missroserose: (Warrior III)

^^The feels I'm having when I've literally just finished my internship and my studio manager emails me saying "hey, we've got a C2 opening up in September Mondays at 7:30 PM, do you want it? It's plenty of time to get you ready to teach C2s, and I'd love to have you in another prime time slot."

I mean, yeah, without a deadline I'll probably never push myself to get there, so I'm not going to say no. Breanne's not going to leave me hanging on training, and she wouldn't have offered it if she didn't think I'd be up for the challenge. And this is a huge compliment - Monday nights are super-prime-time for attendance. But whoa, that's...a little high-stakes, relatively speaking.

Good thing it's just yoga. :)


missroserose: (Default)
Massage work is picking up. I have a beautiful new tattoo. And I just accepted an intern position teaching at CorePower.

Spring has sprung.
missroserose: (Default)
{Stolen from Brian, since his morning-after Facebook writeup was far superior to my 1:30 AM groggy snarkfest.}

SCENE: A BEDROOM (interior, early morning, around 1:00am)

(Two people lay in bed, having just settled down for the evening. They have an early day tomorrow, and are about to drift off to a pleasant sleep. Suddenly, a crashing sound, from outside the room. Neither stirs, as these sounds are commonplace. The crashing noise, however, continues, growing more complex and, in fact, getting louder as the apparent source comes closer.)

ROSE: What is...?

(Shift to BRIAN'S point of view, without glasses. An orange blur shoots by the open door. The crashing noise has gotten even louder and more complicated. A moment later, this scene resolves into a dark comet of terrified TRIPOD KITTEN trailing an orange shopping bag filled with thrift-store ornaments and gifts hurtles into the room.)

BRIAN: Oh, Jesus Christ.

(The TRIPOD KITTEN bounces off the foot of the bed, scrabbles on the floor, then propels itself to BRIAN'S side of the bed. His nose wrinkles as certain smells become reality. The KITTEN has voided its bowels in terror indiscriminately as it has approached. Having at last reached the architect of its salvation, the KITTEN jumps onto the bed, still variously evacuating. BRIAN reaches over to the kitten and plucks the shopping bag off of its head with a resigned sound.)

ROSE: [Laughing herself sick]

BRIAN: (setting the bag aside, sighing, and petting the KITTEN) You stupid, stupid cat.

missroserose: (Default)
This morning, I got a Facebook message from my mother:

"Hi Ambrosia, Facebook now lets people choose a legacy contact to manage their account if something happens to them. Since you know me well and I trust you, I chose you. Please let me know if you want to talk about this."

Not thinking much of it, I responded with "We can if you want, but it seems pretty straightforward."

This evening, I get a follow-up: "Hi sweetie, that was a canned Facebook message – I would put something like 'hi darling girl – when I kick the bucket you're it!' Love, Mum"

Yup. That's my mum. <3
missroserose: (Incongruity)
I've been in Anchorage a few days now, and driving around quite a bit. It's still the town I grew up in, but it's also growing rapidly, even since I was here over Thanksgiving. I see more and more names I recognize from other places - Mens Wearhouse, Target, Massage Envy, Texas Roadhouse, Olive Garden, Sephora. Mid-tier chains and franchises that until now I've mostly associated with Tucson, or Phoenix, or Chicago. I even saw a sign for an outlet mall coming soon.

And yet, through it all, it's still Alaska. The Chugach range still sits to the east, watching in its timeless stoicism even as houses creep up along its foothills. Rather than groomed public parks with carefully-planted trees, most of the green is patches of wild overgrown birch and spruce forest left between even the newest housing developments. Wildlife wanders unafraid through people's yards, or visits the zoo of a morning.

Sometimes I feel like I can see the seams between the place I grew up and the place that's here now: the slightly brighter paint where such-and-such a section of the Dimond Center has been renovated to make way for a new anchor tenant, or the grocery store that now sits on the field where I used to braid daisy chains. Sometimes, if I tilt my head and unfocus my eyes a little, I can almost see them both there, in the same space at the same time, and I wonder if our nostalgic mourning for things lost is fundamentally shortsighted.


While colorful hair is not unknown here, it's somewhat rarer than it is in Chicago, and I thus get rather more comments when I'm out and about.  

The other day, I heard a little girl in a shopping cart squeal "She has pink hair!" I told her that where I live, there are people with pink hair and purple hair and green hair and blue hair and orange hair. Somewhat to my surprise, this didn't seem to shock her at all - in fact, she added with some certainty, "And violet!" I nodded and agreed, yes, violet hair was quite common.

I suspect that she already spends some time in a world where people have hair in every color of the rainbow. So I was merely confirming her knowledge that such a place had to exist in this world as well.


When I told my acquaintances that I was going to Alaska for a visit, I received numerous exhortations to post lots of pictures, mostly from my yoga friends.  I suspect they thought I was coming here to go hiking, or camping, or fishing, or any of the numerous (and wonderful!) outdoorsy opportunities, and would thus be posting pictures of Alaska's awe-inspiring landscape.

In truth, though I may wander out to Thunderbird Falls or a similarly-easy hike later, for now I'm pleased simply to spend time with my mother, who doesn't go many places other than home and work.  So here are some of my vacation pictures so far.

The house at the edge of the world
This is my mother's townhouse, which a local friend referred to recently as "the house at the edge of the world".  It's surprisingly apt - it's on top of the hill, overlooking the Seward Highway, an interstitial space if ever there was one.  In the summer it's a tree house, with the living room's large picture windows surrounded by birch trees in full leaf.  In the winter, it becomes a hilltop castle, overlooking mountains and rivers and even the ocean in the distance.

View from the edge of the worldThis is the view between two of the trees on the left in the previous photo.  Normally the Chugach range is visible here, but last night it went to bed early and pulled the cloud blanket up over its head.

My mother's living room
This is my mother's very comfortable living room.  I like to sit here with a lap desk and read or write letters while she bustles about in the kitchen behind me, or does beadwork nearby.

The path behind the house
This is a bike path that runs along my mother's subdivision.  Its destination (a business/shopping complex with a supermarket and a post office) is perhaps a bit prosaic, but it's surprisingly pretty along the way.  There's enough dense growth even in these cut-down little greenbelts to get whiffs of that proper mulchy forest smell, especially in autumn.  

An Alaskan attempt at charcuterie.Alaska, having long been ranked #50 out of 50 states when it comes to good restaurants, has been making great strides of late, especially in Anchorage.  Unfortunately, it's still got a ways to go, as this rather sad attempt at a "charcuterie board" at a passing-for-trendy local hotspot shows.  (Sharp-eyed readers may notice something missing.) Still, they're trying - they've got a nice mixture of relishes, here, and the presentation is nice.  And in all fairness, it was only half as expensive as a charcuterie board in Chicago.

Brian (by his own admission) has an Argo Tea problem, to the point where he will at times walk five extra blocks to get to an Argo Tea because "it's on the way".  I was entertained to find a rack of their pre-bottled tea at the Natural Pantry up here, and texted him this picture with the comment, "It's *always* on the way!"

Fireweed - my birthday flower
Growing up, we nicknamed fireweed my "birthday flower", because it always first starts to bloom in mid-July.  It's one of the things I truly miss about Alaska, and more than once I've tried to dye my hair this color.

Turnagain arm, just south of AnchorageSomething else I genuinely miss:  having drives like Turnagain Arm literally just south of town.  In Chicago, I almost never drive if I can avoid it - it's a chore, something you do to get from one place to another.  Out here, there are so many beautiful places only accessible by car.

Balcony garden
My mother's balcony garden always seems to me to be the essence of the phrase "a riot of color". You can almost hear those firecracker begonias crackling and popping, the strident purple pansies demanding your attention while the miscellaneous hubbub of the violas fills the cracks.
missroserose: (Default)
Alleyways aren't usually associated with nice smells. Generally, they're where the less pleasant odors of urban life end up - garbage, car exhaust, dump water, homeless people. The sad realities of high-density living that we don't want seen on our pristine streets.

And yet, the alleyway on my street in Chicago has the most amazing smell on summer evenings. The wood of people's back staircases, warmed from a whole day of sun, releasing its organic perfume. The savory smells of cooking, of smoked meat, as everyone breaks out their grills and slow-smokers. The spicy-sweet smell of pipe tobacco, the pungent citronella of candles burnt on patios. The delicate perfume of plants and flowers, released into the lovely dusk to mingle with the laughter and clink of glasses that lingers on the still air.

Rain, too, brings its own smell here; different from the cool crisp drizzles in the Pacific Northwest, or the overwhelming monsoons of the desert. Here, the rain brings a loamy sort of scent, warm and humid and vital, even as it washes away the dust and general grime of the environment.

Grow, that scent says. There is water here. It's warm and green; the soil is rich. Live. Thrive.

This is a good place to be.
missroserose: (Default)
{Crossposted from Facebook, because my expansive good cheer can't be confined to one social media platform.}

Had the afternoon off from classes. I went out and got waxed (yay short skirt season!), and then wandered around Lakeview in the nice weather admiring the newly-budded leaves on the trees and the newly-planted gardens in front of houses. My wanderings took me past Marshall's, where I went in and found a couple of great-looking dressy sleeveless blouses on the cheap. I took a wrong turning away from the train station, but wound up outside my favorite Jewish bakery with fifteen minutes to the next bus. (Bialy rolls and chocolate caramel pretzels, ho!) Now Brian's making dinner (shepherd's pie, because it's still chilly out) and I'm going to make drinks (mojitos, because it's nearly summer). And we're going to listen to beautiful music on our home sound system, and pet cats, and generally enjoy each other's company.

I am always grateful for my life. But I'm doubly grateful for the days when I can genuinely and thoroughly feel how lucky I am. I hope all of you are equally happy and content tonight. <3
missroserose: (Default)
In case anyone was wondering, this is what I look like while I'm reading kinky erotica.

(Credit to Brian for snapping the photo.)

missroserose: (Inspire)
This evening I went to a play. Or, really, thirty plays in one hour, performed in random order. Most were funny, if only in their absurdity. Several were insightful. A few were banal, or simply mystifying. But one in particular, titled "Apex", managed to fulfill the actors' stated goal of absolute truth.

The performer, a young black man, sat at an improvised table with a large chef's knife and fork. He talked, with obvious fondness, about how his young son loved animals, even though at two years old he wasn't able to grasp much about them aside from shapes and sounds. Certainly his son had little idea of how ecological systems worked, the performer said as he removed a bloody steak from a box; how the strong preyed upon the weak, how animals struggled and fought for their very existence, either by defending themselves from predators or by growing more effective teeth and talons to kill their prey. And, as yet, his young son had no idea how humans, with no natural predators, could get so bored with their position as apex predators as turn upon each other. To concoct systems of rules and competing priorities so labyrinthine as to produce horrible effects. To stand over the corpse of a six-year-old child and truly believe that this was a price worth paying to protect a 'liberty' enshrined in law more than two hundred years ago by people with perhaps more optimism than understanding of human nature. He did not know how he would explain this to his son. But it is the way things are, the dish we have set before ourselves, and he would do his best to swallow it.

I felt the way I did once as a child, when I slipped off a swing that moments before had been safely carrying me through the air, only to land on my back with shock-deflated lungs, unable, for a few terrifying moments, to remember how to breathe.

My feelings around this topic are a swirl as chaotic as the show that spawned this rumination. Horror, at the undeniability of this truth. Frustration melting toxically into impotent rage, at my perceived powerlessness to change it. Anger, at the majority world that turns a blind eye to such facts, because that's the easiest answer. Guilt, because I often do the same, and am afforded a position of such privilege where I am able to do so nearly constantly. But beneath it all, a horrible, empty sadness, because if it feels a terrible inevitability to me, it almost certainly does to everyone else. And our collective belief will indeed make it so.

I do not know how to fix this problem. I have no idea where, amongst the decades of tradition and the reflexive responses and the engrained paranoia and the entrenched cultural fear and anger, one might even start. But it is, indeed, the dish we have set before ourselves. And every day that I do nothing, I fear I partake of it as well.
missroserose: (Balloons and Ocean)
Phone: "Hello, is this Ambrosia?"
Me: "Yes, that's me."
Phone: "Hey, how's it going? I wanted to tell you we have your sex criminals."
Me: "...uhm. Is this the comics shop?"
Phone: "OH. Sorry. Yeah, this is XXXX at Alley Cat Comics. We have your Sex Criminals Vol. 1 that you ordered."
Me, laughing: "Okay, that makes a lot more sense."
Phone: "Wow. That was possibly the worst time to forget to introduce myself ever."
missroserose: (Balloons and Ocean)
--While reading this fantastic post on Renaissance Florence and Machiavelli to my mother (who studied Renaissance art and history in college), I commented that she and it were probably two of the biggest reasons I'd picked Italian as a language to learn in Duolingo, despite the fact that it was arguably the least practical of the available options. She laughed, and said "That's because the point of the Italian language, just like the point of Italian culture, isn't to be useful or practical - it's to be beautiful!" I thought she was being a little facetious, but after reading that post again, I'm not so sure. Still, it made me feel a little better about my choice - and determined to read more on the history of Florence.

--Upon the close of a wonderful houseguest experience with my musician friends Olivia and Colin, I was driving them back to the airport, and made a joke about how could they please leave Brian and me a nice Yelp review. A moment later, Colin piped up from the backseat: "Review: 2 out of 5 stars. Hosts were too good to be true. Suspect I was heavily drugged the entire time." Awww. <3

--Technically two moments, but - due to my CorePower Yoga Groupon being about to run out, I've talked this week to a couple of teachers whose classes I particularly enjoyed, telling them that I'm probably going to try a different and potentially more cost-effective option in the area, and their responses were identical: "No! You can't leave! Join our yoga-for-trade program!" (It looks like they have a program where do either cleaning or front-desk work for three hours a week, and they give you a free membership. Assuming 12 hours a month, that's well over $10 an hour in trade, which is a pretty good deal, especially when you're an artist type without a full-time job. So I may well look into it. Also that explains how they keep the studios/locker rooms so spotlessly clean.) Despite the relatively low level of socialization in the studio's culture, I've apparently managed to form relationships with the teachers without even realizing it. Hah. One of them commented "I'm always happy when you show up. I'm all "Oh, Rose is here! I love her, she always tries." Thanks...?
missroserose: (Inspire)
Anyone who's seriously tried to do creative work will tell you that it's difficult. (Most people who haven't, conversely, will think it's got to be pretty easy - you're just sitting around making things up, right? But I suspect that has a lot to do with our culture's devaluation of creativity, and frankly it's a discussion for another day.) It's difficult and demanding in a different way from standard, do-a-job-and-draw-a-paycheque work. The generative process doesn't conform to a schedule, it's not a case of "I can play with clay for five hours and have three sculptures ready for firing at the end of it". Sometimes you spend days (or weeks, or months) gestating a project, working hard to make it grow, only to discover that it's missing something vital and is essentially stillborn. And sometimes (all too rarely, but sometimes) you'll be doing your everyday activities, walking to the post office or whistling in the shower or about to drift off to sleep, and the tumblers will suddenly align in the back of your head and the key will turn and then OH MY GOD INSPIRATION I HAVE TO MUMBLE THIS SEMI-COHERENTLY INTO MY PHONE BEFORE IT'S GONE. (I suspect the bedmates of creative people must be some of the most patient people in the world. Also, I may need to invest in a waterproof phone case.)

In my case, last night that very thing happened and I suddenly had the answer to a question I'd been pondering, on and off, for more than a month. What makes it especially interesting (and gives rise to the "tumblers" metaphor, above) is how many layers such inspiration can have. The question ("What are you going to call your writing blog?") wasn't particularly important on the surface, but now that I have the answer, it's given shape to a number of questions and ideas I had that were previously far more formless. Some of this is almost certainly the power of naming to shape ideas, but some of it is, I think, the bottom-to-top nature of this kind of inspiration - it works itself out in your unconscious, slowly winding itself together through your subconscious until suddenly it pops out of the soil into your conscious brain, and you have an entire network of roots to plumb. (Pardon my mixed metaphors. It's not like I'm a writer or anything. :P)

On a more personal note (if also related to the wonderful way inspiration tends to send its roots into everything), I finally finished the short story that was supposed to be a day-or-two distraction and ended up taking two weeks and turning into a novelette before it was done. I'm actually pretty pleased with it, too. It needs some polishing, but with a bit of work - and copyediting, and a cover, because if I'm doing the self-publishing route, I'll be damned if it's not going to be professional - I think it will be saleable. And given that it's the first thing I've written all the way through with the active intention of putting it up for sale, that's a pretty positive outcome. Fingers crossed it doesn't turn out that I'm completely wrong and my beta readers (note to self: acquire some beta readers) send it back with a giant "HAHAHAHAA" scrawled on the first page. Metaphorically.

Funny moment: after finishing the story, and giving it a once-over, my first thought was - I shit you not - "Okay, time to head over to GoodReads and mark that as 'read'." I'm...honestly not sure if that's a good sign, or a bad sign, or just an indication of precisely how much time I've spent on GoodReads in the past year (reading and rating 109 stories in a year will instill certain habits, I suppose), but it made me laugh.

Worth it?

Jan. 12th, 2014 12:26 am
missroserose: (After the Storm)
Tonight's episode of Project Meet People In Chicago met with...mixed results.

To wit, it included:
  • Spending forty minutes looking for parking in a popular area of town on a Saturday night
  • Giving up and paying $10-plus-tip for valet parking
  • Attending a social meetup in a venue that turned out to be a little too noisy for conversation
  • Giving up after an hour or so, and going outside with plans to head home, only to discover that the valet attendant was nowhere to be found
  • Finding another, slightly less noisy (if still painfully trendy), place to have a drink while we waited for him to return
  • Waiting twenty minutes for our drink orders
  • Listening to the noise level in the second venue increase by 50% as the DJ slowly turned the music up and people started yelling to compensate
  • Paying $12 apiece for cocktails whose ambition far outstripped their execution
  • Making it out of there and finally finding the valet attendant an hour later, only to wait a good fifteen minutes in freezing cold before he finally showed up with our car
On the other hand, we did meet at least one semi-interesting couple before it just got too loud for conversation.  And then, while waiting for the attendant to bring our car around, the following exchange took place:

Drunk dudebro behind us:  "Whoa, check out this one's suit!"
Drunk Dudebro 2:  "Whoa, classy!  What's with the--"
Brian:  {turns around and looks at them}
DD 1:  "OH!  Okay!  Wow!  You're rocking that suit, man!"  {weaves off}
DD 2:
  "Seriously.  Keep it up."  {follows}
Designated Driver Dudebro, quietly in passing as he caught up:  "That is a pretty cool suit."
Brian, to me:  "Dudebros gotta step out of da closet, yo."
...Worth it. 
missroserose: (Partnership)
"Hey, we're playing at the Copper Queen on Sunday. You're still welcome."

Beneath my busker's smile, I spend what feels like a good ten seconds wracking my brain until something clicks. That's right, this was the "come to our acoustic-only jam/any instrument you plug in becomes an electrical appliance" guy who'd approached me last week. "Oh, that's so kind of you. But I'm probably going to be busy packing - I leave town in a week."

Unfazed, he smiles and tossed a dollar in my case - a full third of my take for the hour. "Ah well. You're welcome if you change your mind." And with a nod, that I return, he wanders off.

I'm picking out the opening to "Dust in the Wind" when Albert speaks up. "You don't belong with them."

For all that he shows up nearly every week to listen, Albert doesn't say much, and I nearly drop a note in surprise. "How do you mean?"

He shrugs, his western-style fedora bobbing as he moves his head back and forth. "They're nice folks, but they've got no talent."

I'm a little surprised - Albert is a self-professed lover of live music, and aside from the creepy cultist-Christian family that occasionally sings at the weekly farmers' market - "There's only so much singin' about God a man can take" - I've never heard heard him speak a word against any local musician. "Hey, I'm not going to to diss on someone else's music-making," I point out.

He shakes his head emphatically. "No, not like that. They have a good time. They're fun to listen to. But...you've got someone playing Bach, they don't belong with someone playing kazoo. You know?"
missroserose: (Partnership)
"Actually, I'm leaving town at the end of the month," I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over a truly mediocre attempt at "Hotel California".

Like most drunks, he didn't take the hint, instead applying his chemically-induced vivacity to this new twist in the conversation. "Oh wow! That's so cool! Where are you headed?"

For all his obnoxiousness, the enthusiasm seemed genuine, and I found myself warming toward him by a degree or two. "Chicago. I'm hoping to find a few more musical opportunities there."

Somewhat to my surprise, this didn't provoke another outpouring of well-lubricated joy. "Wow," he said instead, leaning back against the bar a little and blinking as the information penetrated the fog surrounding his brain. "You going to sing?"

"And play the guitar. I hope so." I took another sip of my suspicious vodka and cranberry, braving the off-tasting juice for the chance to hide exactly how much I was hoping so. How few backup plans, when it came down to it, I really had.

"Wow," he said once again, nodding. Then, with the unshakable and oddly convincing faith reserved for the fool, the young child, and the drunkard: "It'll happen for you." His nodding grew slow, almost portentous. "It'll happen for you. How could it not?"
missroserose: (Default)
Wandering down 4th Avenue in Tucson, I passed a young man who, almost under his breath, says "You are *beautiful*." Given that this is the college district, I imagine that might be some psychology homework going on, but it still made me smile.
missroserose: (Christmas Picard)
{A whole Christmas season and I haven't used my Picard icon once? Shame on me. Better fix that, even if it's not quite a perfect fit for the mood.}

Christmas has been lovely. Last night the Bisbee Royale (local bar/stage/venue that was refurbished and opened up this year) was showing A Christmas Story, which I'd somehow managed to miss all through my childhood. (Brian had been meaning to watch it with me, but he grew up with 24-hour marathons of it on TNT, so he'd never quite been able to work up much enthusiasm to rent it.) While I will happily agree with him that it's not a great movie, watching it half-blitzed on excellent cognac with a whole group of folks cackling equally loudly at poor Ralphie is possibly the ideal way to enjoy it. Especially when you have a husband to drive you home.

We did get home, and opened our presents; I got Brian a lot of silly toys from ThinkGeek, including a cuddly Portal turret to go with the cuddly Endeavour shuttle he got at the California Science Center (how did I forget to mention that we went to see Endeavour while we were in LA?), and he got me a couple of books and a lovely new shirt. The standout gift, though, had to be the gorgeous wine stopper our landlords gave us - it has a sculpture of a copper butterfly with the most gorgeous cloisonne work. My favorite kind of art: gorgeous, functional, and likely to get a goodly amount of use.

For Christmas Day, we invited our friends Evan and Michelle over to hang out while Brian made an amazing ham dinner. I even used a tablecloth and set the table and everything - I was a little surprised to find that over the years we've managed to accumulate some lovely Christmas dishes, nice glassware, candles, and a centerpiece. It's like we have an actual household with nice holiday things! Not that I'm complaining; mostly I was just a bit surprised, as I've never really set out to accumulate special china or what have you.

Now the friends have gone (taking some leftovers with them, thankfully), and the house is quiet once more. I feel like there should be softly falling snow outside, though of course there isn't (it's 46 degrees out, after all). And I feel...not let down, exactly. But contemplative.

Honestly, I've always found the tail end of Christmas to be a far more contemplative/wistful time than New Year's. New Year's is exciting; it's the beginning of another cycle, full of all sorts of possibilities. Christmas, especially the end of Christmas...it's another year done with. Everything important, all the big milestones and events and plans, are over. You're just in that strange week-long limbo until the calendars all tick over and you can start something new.

(Now that I think on it, it's always felt odd to me, that week between Christmas and New Year's. Poised between two stages, as it were. I'm almost certain I've read about various indigenous cultures that had terms for that state of in-betweeness, often with rather interesting beliefs about it - a child who had reached their age of majority but not yet completed their rite of passage into adulthood, for instance, was in some cultures thought to be without a soul (having given up their childhood soul but not yet gained their adult one). I remember as a kid thinking that this last week of the year felt oddly...empty, somehow. Like a held breath, just waiting for the right moment to let it all out.)

It's been a good year in many, many ways. Brian and I have managed to get better at communicating and to improve on more than a few issues in our relationship. I bought a guitar and have been learning to play it (although it seems weird to think that I've been playing for less than a year; it's really felt more like I've always been a guitarist, and just been on break for a while, and am reminding myself how it all goes again). I traveled to the East Coast for the first time, and spent some time with a good friend while also meeting the nifty people he lives with/around. I auditioned for a prestigious music school, despite it being [a] scary as hell, [b] quite a bit of effort and [c] a long shot anyway. I went back to Alaska and saw people I miss greatly, while also confirming my hunch that, frankly, I've outgrown the place.

But I think I'm ready to move on. This next year promises to be interesting, though so far it's been coy as to the details. And the only way to find them out, really, is to go forward.

Onward and upward...


Oct. 10th, 2012 09:39 am
missroserose: (Psychosomatic)
"Sometimes I think you're so focused on making sure that you don't care enough about anything to be disappointed by it that, when you actually do decide to care about something, you don't have any coping mechanisms to deal with it."

--Brian, on why even just the thought of possibly maybe attending music school is enough to keep me tossing and turning all night


Oct. 10th, 2012 09:39 am
missroserose: (Psychosomatic)
"Sometimes I think you're so focused on making sure that you don't care enough about anything to be disappointed by it that, when you actually do decide to care about something, you don't have any coping mechanisms to deal with it."

--Brian, on why even just the thought of possibly maybe attending music school is enough to keep me tossing and turning all night
missroserose: (Psychosomatic)
That strange, paradigm-shifting, serious-o.O-faced moment when you hear a song you've always previously dismissed as period-pop-pap of the aggressively-banal "High school is the best years of your life!!!" sort, only to realize that it contains lyrics like these:

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?

Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for the sad men

Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
Praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The music's played by the mad men

So, uh...yeah. Well played, Alphaville. Well played.

(Also, the video looks like several early Tim Burton movies swirled together with a bit of Python and a dash of cheesy period sci-fi to boot. Surprisingly entertaining.)


missroserose: (Default)

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