Thursday, April 27, 2006

Bad Beige Moments

Hiberno Llorando
Llorando al Primero
Llorando Llorando
Llorando Murio

What particular shade of shit do I feel like I’m eating now?

My fingers, heavy, I drag across the keyboard.

I really feel very bad.
(speaking of which where my Necks CD?)

Bits of me are dying. This feels like death, grief, hell.

I need to sob
With who? Where?

Another fucker told me I look fabulous tonight.

I feel

Fucking terrible

And yet I cope, have coped, will cope.

Today in the shower I flirted with a brief hysteria – maybe there’s something biological in all this? Like some cancer or some nice medical condition. Pack it up and give it a label that takes it out of me, out of my control to face, hold and heal from it.

People break up from seven and half year relationships all the time with no side effects, right?

Sometimes when things are really bad, all you can do is shut down, curl up and cry.

Fuck her fuck her fuck her for doing this to me..

May she endure a million poxy curses on her soul. Please let her rot in some hell of her own making

Please let it be far away from me so I don’t have to notice, remember, suffer.

Make this pain end soon. Make me stronger.

Writing this, imagine wild happy music, crazy screeching trumpets, funky rhythms, and nasal Habanero accent singing:

Siempre ta boca me dice
milonga murio

Ok my Spanish is still shit.

Crazy fucking baroque trumpets up and down,
Bold as brass
Musical screams orchestrated drowning out my internal sobs

This is why I love mambo

And the lyrics?

Winter Crying
Crying until Spring
Crying Crying
Crying to death

Always your mouth says to me
Death Milonga

Remember this is damn uppity dance music (got the CD off my salsa dancing flatmate)
And picture an old gym in Sydenham full of glammed up thirty somethings swinging their hips gleefully to the lyrics.
They don’t know what they mean.
Or do they?

Life is too damn sweet sometimes – and I think dancing is a fucking great alternative to crying – but it ain’t too far separated from it either.

For the first 3 years after my brother died, I couldn’t listen to any sort of trumpet music. Even now Miles and Thelonious are pretty touchy.

What took me back?

Extreme sports trumpet

The kind that grabs you like a small child yelling happily in your face – no room for tears – this is life!

Grief, all grief is the slow creep of death. Death is life’s dark silent shadow – that sometimes sneaks its nasty fingers round our insides. My insides at present.

Coming from an anally retentive acculturated ethnicity of beige, it’s pretty hard to know what the fuck to do about it really.

Stiff upper lip, hold yourself straight (hah!), make jokes, get pissed, but not too pissed right? Drag yourself round like some carapace of tragedy for a bit – but not too long right – people don’t really know what to say, and they get bored fast.

Make it entertaining

Make it pass.

I don’t know what answers there are in hell world; it’s sad, slow bitter misery.

There are always advantages to acute pain. The bad beige ditties of Huey Luis have at least ebbed away and the let the tide of poorly translated Spanish fragments take their place.

Bits of French dribble out of me too. Miss it miss it miss it. It’s gone.

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