The past few days have been a blur of furious activity and frenzied hugs and smartass comments that have gotten me into trouble and made me think and blissfully aware...
But I haven't really felt like writing about them. Too busy swallowing textbook after textbook of more information than I'd get through in a year of university, somehow studying now feels so good when all these years it's felt so bad - sheer indication of my attitude being my biggest problem and greatest salvation all at once.
I wonder what graduate school might be like. I think I might give it a try once I'm salivating enough for it.
In the meantime, I've discovered mp3s on the corporate intranet, Peter's are awesome awesome listening, lots of Enya and celtic stuff and strangely reminiscent of cf188's intellectual shite. Lots of jazz too, and a few operatic arias that I've got on CD at home. Neat. Maybe I'll bring it up with him one day, or maybe he'll notice it on his network monitor.
Then, I discovered Thierry Tremblay. Whoooooeeeeee. When people ask me what music I listen to, I go for the easy answer "mostly classical stuff and a bit of punk or industrial or anything really honest and original thrown in". From Ani Difranco to Xmal Deutschland.
My favourite by far is Mozart and currently Louise Attaque, but...
...I forget all too easily how much impact certain songs and bands have had on my life. Sham 69 will always remind me of John, Black Sabbath and GNR will always remind me of waaaaay back when I first got my motorcycle jacket, and...
Thierry's perfect mix of age-old industrial shite will always, always remind me of the Gallery and the Loft days when Rick had to put a cap on over his mohawk to get past the bouncers into ultra-gothland.
Bauhaus and SoM, the good gothy at home listening - and in bars - Skinny Puppy, Front 242, Frontline Assembly, a little PWEI, a little ThrillKillCult... Some old NIN and Ministry even and definitely a healthy chunk of KMFDM.
There's a certain combination of those, (excluding Warlock by Skinny Puppy) that tear me from my space-chair in my neatly-painted office with the yellow walls and exorbitant beige desks and drops me dazed and sweating and lost again in some labyrinthine hallway at the loft watching the writhing velvet bodies. Watching the first bits of fishnet and vynil appear, tasting the irony goodness of having bitten my lip on the dancefloor amongst the ryhtmic upheavals.
It reminds me of the scene in "Strange Days" or (Blade which we just saw) or countless other movies with the P E R F E C T club scene like the Hunger, crawling with impossible visions weighed down by exotic bodies and sweat. A lot of sweat. Metal and chrome and matte and shiny black and arms and arms and oceans and oceans of swarming, grasping, studded and bejewelled arms...
My first night at the loft, Elfie with vines scrawled on her face, Tony and Iain and I bedecked in whatever I pretentiously dug out of my closet and make-up plastic bag, remnants of old punk jewelry strategically placed everywhere.
The perfect scene. Only it's mine and it's real and right now I can smell it in the Skinny Puppy reverberating against the maroon patterns in the carpeting.
And it feels so damn good, better than any movie ever has... Even after the 6th time we watched the Crow that summer, even after we watched the Matrix eleven million teen times just this past one.
So I'll hunt out Thierry sometime today, or e-mail him with my shiny professional corporate v-card, and thank him for the perfect collection of industrialness to append to my industriousness.
Perfect. Cuz it is, perfecter than any movie'll ever make it, because in the movies it's just an image but in my heart it's real and it's my first taste of another kind of independance and I remember every second of every night on every dance floor....
And it sounds just like this.