Burn Ointment?

Does it exist, or is it mythical, like unicorns and bisexuals?

I probably offended a lot of (imaginary because no one reads this SHIT) people with that comment. I was kidding; I totally accept that unicorns are, indeed, real.

I digress.

Rhymes with "mess".

I am a mess.

There is beer spilled on my white shirt. My hair is unwashed. There are bruises on my thighs, my shins, my hips, my head. A cigarette burn (dumbass) is blistering on my collarbone. My lips are chapped, my fingertips are full of music, my blog is WHINY. and unread.

Burn ointment.

Where can I find it?

BUT I DON'T WANNA HOLD YOUR DAMN APPLE

In the piano lessons we take as children, they tell us to keep the back straight, the wrists flat, the fingers curved. Our legs are under us, as our toes barely brush the floor. Our posture is perfect, our head is up, our hands are curved around this imaginary apple the whole time we play.

Perfect posture and flat wrists are for ballet.

When I want to make music, I MOVE. Try, instead of putting your legs at a perfect 90 degree angle, try stretching one straight as the other pounds on the pedal. Try throwing your head back as you sing, try USING your spine instead of clinging to it. And the apple? Don't forget the apple! That would be *bad*. No, my friend, never forget the apple, but don't hold the damn thing, either. This isn't snack time! SMASH THE THING WITH YOUR HAND!!!!!!!! SMASH IT INTO THE PIANO AND LET ITS LITTLE APPLE JUICY PULPY BITS RUN THROUGH THE KEYS AND FUCK THE THING UP!

Classical piano players are so much like ballerinas. The serious, obsessive, anorexic, cutthroat ballerinas. It is so liberating to get that pointe shoe out of your asshole and lose your inhibitions. Bang as loud as you can.

It's good for the soul.

AUGHHH

Everyone--EVERYONE--knows that it is against all the unspoken rules of the Interwebs to post TWICE on the first day of your brand new blog-baby thing. Oh, look. I am breaking that rule. Damn straight, kids.

Why? Because I am sick of technology, and yet here I am, on the computer. A la computadora. This new 'Age of Communication' is really one of the loneliest times I think we've ever had, and WE DID THIS. We did this to ourselves.

The people that text constantly, blog constantly, email CONSTANTLY, those people that are lost in a world of tapping fingers and carpal tunnel thumbs--why do they do it so often? Because that "communication", it's not really connection. It's an imitation, a shadow of what they really crave. It's a fix--you get that little shadow, and you know what it is, you know you want more--so you type your heart into those conversations about nothing, and you get nothing in return, and it just leaves you with that little shadow. But you keep doing it, because maybe, just maybe, if you hold those empty little conversations up long enough, you'll get that connection.

You won't, of course, but that doesn't stop the masses from trying.

We have become afraid of face to face conversations. We're afraid of touching, of sharing anything more intimate than a phone call. We're afraid of sharing the time we spend doing nothing.

That is all.

Blog?

Apparently it's the new thing to do. Post your life on the internet and watch as strangers read it (or ignore it).

It's like Facebook narcissism, but with more words and less pictures.
Better? Worse? Who knows.

I'm out.

--c