turning tears into oceans, words into sand
I went home this weekend. Watched anime with my brother. I've decided not to spell it "animé" this time. Maybe not ever again. Because "anime" would be the proper romanization of the Japanese word. Which is a Japanization of a French word. Which is why "animé" is still okay. Interesting how the Japanese took the French word "animé" to mean all cartoons, and then us Americans took the Japanese word "anime" to mean all Japanese cartoons. A little linguistics lesson for ya.
Well, I bought the new Smashing Pumpkins album this weekend. It's too early for a verdict on the music, but the little insert smells great. It smells like a book. I hope the smell lasts. But such things seem to be transient. Ephemeral even. ("ephemeral" is word that you just have to use at every possible opportunity) I love smelling new books. Maybe it's the glue. woohoo. I think the insert is the coolest of any of their albums so far. I love to just page through it. But maybe I'm just too easily impressed by odd pictures with curious titles, hinting at deep underlying meaning.
So, I traded cars with my brother this weekend, because mine is being weird. And when I sat down and got ready to go, I realized, THIS CAR DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A TAPE DECK. I seriously screamed out loud. What the hell am I supposed to do, listen to the fricking radio the whole way back? You can't trust your listening choices to just ANYONE, you know. This four hours alone, just my music and the road, is half the reason I come home at all, AND YOU'RE TELLING ME I'M DRIVING FOUR HOURS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITHOUT IT?!?!? Quelle douleur!
It actually wasn't too bad, though. I even actually listened to the radio for the first hour. I spent the rest of the time thinking or babbling at myself. You know, people I know in real life often think I'm a bit... mm... eccentric. But I'm at my weirdest when I know there's no chance that anyone can hear me. Like in the car on the freeway at night when I can't listen to my music. A person listening to it (my ravings, that is) would probably find it either utterly hilarious or somewhat disturbing. Maybe both. Maybe I'm really just a psychotic posing as sane. Maybe we all are. I was so involved in my personal monologue that I didn't realize I had missed my exit until 15 miles later...
you know i'm not dead
bracing against the inevitable doubt,
"Just because no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist."