You're living for nothing now

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Tori Amos: Famous Blue Raincoat (Live)
- Another one for my funeral playlist. I still recall the first time I heard it on a bootleg (Titled Under The Covers) that was copied one cassette at a time via the Tori mailing list's hey days in 1994. I recall it b/c the tape had Tori singing "American Pie" the night Kurt Cobain died. It also had the first time she did a bunch of other covers like "Boys in the Trees" and "Wrapped Around Your Finger"

Thank God for modernity, who needs to find old cassettes when there's YouTube.

This may be my least favorite cover of it, that fucking saxophone is maddening: Jennifer Warnes - Famous Blue Raincoat

The rise and rise of Leonard Cohen’s once-forgotten classic

+ VIDEO: Hallelujah! The rise and rise of Leonard Cohen’s once-forgotten classic
Over 360 recordings and thousands of performances later, Hallelujah's lyrical mix of the sacred and the secular has graced the repertoires of artists as diverse as Jeff Buckley and Susan Boyle, and continues to appear in movies, television dramas and talent contests around the world.



being a playlist in unknown parts(posts)

a soundtrack to myself.  to feel one way or another about life. a coded soul status. feeling like I'm in the wrong time line, these things keep me alive.


" future wife is probably doing her calculus homework right now..."

“Most people live through the day with this or that part of their mind in a happy state of somnolence: a hungry man eating a steak is interested in his food and not, say, in the memory of a dream about angels wearing top-hats which he happened to see seven years ago; but in my case all the shutters and lids and doors of the mind would be open at once at all times of the day. Most brains have their Sundays, mine was even refused a half-holiday.”

— Sebastian Knight in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, by Vladimir Nabokov (via)

I've had a terrible and stressful day. I have to move in a few days and I detest moving. This year's excursion back to Austin was a catastrophic failure. I am ruined. Thank Buddha for my Mistress. She called me and I was able to loose myself in our intellectual conversation of secret origins, missing histories and youthful romances. It added some levity to my agitated state. We are both age-gap inclined so I made her laugh by saying that my future wife is probably 15 at the moment and doing homework, she'll find me in a few years when she's 18. I was trying to emulate the same age difference between my mistress and her very lucky future husband. Making her laugh is the best. Even though all you read is my depressive side here, I think she would attest to how funny I am on the phone. Today I realized just how much truth there is to my principal personal maxim: "I like Smart Girls in Short Skirts", being that two of my closest girlfriends are a doctor in training and a lawyer. I should have been a professor. Teaching and introducing "Lolita" to a new class every semester. Annotating "The Dark Knight Returns" for fun as an extra credit project (I tried to do this in High School and I convinced my English teacher into reading the book and appreciating it). Making fun of Dave Eggers and a long list of elitist literary twats. Elevating the prose issue of Detective Comics by Grant Morrison into the curriculum. Obviously Batman would be my hero with a 1000 faces of choice for discussion. Visiting all the places in Canada portrait in Beautiful Loosers for summer classes on the one book that blew my mind open when I was 18. I would be a peculiar professor no? Affairs with students: optional. This is making me want to watch "Wonder Boys". It's the middle of the night and the silence dictates I put the kind of movie that feels like a safety blanket. Something to make me feel better. "Lost In Translation" it is.  

your relentless absence


When I am at the centre
of my unrequited love
I cannot hold it as an object
It has no sharp edges
to torture anyone
I breathe the fragrance
of the longing
and the longing
has no proprietor
“O my love” embraces
the great wide sky
as the night picks through
the constellations
lifting necklace
after dripping necklace
for the delight
of Leonard’s true beloved
“O my love” cries out
from every pore of snow
and the forest answers
from a great height:
“O my love”
And one heart appears
and one heart dissolves
and they clasp in the place
where I am held up
in the storm
And I walk to you
on the waves of desire
walk across the distance
with something new to tell you
about your beauty
your good legs
and your relentless absence

your pen scratches at the heart of life


Dark poet

Dark poet, the breast of a virgin
haunts you,
bitter poet, life boils
and the city burns,
and the sky sucks up its rain,
your pen scratches at the heart of life.

Forest, forest, eyes swarm
over the multiple pine seeds;
hair of the storm, poets
ride off on horses, on dogs.

Eyes rage, tongues curl,
the sky rushes into nostrils
like a nourishing blue milk;
women, hard vinegar hearts,
I am hanging from your mouths.

—Antonin Artaud

the room, the bed


You have the lovers,
they are nameless, their histories only for each other,
and you have the room, the bed, and the windows.
Pretend it is a ritual.
Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,
let them live in that house for a generation or two.
No one dares disturb them.
Visitors in the corridor tip-toe past the long closed door,
they listen for sounds, for a moan, for a song:
nothing is heard, not even breathing.
You know they are not dead,
you can feel the presence of their intense love.


 Like Crazy