itsallovernow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
itsallovernow) wrote2003-11-21 03:51 pm
itsallovernow) wrote2003-11-21 03:51 pm
Burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail
ETA because I got tired of my own whining and decided to go for productive instead. I am going to work on Blue Eyes this weekend. But if anyone has fic challenges, or fic requests, I'd be happy to try and tackle those too.
Hour and half, and then still not home, but to a student's. 12 years old, privileged, lazy and I've no patience. So tired that I can count my ribs, wrapping under bunched muscles, scraping and tightening.
Work too much for too little and today it all catches up in the hovering greyness outside, which normally makes me feel safe and cocooned, but today just makes me think of the tinny taste of snow in the air, and the impossibility of such a thing. I miss home. Miss family, friends. Not unusual, but I'm bitter with it today, for some reason.
Writing feels off, like I'm putting down the words and leaving them hollow, nothing behind them. I hated the first thing I wrote today, the first drabble, and yet I can still touch lines that I love in it. I hate doing things badly, hate being wrong, and doing things poorly makes me wrong. I want to stand up on my desk and say, look,look, it's better. I can do better. I did better. So I'm fitful and childish, and want firm hands on my back, making things right. I want to cry and rub my eyes, and it's so foolish. I can be so foolish.
I want a night of quiet, I think. Or loud. Maybe I need loud. I want to bite and kick yesterday. Felt my own restraint bleed off a little. Felt vicious and spiteful, and am glad today that I was kindish, and sharp, but not mean.
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crankygrrl feared that she wouldn't have this song at home, so here it is dear.Shelter from the Storm
Blood on the Tracks for me was all about grad school. My own rebellion against myself, and this album, and Nick Cave's Murder Ballads, caught between crying and fear the whole time, between frustration and sex and what I'd been supposed to want for all of my life, and I wanted expensive boots so much more than my Ph.D, and maybe still haven't forgiven myself for that. Whole album is absolutely perfect, and Tangled Up in Blue, which I played ever morning that we lived in that miserable, dilapidated house on Snelling, waiting for it to crash down around our ears, and it made S. crazy, but she never took it out of the CD player because I was hanging on by a thread, and some mornings that thread was that song.
The rest of the CD, redemption, and Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts. Simple Twist of Fate, and it's being home again with my mom, listening as a kid, grown ups and saying goodbye, and finally as a grownup, Idiot Wind and the real, incredibly unromantic reality of saying goodbye. Dylan's voice is clearer on this album, clean and angry, few rasps, but none of his mid career falsetto sweetness, just putting it down on paper, pure and simple, not snarling, not repentent, but down, there for all of us to see, notes and words leached out of him.
Hour and half, and then still not home, but to a student's. 12 years old, privileged, lazy and I've no patience. So tired that I can count my ribs, wrapping under bunched muscles, scraping and tightening.
Work too much for too little and today it all catches up in the hovering greyness outside, which normally makes me feel safe and cocooned, but today just makes me think of the tinny taste of snow in the air, and the impossibility of such a thing. I miss home. Miss family, friends. Not unusual, but I'm bitter with it today, for some reason.
Writing feels off, like I'm putting down the words and leaving them hollow, nothing behind them. I hated the first thing I wrote today, the first drabble, and yet I can still touch lines that I love in it. I hate doing things badly, hate being wrong, and doing things poorly makes me wrong. I want to stand up on my desk and say, look,look, it's better. I can do better. I did better. So I'm fitful and childish, and want firm hands on my back, making things right. I want to cry and rub my eyes, and it's so foolish. I can be so foolish.
I want a night of quiet, I think. Or loud. Maybe I need loud. I want to bite and kick yesterday. Felt my own restraint bleed off a little. Felt vicious and spiteful, and am glad today that I was kindish, and sharp, but not mean.
crankygrrl feared that she wouldn't have this song at home, so here it is dear.Shelter from the StormBlood on the Tracks for me was all about grad school. My own rebellion against myself, and this album, and Nick Cave's Murder Ballads, caught between crying and fear the whole time, between frustration and sex and what I'd been supposed to want for all of my life, and I wanted expensive boots so much more than my Ph.D, and maybe still haven't forgiven myself for that. Whole album is absolutely perfect, and Tangled Up in Blue, which I played ever morning that we lived in that miserable, dilapidated house on Snelling, waiting for it to crash down around our ears, and it made S. crazy, but she never took it out of the CD player because I was hanging on by a thread, and some mornings that thread was that song.
The rest of the CD, redemption, and Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts. Simple Twist of Fate, and it's being home again with my mom, listening as a kid, grown ups and saying goodbye, and finally as a grownup, Idiot Wind and the real, incredibly unromantic reality of saying goodbye. Dylan's voice is clearer on this album, clean and angry, few rasps, but none of his mid career falsetto sweetness, just putting it down on paper, pure and simple, not snarling, not repentent, but down, there for all of us to see, notes and words leached out of him.