early morning dreams
10.03.03 @ 6:50 p.m.
I suppose now is as good a time as ever to write an entry, eh?
Currently, I've kind of thrown myself into the life of one of the biggest rock legends out there, Keith Moon. This biography, Moon by Tony Fletcher, is quite possibly one of the most amazing things I've read in a long time. Maybe it's compelling because I'm so deeply interested in the history of rock and roll. Maybe because it's the Who, but quite frankly, Keith was an amazing personality. For one thing, I've been reading for, ah, 84 pages worth and he's only just joined the Who. Of course, it's quite interesting to look at these familiar anecdotes from another angle, because I did read the first half of Townshend's biography. I kind of regret that it didn't capture me like this one has so far. Giuliano isn't quite on the same level, writing-wise, as Fletcher, I'm inclined to think. Because I'm vastly attracted to Townshend's own convoluted personality than to Keith's hyperactive mania, though maybe Keith makes a more compelling biographical subject.
Well. I'm in no danger of switching favorites, but I do rather wish that Pete's bio had been more compelling to me. I've been reading just now about some god-awful leather creation Pete had made for band uniforms (and this is an area I feel Giuliano shouldn't have glossed over the way he did--Consider: Moon lived a much shorter life and yet his biography has got to be nearly twice as long. Does that seem right? Too much was devoted to the post-Tommy period of Towser's life, a period which I'm frankly not as interested in. I wanted, want to read about life as the Detours, Monterey Pop, all that '65-'68 stuff that I don't have much memory of from reading Behind Blue Eyes.)
Anyway, these costumes sound completely hideous, and yet I'm not at all surprised. I just think of Pete and all his early art school pretention. Not that a lot of the early Who clothing wasn't pretty damn brilliant. Take the stuff with the medals and patches or the infamous Union Jacket--I love that stuff.
Ah. Though I'm absolutely loathe to come even close to admitting that my dad might be right, maybe I'm throwing myself too deeply into a place where I can never go. And yet, my own life at this point is kind of disappointing and uninteresting, and so is it wrong to pushing my mind into something that is pure pleasure? I've been this way since... Huh. I don't know. High School. That's when I started retreating farther into myself and becoming more shy and less the outgoing person I was in elementary school.
Here I go making myself sound all self pitying and lonely, and yet I spent rather a lot of time chatting with acquaintances... But I didn't like that. I was rather annoyed by it, in fact. This girl, Laura, she used to come to Glencoe to have Japanese class because they didn't offer it at Hil-hi. All I wanted to do was to sit pleasantly in the shade and read a little of Moon or the Portland Mercury that I'd just picked up (they put a Mercury box at the west end of campus, which pleases me no end) and maybe people watch (perhaps we know which people I'm idly watching for? People who might, perhaps, be intrigued by someone reading Moon? That leaves two major talked-about but not much talked-to people that populate my selective universe) but first Moni had to come by (which didn't actually bother me--I actually like her and enjoyed the chat--also, Moni just stood and chatted before moving on) and then when I'd settled back down into my paper, Laura had to come and not just talk to me, but plop down on my bench next to me. There was no way I could go back to reading without being the most rude, insufferable bitch in the world (perhaps not a bad image to cultivate with those one would rather avoid) and so I small-talked in a stilted manner until we both had to leave for our respective classes.
I don't know what kind of state I've put myself in, but a window into my mind right now would show this: I'm listening to Psychoderelict by Pete Townshend and once again, I'm finding it so fucking beautiful that I want to actually start crying. All lit up and self conscious in my big picture windows, and yet I'm overcome. My god, that music can do this to me--an album that sometimes I don't like that much, especially the dialogue interludes, but then there's the pseudo-Lifehouse, Gridlife and some of the newer parts and I just... "I Can't Explain."
Am I going to grow up and be a rock biographer? What else does the writing-inclined audiophile become? Could I possibly shift myself enough into modern music to work for a music magazine? Can I break in through graphic design, which is calling to me right now through the prestigious U of O Journalism school? With the promise of learning the principles of design during this term and my own inclination to entertain myself by doing things like making dozens of AIM icons or my old idea of the ever-changing banner for GCF, my old fansite.
Good god. "Early Morning Dreams." It's so good that I catch myself all tensed up and holding my breath, I'm so focused on how FUCKING GORGEOUS the music is and what it's doing to me. Feeding me and wringing things from me as well.
I don't know how to be eloquent on this subject. I only wish I could find someone to share it with, who feels as deeply. Not even on the same level with me, even, just someone who can honestly sympathize. I wish I had the courage to approach the people I think have that potential. And in this I'm including Prof. Saunders, just for someone to talk to about this thing that I love so much it hurts. I suppose this is why I live so much in my head, why I'm inclined to writing--So I can invent these people, flesh them out, and feel less alone in my perceptions.
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
