chasing dreams,
without knowing what you wanted them to mean. (Jose Gonzalez - Cycling Trivialities)

What is it about the ocean that enthrals us humans so? The mystery of nature perhaps? The seemingly endlessness? To me the it is the day time equivalent of looking up at a starry night sky. (Though it often conjures up childhood nostalgia and the left-over guilt of skipping school to hang around with boys at the beach.) Looking at it gives you that terrible smallness that is so torturingly enjoyable, almost like an out of body experience or a shot of tequila.

we'll cut the whip and lose the anchor
as long as you jump the ride (Joan As Police Woman - The Ride)

All that beauty that we don’t understand at all. A feeling of shallow loneliness washes over me, thinking this, and I quickly change the music I’m listening to… something upbeat… ah, hip-hop.

don’t you go and let the world bring you down (Shapeshifter - Electric Dream)

I fear anything acoustic might Do Me In.

Now that I’m sitting, journal pressed against me, away from the wind, sun probably gleaming off my white forehead I dare to put on something melancholy.

but alas, I cannot swim
I'll live my life regretting that I never jumped in (Laura Marling - Alas, I Cannot Swim)

To maybe tap into some poignant, some trapped genius that may/may not be lurking in my lentil-burger-flavoured-breath. What is the best condition for us writers to write? Between the thirsty hours of midnight and day break? In this indulgent loneliness - when we seem compelled to act on some Sylvia Plath-like desire to drown ourselves? Should we be falling in or out of love? Should we have been neglected by our mothers and have a father complex? Should we have our tongues planted firmly in our cheeks? Should we be perpetually penniless and drunk forever? Or on some sort of Benzedrine high or look heroin chic? Writing is understanding, isn’t it? But I am twenty-one and have absolutely no clue to the workings of the human condition…

I know when you hear these sappy lines
You'll roll your eyes and say "nice try" (The Shins - Pressed in a Book)

Oh, sod all this, where did I leave that wine?