Disclaimer: Please ignore the ominous photo of Billy Corgan if you can.

If you press “play” on the video above, you will hear my all-time favorite Smashing Pumpkins song. Without question. I remember, quite vividly, when this album came out. It was certainly the latter stage of the band’s career. Their garb and demeanor in videos, their public persona, it was all forcing them to be lumped into what was, at the time, being dubbed as “industrial” or whatever. So Marilyn Manson, HIM, or Stabbing Westward or something. The band’s faithful was pretty irritated, and they caught the brunt of a lot of criticism. But if mindless, lazy, instant-gratification-obsessed music consumers weren’t so short-sighted, they would’ve noticed gems such as this song. Everything about this song is perfectly moving. The melody, the delivery, the way the wall of sound is filled, the subject matter. I sing it aloud every single time I hear it.

I’ve never enjoyed spending too much time wondering “why.” If I want to change something, and I have the ability to do so, I will. I’m in control of very narrowly defined, structured segments. I have this bothersome twitch issue with my face and arms. If I commit to it, I can stop twitching; something I’ve consciously tried to do and am slowly getting better at. I control these types of things. Bigger things, though… the planet, cosmic forces, time. With exception to time, I haven’t devoted much energy to thinking about any of this. Because I can’t change it. And I’ve never believed that understanding any of it would necessarily improve any aspect of my life. I guess I would rather read or learn about things that I can actually apply in some tangible, meaningful way.

But Sunday. Calendars are, obviously, man-made tools. They line up with… something.

Ever since I can remember, Sundays have been the odd day. Not just because they’re quieter than other days because people are bracing themselves for a new week, not just because it denotes inherent sadness and trepidation because for most people it means back to school, back to work; back to that part of life they’re trying to accelerate through to get back to why they really enjoy life. They’re just… odd. They feel odd.

Everything feels compressed. And then stretched out again. And then compressed again. And when I say “feel” I mean the physical space around me. Like something is straining. Think about it. On Sunday, I always hear the oddest noises outside. There’s always a motor running loudly and for far longer than normal, and the frequency never slowly fades like it would with a car driving away. It’s static. Then it stops, suddenly. Airplanes feel lower, louder, closer. Trains seem to roll through town more often. Animals are scurrying about in a more pronounced manner. The stars look closer, they’re brighter, they flicker more. They’re not woven into the sky the way they usually are; they look like they’re looking upon you for a change. The clouds have a different color. You’re more inclined to listen to a certain song or band; one you haven’t listened to in ages. You’re more inclined to write something like what I’m writing right now. Movies take on a deeper meaning.

I don’t know. I feel like our planet, or the force that binds it, is repairing itself on Sunday. Like a muscle tearing, breaking, and reshaping, better than it was before. Or like your brain removing excess, useless data to make room for new, useful data. It’s breathing heavily, stretching, to the extent that it’s painful, so that it feels so damn good afterward. It’s exhausting whatever it doesn’t need, cleansing itself, detoxifying, unwinding. And everything we hear and feel is a symptom of this.

At least, that’s my silly little belief.

It’s nearly impossible to tell what, or specifically, who is real anymore. What do I mean by that? Hm.

There was certainly a time when knowing the most obscure of lyrics, remembering the order of tracks on a record, knowing what Toole was getting at when he had Ignatius go off on one of his heartbreakingly brilliant Big Chief Tablet rants, wearing a particular shirt or knowing every inch of a Hammett short story meant something. I suppose it still does. People still, of course, know these things. But it’s become impossible to immediately tell who truly knows them. Who spent the time with them, hell, even suffered through them to understand them. Sent hours of their life away, lost in something they were desperately trying to grasp, until they emerged with a conclusion that satisfied them. And that process stamped them, or you, permanently. It shaped who you are.

Now you can Google that knowledge. Then you can paste it onto your Facebook page, as if to pound your chest and say “Look, all, how cultured I am. More cultured than you. I’ve chosen these things to express my individuality. You will have never heard of half of them, so you, in turn, will also Google them. But you’ll only ever flirt with them, as I did, never bothering to unravel the hardest parts. Never agonizing over what made it tick, never staying up past 3:00 AM as a headache mounted while you sorted through it all. You’ll just gloss over it, to make a glossy page, and perhaps start a glossy friendship that won’t materialize to anything meaningful; because it was all founded on a complete fucking lie.”

When I was little, if someone knew who Leftover Crack was, or Choking Victim, or Agnostic Front, or the Bouncing Souls, that meant something to me. It instantly tied me to that person. Now all of that information can be found in an instant. And though it’s quite possible to sort through the bullshit and gather enough data to tell whether or not someone’s bullshitting, the point is that years ago you didn’t have to do that. You just knew. I saw someone post something on Facebook today, that was directly plagiarized from a blog I had read earlier in the day, yet this person tried to pass the quote off as their own thought, probably because they thought no one reads the blog they found it on. But I read the blog. And I knew right away this person was a God damn fraud. Are we capable of original thoughts anymore? Ever?

In a way, I suppose it’s all beneficial. It’s narrowed the frame even further from what it used to be, when you think about it, and if you’re smart enough you can turn it into a useful tool. Because when you surround yourself with people that are real now, you know they’re real. They have to be. And like I said, if you take the time, you can figure it out. Because it’s no longer enough to just know that something exists. It’s far more endearing to me when someone knows why it exists, in what way does it exist, how did it come to exist, and maybe that person tossed and turned at night trying to figure out why this thing (album, book, poem, whatever) meant so God damn much to them. The people that put in that kind of effort; that’s who I want around the most.

(Disclaimer: After refraining from blogging for like, two months, I often come back and inevitably feel the need to declare “this blog is still a thing!” Though I’ve realized how silly that is. I don’t need to consistently write to feel that my writing is worthwhile. Fuck that. I will update this as I see fit, when I see fit. When I truly want to.)

The above statement is, of course, multi-faceted. I’ll say it again, because I do love clarity: I’ve never thought in terms of “years.” What do I mean by this?

It’s the age of mirror gazing and identifying sets of “flaws” that we’ve been on a fruitless path to eradicate from whatever; minds, bodies, faces, thoughts, all compressed, imbued, re-packaged and conveyed as digestible concepts since we were little, and all perpetually re-expressed to us by media, friends, whatever; like a brand that never changes, so the advertising has to. And we’re told, to an extent we know, that as we age we’re inevitably despondent, wistful, applying creams and convincing ourselves we’re restrained.

Two weeks ago I legitimately forgot how old I was. Someone asked me how old I was, and I blanked for approximately three seconds, as my neurons fired in all directions, digging through the deepest parts of my brain to recover that fleeting bit of information; how the fuck old am I? Twenty…fiv- wait, no, TWENTY SIX! Or, yeah? Yeah, twenty six.

“How does that feel?” How does what feel? What is twenty six supposed to feel like? Is this that age where I’m supposed to go “Welp, time to never feel like you can do cool things anymore.” I’m pretty sure I’ve been told that since I was 23. That your life has just reached its pinnacle, and like a vintage wine it begins its inevitable, gradual decline. Yet the backbone supporting this notion of “decline” is built entirely around the poorest of frameworks; the idea that fucking, being skinny, youth and drinking are the best parts of life. Well, fucking only matters if it’s done with someone that matters. Skinny, no need to elaborate. Youth is a near-meaningless word. Drinking? Well, I do love a good beer. What’s age have to do with any of this? What the hell is different now? I have a job, which is awesome. I like money. I have responsibility, which is awesome. I like being in control of things.

So how do I “feel” different? In a way I feel almost no different than I did when I was 18, on the other side I feel wiser, more prepared for success and disappointment, recovery and progress. But twenty six has nothing to do with this. These advancements are correlated to my age, but they’re not the cause. My point is, I don’t feel twenty six. When I was 18, I didn’t feel 18. When I was 22, I didn’t feel 22. Then, and now, I have always felt me.

The other way I don’t think of years? Years themselves. I can’t tell you what year something happened. Now, in terms of historical facts, of course I can. I know that in 1817, Daniel Wheeler created a way to make dark, roasted malt, so-called patent malt, used for getting dark colors in beer while using mostly pale malt. I know the “Indian Mutiny” was in 1857. I know the Free Mash Tun Act was in 1880. So, in what year did my fourth relationship end? Uhhh…

I don’t know when anything happened as it relates to my life directly. I know I graduated college in 2010, high school in 2004, elementary in 2000. But those are milestones; they’re easy to remember. The year of my first kiss? The year I started playing guitar? No idea.

This is part of why I’m dumbfounded when I hear someone say “this year sucked, hopefully next year will be better.” I can’t even tell you what about this year sucked, or the year before, or the year before that. There are things that suck and there are things that are wonderful. The year is irrelevant to these happenings; they still happen, and the idea of the “year,” to me, doesn’t trap those happenings into a little definable stretch of time that I can term as “good” or “bad.” They’re there, no matter what line of time you decide to place them on. And I’d rather not isolate them. They exist on this lifestream that I’m paddling through, but I can’t make myself mark when the stream got more aggressive or when it calmed down. It’s just all there. Happening. Free of age, free of years, free of time.

lajardine:

My problem has always been that I love too many things at once, that I love too many people at once. I have always loved and wanted more than one thing. Why must that be such a bad thing?

It’s not.

I said that as much to persuade myself as much as I said it to convince you. Actually, I didn’t say it to convince you at all. I’m pretty sure I said it entirely for my own affirmation. This blog is, indeed, still a thing. Even though my other blog has really become my blog, I suppose this one’s a little different. I can say things on this one that I can’t say on the other one. On the other one, I have to be orderly. There has to be an agenda, and it has to be confined to one topic, and it has to be at least somewhat easy to read. There has to be a progression. And the topics never extend beyond a very innocent, easily definable border. So, with that in mind, let’s say everything I want to say that doesn’t involve what I’m confined to on my other blog:

1) I quit my band. They’re constantly posting Youtube clips, songs, photos, statuses and other things for their well-oiled social media machine (nothing wrong with any of that), so I’m constantly reminded of the decision I made. Sometimes I’ll listen to a clip of “Elmer and the Man that Feeds Him” and think “Wow. That’s as proud as I’ve been of anything I’ve ever played guitar on. It sounds incredible. I really do miss playing this song.” Then, five minutes later, I’ll open my wallet, see that there’s money in it and think “Nah, dude, you made the right decision.” Not that money matters that much. I’ll take my artistic principles (whatever they are) over money on most days; particularly ones where I’m not that hungry. But I need to know I’m getting something out of my musical investments. Something I can look to and say “I did this and I’m proud of it.” That just wasn’t happening enough. That’s no one’s fault, though. They’re magnificent people. I hope they inhale the Break Contest, mash it with their jaws and spit it right back out.

2) The result of my exit is “Gala Apple,” something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while. It’s a five-song “EP” that I recorded with the help of Mr. Keenan Awesome. I’ve always wanted to do something instrumental, or record something that I can point to and say “I wrote all of this.” I’ve got Mack Flinn (which has music in the works as well), and that’s always been more than enough to scratch my musical itches. It still is. But in light of quitting Bad Case, my shoulders were starting to get tense again. I knew I had to exhaust some creativity immediately. I had to stay sharp, I had to get something out. And so I did. My shoulders aren’t so tense now. The thing is, I need to be constantly documenting my life with music. Constantly. It’s more of a diary to me than this Tumblr could ever be. Scotches and I have done a good job at that, but our schedules can be conflicting sometimes. So during those idle times, I still have to keep the wheel turning. I want to record as much music as I can, and now I have the confidence that I can write/record things entirely from my own mind. Maybe we’ll see “Braeburn Apple” or “Fuji Apple” in the future. After recording it, I feel very comfortable with music, and now hopefully Scotches and I can start playing the kinds of gigs they pay you to play. Also, thank you Elisa. I got the idea for recording “Gala Apple” while listening to Gipsy Kings on your bedroom floor. It all hit me right there: There’s a reason everything I write sounds so damn Latin.

3) I like being employed, I don’t care how insane my hours are. I’ve started to work around it. In the beginning, it was tough to manage. I had to find ways to continue doing things that make me feel like myself (music, beer writing/reading, etc.) and I think I’ve started to figure that out. I even see friends a little more now. Thank God for that.

4) My girlfriend is some kind of glorious angel, some beautiful creature that you see in the weirdest dreams. The clouds move aside for her or something, and she swoops down whenever I’m really bummed and she goes “Just put your hand on my tummy and shut up.” And then I’m good. It’s like I’m dating a celebrity. Like, we’ll makeout or something and then I’ll go look in the mirror and say to myself “CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT JUST HAPPENED!?”

And a few thoughts for my records:

1) If you’ve never thought about killing yourself, I don’t think we can be friends. Yeah, read that again and then think about it critically.

2) Speaking of critical thinking, I’ve started to realize how important that is. Especially in the age of the internet. Critically think about everything, because it’s very easy to be swayed by groupthink now.

3) On the docket: San Francisco, Vermont, Colorado, and a lot of breweries.

Is insane. I just looked through 2005, 2006 and 2007 and I can hardly breathe. It is… absolutely staggering, how different my life was, and in a few ways how similar it was. First of all, it’s delightful to see comments from the people you’re still close with. You can go back and view the depth of your current friendships anytime you want, it’s really charming. You can also look back and see comments from a few people who were outliers at the time, but years later would become a part of your inner circle. It’s littered with tons of those “If I could go back to 2007 and tell myself that THIS is what life would be like right now…” types of moments.

It’s also littered with friendships that have either changed, or worse, disappeared completely. There are certain people I was friends with who I had actually completely forgotten I was ever friends with. Also, there are comments from people I knew I was close with, but I had totally forgotten the depth of that closeness until I saw that they used to comment on my wall almost every day. It’s triggering all sorts of little memories that I thought I had forgotten.

At the same time, I appreciate the brief stays that certain people have had throughout my adult life. I like knowing their time with me is stuck somewhere, and that they possess a chunk of my past, and I can look back to my time with them and know exactly what kind of person I was at the time and the types of things I would’ve said. But more so, it makes me appreciate the hell out of everyone I was close with then, and everyone I’m still close with now.

mygirlfriendeatingthings:

“This food is so delectable it’s undressing my left shoulder.”