No Flame Burns Forever


I will probably, possibly, out of…well, just out of needing to do it…be writing on my story tonight and use those words here.  But I am distracted by the game that prompts those words so I will be in Thedas for a bit more before attacking these impossible scenes and the bigger bad of my sense of perfectionism.  I’m just worried (not worried, just sensible to the fact) that it’s unlikely for me to be able to spout out five hundred story words in fifteen balls-to-the-walls minutes before for midnight.  Even if I completely murdilate the perfectionism spigot, and splat it all out stream-of-consciousness style, I think there would be too few, so here I am.

The font looks different in this window.  Okay, focus.

My bed is still just a mattress on the floor because as per usual there’s ten other things it would make sense to do first but for reasons, they can’t be done quite yet and I am sitting on that limbo mattress staring up at the giant monolith that is my IKEA bedframe.  It looks like some sort of Prothean relic if they made those out of plywood and set them to look a bit like a tuning fork.

So here’s some thoughts on Mumford that I wrote somewhere else tonight after listening to the lovely Tompkins Square Park: “I have to think that if they wanted to maximize profit and weren’t emotionally connected to the material, they’d pull back on the suspenders and lean into the banjo.

With all of the bands they’ve learned from and collaborated with and evolved alongside over the past eight years. Bands who are also doing wonderful things in the acoustic side – Bear’s Den comes to mind.

To me, they came together at a particular time in a particular scene, had access to particular instruments and made something flavored by all of those variables. Add time and marriage and break-ups and Ted’s health scare and the influence of the accessibility of so many more instruments and collaborators and experiences and things don’t have to change, but it’s probably a lot more fun for them to change. If the music is the thing that matters, why not use the whole palette beyond just what happened to get them famous?

But the constant is how they work together and I still hear that, and that’s what I listen for. Something I can blare out my car window, can feel the emotion in, can give a damn about. I watch these live vids of Marcus singing his raspy heart out and it feels “right” in my mind. There’s still a toothy quality, an anguish, a poetic spirit, still them standing next to one another and building it up and banging it out.”

Deep breath.  It’s just like a thousand other Sundays before and after.  It’s okay.  Same as usual.  No reason to get hyper, set your hair on fire, no reason to disbelieve in the edifices that will hold up for at least one more day.

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