Arcade Fire - Keep The Car Running (at Reading Festival 2010) | Part 2 o...

20100830 : watch the narcissist try to empathize and only narcissize more on his way to eventually empathizing and transcending his meager boarded-up ego

today is my parents thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.
i/we/no one knows when the last anniversary will come.
my mother has stage four advanced, recurrent, metastatic, and inoperable triple-negative breast cancer.
i am twenty-six years old and sitting in my parents basement.
i am not wearing a shirt, and i am sitting in the pitch black except for a muted 35-inch, so-archaic-that-i-cant-remember-the-name-for-non-flat-screen-television-sets, television-set flickering images in my peripheral vision.
my ears have headphones in them, but i have not selected any music to play and no music is playing.
my laptop is on my lap.
my lap is composed of a blanket over boxers from my kindergarten through fifth grade grammar school.

the elastic waist of my grammar school boxers has long been broken.

when i stand up, the grammar school boxers fall to the ground.

so when i stand up i hold on to the inelastic waist.

i think i started writing to feel less alone, but now i think i feel more alone than when i started or when i woke up 'which is saying something' (since i 'always' feel most alone right when i wake up in the morning).

i dont think its healthy for me to write anymore right now.

i try to do whatever is most healthy for me in the moment, but some/often times that which is most healthy in the moment is not the most healthy 25 or 900 moments from now.

i think i want to open gmail chat or facebook to feel less alone, but i am remembering from 30 minutes ago that i closed gmail chat and facebook because they made me feel more alone.

i think about all those vibrant green dots residing next to content names of acquaintances/girlfriends-friends-who-then-became-my-friends/teachers assistants/friends-from-law-school-i-havent-talked-to-in-three-years/friends-i-talk-to-weekly/friends-i-want-to-talk-to-more-but-feel-i-have-not-talked-to-them-in-too-long-and-that-this-is-my-fault/friends-that-save-my-life/my sister/my mom/current and past loves of my life.

i think that i am tragically wrong assuming they have happiness.

i think that i am more alone than everyone else because, mostly, i think that i am the only person who feels alone when this is quite obviously not reality and a natural effect from (thinking about) feeling lonely.

i re-read the second most recent sentence and feel nauseous: happiness is not a possession.

i think about erich fromm and his book 'to have or to be'.

i have only half-read 'to have or to be.'

i do not think happiness is a possession, but i think that my action depicts a philosophy that values happiness as a possession.

i wish i could stop thinking about you, but when we're not fucked is the only time i can accept the world being fucked (half the previous sentences contain invisible, oblique, parenthetical references to you).

i think if love is just acceptance of our own weakness and acceptance of an other as the antidote for this weakness, as the catalyst for the real-but-dormant-due-to-fear actualizing power we contain all the time.

i think inability to love is the insecurity and instability from holding our concept of ourselves as deities too close to our heart that our wombs become incinerators.

i think 'all this' (the above) is just a complex, convoluted way to come to terms with present loneliness caused by you, alternating, plugging me into the outlet to shine light in your room and then unplugging me from your wall prior to your exit (tho sometimes i think you will still stay in the room a few minutes after i have been unplugged, sitting in the dark, imagining my prongs sitting in the dark, blind to how close you are) and future loneliness caused by the premature, ghastly death of my mother, my best friend.

oldest dude at the fest

your cradle rocked when the new deal shocked
big business into a muzzle
your first wife wrote you dear john in korea
now we're shotgunning weed through your hol(e)y trachea
and talking paranoid john birch blues

you were the oldest dude at the fest
you don't care about losing your hearing
you were first row, miracle ear on full blast
and your cane never touched the ground
you were the oldest dude at the fest

the sun held us all too close
rays descending and hugging and burning
but your leather face smiled and reminded
awesome and awful share an 'aw'
all youth think their world is ending

we watched bands for hours and minutes
you were like beethoven, man's best friend
the greatest wingman of all time
with faded green betty boop and popeye
your overflow made the pacific a lake

you were the oldest dude at the fest
security guards stocked you with water
and your catheter hid in tow
but we always always got first row
you were the oldest dude at the fest

we crowd surfed to the front of sleigh bells
your skull cracked the steel bars hard
but you laughed and walked off
you said i know im old
but i dont care much for pavement

you were the oldest dude at the fest
there was no point to look east or west
you were the oldest dude at the fest
got your story but not your name
except you were the oldest dude at the fest

fest babe

Fest babe

I saw you sippin that lemo (nade)
Under the scorching hot sun
We were pigs on a spit
the earth on its usual tilt
headstrong, a diamond
You were a hipster mary magdalene and
I was carrying my cross and
I was on my cross
oh-oh-oh, fest babe, fest babe


Your aviators lay on your face
Two satellites on your eyes
I was spinning in from some inner space
Seared faced, salty lipped
Your dreads swayed
When annie said
your skin so fair (its not fair)
And i wiggled my toes
Oh-oh-oh, fest babe


(this previous part has slowed the tempo down considerably. At this point building back up again instrumental section. Building up with each )


(Medium/fast tempo)


And I walked away
And I walked away
And I walked away
Half a set of the back of your head
Thirty three percent of one eye (thirty three percent)
Thirty three and one half percent of your eye (and one ear)

(slow down to nothing else practically, or just sparseness. )

Fest babe
Surly asteroids sped fast, past
For the moment
The villagers of pompei sat and rested
When the lava ran cool

(ad lib)

words i only lived

I miss you like the

river misses shoreline as it r

uns away from mouth and into feet

walking where lips denounce



I miss you like the

Panda bear I never won

At the carnival I never went to

When the gate was too low


I miss you like the

Sad sappy poem this is

The sad sappy poems

We neurally write but never send



I miss you like the

Words lost to memory

Floating , detached, there

But always the tip and never soiled




I miss you like the

Sail misses warm wind

My ship sails well enough

But my people are freezing



I miss your startled eyes

I miss your eager ears

I miss your open mouth and mind

your hand covered laughing face

I can only let longing leave a trace

simulacratic happiness

black and
black and
black and
black and white

black and
black and
black and
white and black

crash land in the looney bin
run in corridors humming
we'll gladhand and red rover by the berm
i'll peak in the first thirty minutes of meeting you

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


long hair down her back
it is now tied up tight
simulacra long since removed
from their unmoved mover their __________

i could deal with the world being fucked
if we werent
fucked
gutted
strewn

(breakdown)