Monday, November 14, 2005
Stream of Poop 2
Elliot Smith whaling he’s tired the bleach of lights beaming down on my plastic particle board student seat. More like the animal pins I hear they use to slaughter our big macs it’s funny I never thought of it that way before. We receive our education much in the same way our meals receiver their one way ticket to an extra value meal…cool. Here’s Smith’s next track it’s like some 70’s play of Jackson 5 funk piano line. I’m sure if I went over his lyrics with a fine tooth pick and analyzed his harmonious his syllables I’d find the most sad of poetry distraught and depressed as everything he did seemed to be. But this song is…superimposed in beautiful poetry as the albums does into a dense landscape of melody and percussion so finely revered in such an art but for some strange reason for some strange reason the mood, timbre, deliver of the tone doesn’t match the tunes meaning and as a half second gap of wait the teacher asked eschucames? And of course I know that means to listen but I’m taken back by the sound of Spanish…I can’t, did, don’t, won’t, answer his question to my true ability. His physical cues elude me to the meaning of the verb. Of course my headphones come back into play and I think I better type this fast b/c I don’t have much time after class to do it but wait hey…no…10 minutes isn’t enough considering I have to walk 30 seconds down the hall, boot the computer, save, leave etc. etc. etc. but Smith hums his background into the fore front of my heart my mind. I could never do that…what he did. I could never do that…
And I don’t get it!
Elliot Smith whaling he’s tired the bleach of lights beaming down on my plastic particle board student seat. More like the animal pins I hear they use to slaughter our big macs it’s funny I never thought of it that way before. We receive our education much in the same way our meals receiver their one way ticket to an extra value meal…cool. Here’s Smith’s next track it’s like some 70’s play of Jackson 5 funk piano line. I’m sure if I went over his lyrics with a fine tooth pick and analyzed his harmonious his syllables I’d find the most sad of poetry distraught and depressed as everything he did seemed to be. But this song is…superimposed in beautiful poetry as the albums does into a dense landscape of melody and percussion so finely revered in such an art but for some strange reason for some strange reason the mood, timbre, deliver of the tone doesn’t match the tunes meaning and as a half second gap of wait the teacher asked eschucames? And of course I know that means to listen but I’m taken back by the sound of Spanish…I can’t, did, don’t, won’t, answer his question to my true ability. His physical cues elude me to the meaning of the verb. Of course my headphones come back into play and I think I better type this fast b/c I don’t have much time after class to do it but wait hey…no…10 minutes isn’t enough considering I have to walk 30 seconds down the hall, boot the computer, save, leave etc. etc. etc. but Smith hums his background into the fore front of my heart my mind. I could never do that…what he did. I could never do that…
And I don’t get it!
# posted by Nick D @ 8:06 PM 
