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Wishing like hell that I'd never, ever met her
And tonight I had a solid wall of headache for five hours. I hadn't felt fantastic since I got up around noon with the unpleasant, sticky sense of nightmares I couldn't remember, but it really started on the way back from Porter Square with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse. I met derspatchel for dinner on his half-hour break despite not being hungry, because I thought food might help; it didn't. By the time I got home, it was functionally a migraine, light-sensitivity, noise-sensitivity, and nausea included. It cannot have helped that the next door neighbors were grilling essentially under my office window and the room was filled with charcoal smoke. I closed the window, brought in the fan and the air cleaner from the living room, turned both to full blast and fell over on the couch, where I lay with my eyes closed until the light went out of the sky. Autolycus slept on the couch above me. He did not once entice me to play, or bite my wrist as he sometimes does when he believes he's not receiving enough attention. He just stayed close enough for me to hear him breathing and was an immense comfort. I lost track of Hestia during this period, but she turned out to be sleeping under the papasan. Rob came home when his shift at the Somerville ended and inadvertently provided the clue for breaking the headache, because he brought me some very cold water from the refrigerator and it was the first thing that had felt good in hours. He went out to J.P. Licks and returned with coconut-milk vanilla ice cream. I just sort of held it in my mouth. It helped a lot. I am somewhat worried this means the problem was the TMJ or directly my braces. I need to survive two more years of these things. I can't think much about it safely right now.
The latest song that I'm playing over and over again is a random internet find: Bill Dees and Roy Orbison's "Tennessee Owns My Soul." It's a theatrical little murder ballad and it's one of the oddest songs, musically speaking, I've heard in a while. About half of it sounds like a strain of country-folk that I recognize from the late '60's, with little pop touches here and there. And about half of it sounds like the kind of unclassifiable weirdness that would get aggregated as proto-punk once punk had established itself sufficiently for antecedents, especially in the early outsider art days when knowing a band was part of the punk scene would tell you absolutely nothing about its sound. And it's all intercut in the same song. It uses nearly the same arrangement, but Orbison's studio version is nowhere near as strange. It's a bigger production, smoother and grander where the demo is energetic and eerie and scuffed around the edges. I haven't played the studio version twenty-four times in a row. Maybe it's the string section that's turning me off.
Anyway, never, ever met her made me think of PJ Harvey's "Rid of Me" and Captain Beefheart's "Dirty Blue Gene," so there's some actual punk to close out the night. I am going to try to sleep.
schreibergasse. I met derspatchel for dinner on his half-hour break despite not being hungry, because I thought food might help; it didn't. By the time I got home, it was functionally a migraine, light-sensitivity, noise-sensitivity, and nausea included. It cannot have helped that the next door neighbors were grilling essentially under my office window and the room was filled with charcoal smoke. I closed the window, brought in the fan and the air cleaner from the living room, turned both to full blast and fell over on the couch, where I lay with my eyes closed until the light went out of the sky. Autolycus slept on the couch above me. He did not once entice me to play, or bite my wrist as he sometimes does when he believes he's not receiving enough attention. He just stayed close enough for me to hear him breathing and was an immense comfort. I lost track of Hestia during this period, but she turned out to be sleeping under the papasan. Rob came home when his shift at the Somerville ended and inadvertently provided the clue for breaking the headache, because he brought me some very cold water from the refrigerator and it was the first thing that had felt good in hours. He went out to J.P. Licks and returned with coconut-milk vanilla ice cream. I just sort of held it in my mouth. It helped a lot. I am somewhat worried this means the problem was the TMJ or directly my braces. I need to survive two more years of these things. I can't think much about it safely right now.The latest song that I'm playing over and over again is a random internet find: Bill Dees and Roy Orbison's "Tennessee Owns My Soul." It's a theatrical little murder ballad and it's one of the oddest songs, musically speaking, I've heard in a while. About half of it sounds like a strain of country-folk that I recognize from the late '60's, with little pop touches here and there. And about half of it sounds like the kind of unclassifiable weirdness that would get aggregated as proto-punk once punk had established itself sufficiently for antecedents, especially in the early outsider art days when knowing a band was part of the punk scene would tell you absolutely nothing about its sound. And it's all intercut in the same song. It uses nearly the same arrangement, but Orbison's studio version is nowhere near as strange. It's a bigger production, smoother and grander where the demo is energetic and eerie and scuffed around the edges. I haven't played the studio version twenty-four times in a row. Maybe it's the string section that's turning me off.
Anyway, never, ever met her made me think of PJ Harvey's "Rid of Me" and Captain Beefheart's "Dirty Blue Gene," so there's some actual punk to close out the night. I am going to try to sleep.
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They are very comforting cats. I would not trade them.
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If you've never been to Miller's Pond, just one glance will tell
It's blacker than the devil's crack and its hunger's deep as hell
It took my darling Janey, one night when the ice gave through
and those waves they lick its flinty chops, cause they know I'm coming too.
Got no clue if it will help, but I hope it does.
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. . . You should really write the story that goes with that song.
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Right! And if it were straight-up folk, it would be weird enough. But there's the weird falsetto harmonies, and the shifts in time signature, and the ghostly "yeah yeah yeah"s, and I don't even know what I'm listening to, but it's stuck in my head and I love it.
But we're back into humidity vs. thunderstorms up here, and I winced in familiarity.
Bleh. I'm sorry.
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You know that their purring supposedly has healing powers, both for themselves and those they purr near, yes?
I'm glad he was gentle with you. And that
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I believe it. They are good cats.
And that derspatchel brought you some ice cream.
He is a good