possibly my favourite song. yeah, ‘ever’

I just put this on and thought “If I had to die and hear one last song, I’d want it to be this.”

So yeah. It’s hard to pin a ‘favourite’ song by one artist, let alone entirely. But in this moment and many, I’d have to say this is the winner. B-side off  YCNI:M’s “17” single (2005 – 8 years ago, but still  impressively new, really, in the context of the history of music). A song called “Undone.”  Unfortunately, this track exists like nowhere online save for snippets, and WordPress won’t allow me to upload it (THANK YOU VERY MUCH FREESPEECH BLOGGING). Also one of my favourite’s off their album Ignoto. The other b-side on the single is ‘ace’ as well. Anyway not that anyone gives a crap, but if so, I’d be happy to email you the song.

Best I could find online is this lame obscenely teasing snippet: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/17-ep/id60588278

I think what does it for me with emotive music of this sort is the utmost singability that just feels like therapy in a way nothing else can. A sort of painful and pleasurable letting it out. When no one but the artist seems to understand what it is we are going through.

Milohhhhh. I think the most therapeutic part of this song is the “I’ve come to realize” repeat bridge followed by “Now it’s over, I can walk away”. What a great death-song of such epic proportions. The volume at which I’m playing it is likely to get the neighbors who I perpetually feel sorry for, to finally complain perhaps. But it is, afterall (two words that SHOULD BE ONE), a Friday night. So they aren’t allowed, right?

Friday nights are for getting drunk. For being alone (by choice or otherwise. after forcing someone to let you buy them a couple of drinks) and feeling alone. For feeling misunderstood. For feeling too much. For being emo. For being a pain. For being in pain. And for trying to patiently hang photos in a straight line. When it’s what you are worst at. And when there’s no one to see them but you still care (or tell yourself you do, at any rate). Any project that’s not the dreaded writing, essentially.

Turns out not much has changed music-wise. The best music is rare and obscenely hard to obtain. I just ‘purchased’ two ‘cds’ online for the first time in literally aeons because that was the only way I could get my hands on the likes of  obscure post-hardcore goodness like this : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ti8_pK9nC8
Thanks to Paul Mullen my never-to-be husband for turning me onto this and giving me exactly what I needed – old-ass music I like that is new to me. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. So says the old-lady that still gets I.D’d EVERYWHERE she goes.

impatience and pale shelter

I am immensely impatient when all there is is pale shelter.

I give too little and expect too much. Too soon.

And this knowledge does nothing for me. Gets me nowhere. Like so much knowledge that comes and goes and comes around again.

Thinking of Yourcodenameis:Milo doing an all Tears For Fears cover night and me having not been there just about kills me. Feeling excited about a retro night this weekend just turns to anxiety. Like all possibly good things are destined to. Like almost all past retro nights have.

Impatience and anxiety breeds disappointment. Time and time again. We tell ourselves the knowledge we didn’t grow up in a cage should be enough to remind us to be grateful, but it all falls away so easily forgotten.


but perhaps the eptiome

Of what my heart considers to be emo. Three songs off Cursive’s 2005 album The Differences Between Houses and Homes. A compilation of songs between 1995-2001. My guess, based on sound and content, would be my favourites fall on the earliest end of this spectrum.
While in general I only love a handlful of Cursive songs and the dischordance found within, and knowing they are likely to not sit well with many people, I really can’t do anything but promote them. Because this is real ’emo’ in the sense that it is pure ‘post-hardcore’ with hardcore elements still in tact. If I made music, it would sound at least somewhat like this, at some point.



“That’s cool. I guess you’re fitted for solitude. The suit doesn’t fit you. Lonely fish. Cry in his cage. Does your owner ignore you?… I want some lonely fish to call my own.”

“Disruption in the Normal Swing of Things”:


“These hands are shaking. They’ve lost all trust in me… AND I NEED THIS sympathy.”



“And I know that the stars all have names. Just some of them aren’t as good as others. Some of them are just letters and numbers. Sometimes I forget that the smallest things can be oh so big”.

my genetics

Have programmed me for:

Handling my drinks too well (an inability to vomit, but an extreme sensitivity to visualizing it)

Crying at romantic comedies that likely shouldn’t make one cry (i.e. The 40-year-old Virgin)

Listening to emo (damn the Get Up Kids never getting old. Geeze louise)

Distracting oneself with inability with regards to ‘love’ and ‘relationships’ instead of focusing on the other things that matter in one’s life as an individual

Combined it’s a pretty potent combo. Along with blogging like the 19-yr old I still look like, and at times clearly, feel like. Though I guess in my defense, blogging wasn’t an option then. And I was too off-my-rocker then to manage anyway.

‘new’ things don’t always have to suck (though they often do)


After listening to a few rather disappointing tracks off the much-anticipated My Bloody Valentine album, I was pleased to learn the following: Pulp have made a ‘new’ song available. My standards were pretty low once I heard it was a b-side from their last album We Love Life, a wussy collection of wussy somewhat old-people songs hardly worth listening to more than once, in my humble, picky opinion. I was surprised to hear that the song happens to be somewhat of a throw-back to the best days of Pulp. Not 100% but I will settle for an 88% as age has taught me to appreciate what I can get, when and where I can get it.

The disco-tinged effort makes one hopeful of things yet to come. Fingers-crossed Pulp will miraculously choose to play a show in London close to where I will be staying in mid-August. I would pee my pants three times and love it. Fingers even more crossed that the band will release an album of equal impressiveness in the not-so-distant future that will involve Russell Senior. As Senior is to Cocker as Marr is to Morrissey.


cyclical. like alberta clippers…

cy·clic  (sklk, sklk) or cy·cli·cal (skl-kl, skl-kl)



a. Of, relating to, or characterized by cycles: a cyclic pattern of weather changes.
b. Recurring or moving in cycles: cyclical history.
2. Chemistry Of or relating to compounds having atoms arranged in a ring or closed-chain structure.
3. Botany

a. Having parts arranged in a whorl.
b. Forming a whorl.
4. Linguistics Of, relating to, or characterized by the cycle: a cyclic application of a rule.

You didn’t actually know how cyclical Alberta clippers were. The phenomena entirely new to you an evening before it was due to hit Taranta. And while you scoffed, turns out the warnings were true. Turns out the things you were to and always or never knew, were unpredictable.  If enough of history hadn’t taught you that. You criticize the people who only hours earlier had proclaimed their love of “winter”. You questioned your own past love of all things “Canadian” – winters included. And while as the first few centimetres of messiness fell, you smirked in an “I’m-Canadian– This-is-nothing–I-can-take-this-small-potatoes-shit” kinda way, the smirk diminished by 5pm the next day.


Yet again, your dreams of being a meteorologist smack you in the face. What a wonder it would be to have an even somewhat-science mind. To have an even theoretically theoretical-math brain.

An evening that forces you to stay in is often welcome but still fucks things up. Even with more time on your hands, weekends are never to be wasted. Sure there’s cleaning and order-making-of-mess to be done, but it’s not like one aspires to actually do such things.

Unexpected girly movies move you to tears when they are well done. Ending one of the greatest weeks you’ve had in a long time, though you didn’t realize it at the time. Typical.

5 days and 3 weeps. Only one of which as the result of laughter. The absurdity of the cause difficult to reconcile.

Then the Milo moves you to tears once more.  Just because you can’t handle anything you really like. Really. Cause you to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing. Things like that make you almost vomit.  Or cause you to picture yourself doing so, at any rate. In such a creepy way. No control of the subconscious and the associations it makes. After panic attacks on packed subways with broken doors. After the most painful walk you can remember in aeons through slippery, deep, unforgiving snow that makes one want to give up. But there is no place to do so. No way out. The pervasive wet-coldness of it all.

You can’t remember the last time you vomited but think it was about a year and a half ago.  There is something faintly romantic about the idea of your body expelling demons. Of purging. Of seeing the muck one has contained.

Excitement and anxiety get mixed up and jumbled up. Yearning for days when it was less obvious, less quick a transition. When the ‘fun’ of excitement lasted longer. When the expectations you had were always met. By Brit pop men on stages and their sexy, young, bisexual fans making out in queues.  A word you can never spell without spellcheck. A reminder, perhaps again, that either English is entirely nonsensical, or the time, effort, money and toil of Master’s degrees truly meaningless.