[In my ears: This is Gospel (piano version), Panic! at the Disco]
Well, I read “New Vocab” out loud to twenty-odd people, my fellow fledgling academics and/or next generation of super lucrative authors. I knew going in it wasn’t great, it’s like my 5th attempt at anything that rhymes since winning a poetry contest in the 3rd grade for crying out loud.
What is upsetting is such a lack of response. The time set aside for feedback and commentary was like a giant black hole. I wanted to – and I guess should have – shouted: “Rip into it! Tear it apart!” For fuck’s sake kill this silence. That sucked. I got this palpable sense that my presenting something so blatantly amateur made everyone seriously uncomfortable. It’s a class, right? I’m there to learn not impress. A safe space for the blunders that invariably accompany new exploits. Maybe I’m just used to folks sitting in a circle sharing stuff being safe and supportive because the only other times I share with a whole group of folks is in an AA meeting. Maybe I went into it with a false sense of security. I do find it amusing that every time I speak in class I have to stop myself from saying, “Lorali, alcoholic” before launching into whatever genius insight I feel like sharing. I know at some point I’m not going to catch myself in time.
Downloaded Black Veil Brides’ discography. Turns out I only like their one awesome song. So disappointed. Was really hoping to get punched in the gut again. I guess I’ll just have to just sit back and totally objectify Andy Biersack because I also listened to his Andy Black stuff and my interest wasn’t piqued. Even his voice, which is a delicious force nature in its own right, wasn’t enough to reel me in. Maybe I’m giving him too much credit because with the way I’m wired you can slap some bitchin’ eye makeup on just about anything with a penis and I go all cross-eyed with desire. Cross-the-fuck-eyed. It’s a goddamn tragedy that I totally missed out on Brendon Urie and Pete Wentz’s guyliner days. God is cruel.
Incidentally, Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco are couple of rare unicorns where I can listen to an entire album straight through happy as a clam. I cannot express adequately how essential music is to the process of wringing pleasure from this life. It’s transportive and transformative, a celebration and a cure and it’s even better as you get older because tunes gets endlessly layered with memories upon memories that you will forever associate with that specific combination of melody, words and rhythm. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing.
*images not my own