A menu of delight and despair

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I keep dropping and lifting the magical needle to hear the same '45 play over and over - 'it's all relative' - whilst at the same time knowing I am absolutely not a relativist. Does this make me a card-carrying hypocrite or merely reading the street-sign entitled 'confused'? I am rather unsure. Er, so, belated good tidings for Christmas and tentative greetings as we speed towards yet another New Year, and all that kind of m'larky. I guess I should offer up my sincere apologies for having very little to say just now. Sorry! I mean, I can't even provide you with a 'best of 2011' type of mix. Ooops. I might get to that by summer 2012, if my current workrate is anything to go by (but, I did post another mix over at 8tracks today, pop-pickers, and some of those songs were released this year!). But, unarguably, I will be a little more miserable during the next twelve months and thus, I am certain, have something more - something potentially interesting - to write about. As a dear friend reminds me, often, I am a fountain of absolute nothingness when not unhappy. Och, really, I can barely find the w... [edit]
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Standard Fare - 'Nuit avec une ami' (3.05)
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'You're a postcode lottery'. Oh no, that's another song. Anyway, buy this album as it is really good. It came out in March 2010, and all that, but I am just catching up.
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PS. The last post, written many days ago now, was eaten whole for DMCA reasons. Apologies for offending, er, Pearl Jam? :(

Ruffled feathers in a coldwave

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Fieldnotes #324
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Lost buttons and used chewing gum; spent matches and tarnished coppers. You search stolen pockets for what you thought was left behind from the night before it began. The loose change cascades into unemployment; stripped fortunes will melt pritt-sticked hearts. Across to the left, behind the till, a pretty girl with a turned down mouth and a fluffy coat waits patiently for a Latte that will take its time to arrive. Stubbed fingers drum in marching time, punching digit holes into an interesting Ikea-lite table. The boy's turtle-shell glasses continually slip down his nose and an index finger rescues the situation time over and again. Scarfs are worn inside, only the gloves are off (literally and metaphorically, as it transpires). You can tell this is a moment that isn't about to last; this is not a relaxed coffee catch-up of old friends or even ex-lovers. It is waiting to happen - and now. You stand to the side for your order, pretending not to witness what you are staring at; you just can't help it. And then she just says it, rather loudly as it turns out. He flinches, hunches and then jumps up in seconds; a pained expression masked in both longing and loathing. He makes to leave, a sugar dispenser hits the floor and smashes into a million pieces. Turning to catch his eyes, 'sorry' is all she can say even though she doesn't mean it. You can see the relief washing over her, like that first sip of coffee after a hard day's night.
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Afraid of Stairs - 'Tell him how you feel' (2.37)
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Step into the light, outside yourself. For a moment in time.
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Look through the round window

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She stares back like she means it; as he sees you, faking it weakly. Those hourglass waterfalls cascade down decorated window frames masking years of poor construction. Passing playmobil cars shuffle and dance, spinning out of time to erratic traffic lights on frozen city centre lakes. Reconstituted families move in bored silence through competing hordes to bargain bin promises within excluded galleries. In the wilderness, out on the steps, forgotten teens without coats or spatial awareness huddle together for meaningless gossip, infectious warmth and heavenly cigarettes. A still, mirrored reflection is caught with a shadow of her presenting utmost; as imagined and played on repeat in soundtrack form. We ache for the taste of Swedish regret in moments like these; passing through the day-to-day lives of others unknown as if we possessed a respectful right to observe, monitor and report. You point and click with tongues hanging out, notebooks at page one. We translate the action figures and reality scenary with error upon mistake upon misplaced empathy. We are they, you are us. It is that time of year: be kind, be true and wish for a hopeful Spring to arrive in tomorrow's, younger, arms. This embrace can never last like you really want it to for, as the song reminds us, "we're lost at sea".
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The Morning Paper - 'A newer taste' (4.26)
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It's getting clearer.
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