(The 4AD album cover of my son)
I am listening to some of the most powerful chick-rock I've heard in a while. There is lots of it, now - so much, some say more than ever! The Bands: Crumb, Dry Cleaning, Goat Girl, Liz Lawrence, Penelope Isles, Squid - to give you more than just an idea, but actual real-chic examples, with some great chick bands in there, also. Don't hate me if those female bands aren't Vega for you. Don't hate me at all. It's all anybody can ask with their variety of substitute verbs.
Don't blank me. Don't _ me. Don't me.
The river is rising. It has breached the bank on the opposite shore. We are prepared for overnight flooding. We seem quite high on the riverbank, but it can and has flooded here before. They were giving out sandbags at the local park where we used to go and hit tennis balls back and forth at one another. Or, not at, but towards. Sometimes over the net, other times not.
I have not been writing here, I guess, because I can't. Or, I can't seem to very well. It was maybe a mistake not being anonymous, by believing too much in the aegis of meaning less through jest, regarding too lightly those things which people hold dear and sacred - above all else - most of all those precious things held loftily above others.
Oh, I'm not a victim. I didn't mean that. I can always just choose to be the thing I hate, to escape. People never know what to do when you concede anything other than defeat, but they hate you for becoming what you have been announcing all along. Well, they may know what they believe they're supposed to do, but they don't know what to do with, or about, you. These new ways we speak to one another have ossified more quickly than the malleability of the language can prove itself flexible enough to function, yet language survives.
Funny, that.
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