hey! look at me! 2 posts in one week.
and it's 2am. so this one's gonna be short. as short as can be for one who is overly in love with writing. and talking. and the english language. and well... pretty much anything that deals with words.
*note to self* short.
i broke out my DCFC albums these past few days. (in case you arent acronym saavy: death cab for cutie)
they make me smile.
they remind me of fall.
and much like fall... elicit a shower of memory "leaves" some full of vibrant colors, others a bit faded, dull brown. wrinkled. and sometimes missing pieces where the "faulty cameras in [my] mind" are starting to wear the tape thin...
...listening to DCFC is...
... much like pulling a box of photos off the top shelf of your closet... and you, thinking that of course you dont need a ladder, hatch the brilliant plan that climbing on boxes and precariously perched shelves is perfectly safe. and just when you think you've mastered the jungle gym of a closet- sans ladder- you sneeze from all the dust you've kicked up, and of course it's the worst possible moment. and this is where you realize that: no, you dont have suction cups on your hands or feet... which means yes, you dont have a grip on the box (with your hands) or the shelves (with your toes) and that maybe this wasnt such a great idea after all... and you AND the box tumble backwards contents flying out (of the box, of course), and as you land with a thud... the once ordered pictures begin to rain down all around you...
death cab is like that. a lot like that. i see the albums in my itunes and think, of course i can listen to these... where clicking play is like the climbing the jungle gym closet... and then a line, a lyric, a riff.... the dust induced sneeze ... and i lose grip on the present, and fall back in time with memories flooding me at random. no chronological order. just falling all around me.
somtimes i love that feeling. othertimes i wish i had a helmet to protect from the heaviness of all the thoughts. to sit and ruminate on them. and then pack them back away for the next time i decide to pull the dusty [musical] albums off the shelf. (though music albums are clearly photo albums for me)
and im beginning to learn that even bad memories. those that hurt. the ones that are painful. the ones that make me uncomfortable. the ones i wish i had a helmet for. they are just as good as the glorious ones. they are the all a part of me. without any of them. i wouldnt be me. id be M. or E.
so with that. i bid you adieu. and while laying on my new twin sized bed thinking of things like what sarah said (love is watching someone die... so who's going to watch you die?) i'll eventually drift off to sleep, dreaming... of times past, and those to come, and the gulf between them... much like transatlanticism...
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