This has been a week of extremely frustrating and heartbreaking news. First learning that my Mom lost a lot of their property through financially dumb decisions, and secondly that she is in a distressing physical condition. I'll start with the loss of the house.
My whole life, my parents have had a rental house right next door to the house that I grew up in. Through the years many people lived there; when I was a child it was my best friend Melissa and her family. Then when my grandfather had his first stroke, he moved in so that he could be closer to the family, and so we could look after him. After my grandfather passed, which is its own source of sadness and unresolved issues, My older sister and I lived there after high school graduation. Now my younger sister lives there, and has to vacate the premises in 20 days.
Needless to say, I had some memorable experiences at that house and it was a major part of my growing up. Even though my mom lost the house, and I mourn the loss of an important childhood place, I am not that mad at her. I do feel bad for my sister though, who is in financial dire straits. The situation leaves my little sister on the outs, scrambling to find a place to live. It's rough for everyone, and the kicker is that my father doesn't know any of this stuff. I'm sure he knows something is up,but probably not to what extent. What a shit show this has turned out to be.
I find this frustrating, mostly because this likely could have been avoided if my mother had just been honest with my father. But the rub here, and something that I struggle with everyday is, that she isn't honest with herself. A characteristic of my family is that we tell ourselves stories, live in unreality, and hope for the best. But if I have learned anything in the last few years, is that stories are nice, but best left in the pages of books. Being dishonest with yourself is a huge burden to bear, and there is a constant tight rope walk between the reality of yourself and the story you tell yourself and others. I am truly fortunate to have a partner who is extraordinarily honest with me, sometimes it feels like to a fault. But what that has done, is that it has helped me to open myself up to who I really am and also be able to be proud of the person I am in the world. This goes a long, long, long way in having successful interpersonal relations. It makes communication more possible, which is an imperative in any kind of relationship.
I spent so much of my life growing up not being honest with myself, my family, my friends, and living an unreality. I see what kinds of consequences this has had for my family and not very much of it has been of a positive nature. What is most remarkable about dishonesty, and stress from not confronting your issues, is the physical manifestation of said issues. My mother is sick. not bed ridden, but her health is declining.
When I think about losing my mom, I can't help but cry. She is the most important person in my life, and as my parents are getting older, their mortality is starting to show. I know that this is an inevitability, but that doesn't make it any easier. My mom has a syrnix, which is a fluid filled cyst between her c1 an c3 vertebrae. This is quite possibly one of the most delicate places on the body. She is looking into having surgery, and there is a very real possibility that she will be paralyzed from the neck down and not be able to breath on her own, just to give an idea of how sensitive the area in question is.
I'm at a loss. I feel super constricted by this. I think about the universe having a plan for my mom, that whatever happens to my mom will happen with good reason. All I can really do is be there for my mom in the hard times ahead. But trying to come to terms with with your parents dying is hard stuff. oh man, is it hard. Mom, I love you.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Working hard, but towards what?
This has been an incredibly trying year at school. I keep telling myself that this should be an easy year, but nay, this semester has been painfully frustrating and hard going. I have a math class that is teaching me logic, set theory, probability and soon Baye's theory. And while this is all interesting, i am really bad at it, the process is so agonizingly long to get through that I usually give up in the middle somewhere. This what I have just related to you is a symbol of how this year has been. I have no motivation, no drive, no chutzpah, if you will, to follow through. I find myself weighed down by so many worries and frustrations that have led me to this point.
I feel old and dated compared to the droves of 18-19 year old kids, who were in grade school when I graduated from high school. When I first started smoking cigarettes and listening to punk and the finding the advent of marijuana, these kids were in their diapers. how odd. I know it shouldn't matter, and most days I don't think about it, but depression is amazing in decisiveness, in how thoughts are directed to the things that make you feel the most insecure. On top of generally feeling like old man winter, I am dealing with what it means to be white, male and privileged in a world which is designed for me and pushes all others to the side. I find that confronting this social reality is incredibly hard and frustrating, especially when it is constantly called to my attention by my partner, who unwittingly hits the nail on the head repeatedly about the things that bother me about being white, male and the inherent behavior supplied via social conditioning that goes along with that.
I never really thought about myself as an oppressor until very recently. For most of my teenage and young adult life I thought that because I was in the underground, a subversive musician and misanthrope that I wasn't part of the problem. In many ways I still believe that, although there are several problems with this as well(but I'll leave that for another post). But the facts are as such, I was part of a scene that was vocal in its leftism and progressiveness, yet was misogynist, incredibly cliquey, and while not necessarily racist, not exactly a melting pot of cultural continuity. Ideas of political leftism have always influenced me, but many radical movements that I have identified with were movements designed by and for angry, young white guys. While in and of itself not a bad thing, it does marginalize other peoples experiences of oppression, many of which are impossible for me to know about first hand. Issues that women face every day, as well as other oppressed peoples, are things that I think about, but can really only comprehend second hand, in a fairly intellectual manner.
Essentially what all this means is that I am striving to become a better person in terms of understanding the plight of humanity outside the dominant paradigm, and how I can be an ally to people who can use my help. I am by no means a political activist, a bomb throwing anarchist, or a revolutionary. But what I am is an individual concerned with how my actions and motives affect other people. My school work has suffered because of being plagued by these issues aforementioned, and perhaps explaining myself here will aid in relieving some of the tensions in my head and heart. So here's to working towards a life that isn't full of misogyny, racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, and distorted views of the other.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
I feel old and dated compared to the droves of 18-19 year old kids, who were in grade school when I graduated from high school. When I first started smoking cigarettes and listening to punk and the finding the advent of marijuana, these kids were in their diapers. how odd. I know it shouldn't matter, and most days I don't think about it, but depression is amazing in decisiveness, in how thoughts are directed to the things that make you feel the most insecure. On top of generally feeling like old man winter, I am dealing with what it means to be white, male and privileged in a world which is designed for me and pushes all others to the side. I find that confronting this social reality is incredibly hard and frustrating, especially when it is constantly called to my attention by my partner, who unwittingly hits the nail on the head repeatedly about the things that bother me about being white, male and the inherent behavior supplied via social conditioning that goes along with that.
I never really thought about myself as an oppressor until very recently. For most of my teenage and young adult life I thought that because I was in the underground, a subversive musician and misanthrope that I wasn't part of the problem. In many ways I still believe that, although there are several problems with this as well(but I'll leave that for another post). But the facts are as such, I was part of a scene that was vocal in its leftism and progressiveness, yet was misogynist, incredibly cliquey, and while not necessarily racist, not exactly a melting pot of cultural continuity. Ideas of political leftism have always influenced me, but many radical movements that I have identified with were movements designed by and for angry, young white guys. While in and of itself not a bad thing, it does marginalize other peoples experiences of oppression, many of which are impossible for me to know about first hand. Issues that women face every day, as well as other oppressed peoples, are things that I think about, but can really only comprehend second hand, in a fairly intellectual manner.
Essentially what all this means is that I am striving to become a better person in terms of understanding the plight of humanity outside the dominant paradigm, and how I can be an ally to people who can use my help. I am by no means a political activist, a bomb throwing anarchist, or a revolutionary. But what I am is an individual concerned with how my actions and motives affect other people. My school work has suffered because of being plagued by these issues aforementioned, and perhaps explaining myself here will aid in relieving some of the tensions in my head and heart. So here's to working towards a life that isn't full of misogyny, racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, and distorted views of the other.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
Monday, May 4, 2009
A new name and a change of locale
Things are looking up out here in the god forsaken bay state. I have changed the blog description to rolling the hard six, well because It's time to take chances, and I'm a nerd. Captain Adama said it on BSG and I love that show. Also I have been working one not being so timid, and just moving towards what I want. I still have many miles to go, but it is coming along.
With school over and summer right around the corner, I am looking forward to reading, drinking coffee and lazing about. On the horizon is a possible new job at this shop called cafe fixe. The place is really top notch. Pour-over drip coffee to order, high quality espresso, and a beautiful veloce mirage . They currently serve Barrington coffees, which is a really high quality roaster. Barrington does a lot of direct business with farms throughout the world, paying high prices to ensure high quality and fair wages to farm workers. A cafe like that is exactly where I want to be. A place where I can take what I already know, which is not a whole lot mind you, and expand my knowledge, my palette and my experience.
My cafe now is not exactly a terrible cafe, but I have gone beyond the point of where I can learn anything more about coffee and be open to new opportunities in the coffee industry. The owner of L'aroma is a callous man who is a control freak and an untrusting man. He treats his employees like shit and expects us to bend over backwards for asshole customers who also treat us like shit. The only reason that I stay for now is my co-workers and I love making coffee, even if it is subpar compared to what other shops are doing. We all put in an inordinate amount of hard work making that place function, and their is very little incentive to do what we do, so must of us just go through the motions until something better rears its head.
I am just not really that enthusiastic about pouring 20 oz. maple spice lattes for the eurotrash crowd on Newbury street. i don't mind that people don't know anything about coffee, I am willing to share what I do to make your coffee experience as eye opening as possible with the beans I have to work with. but frankly, it is hard to see what the fucking point is, when someone sees a macchiato on the board and asks if they can have it iced and with caramel...ugh. I continue to work at my shop because I love coffee and am dedicated to coffee, not people. I am just holding out for the new place, and working on my pouring technique, my tamping technique, refining my palette and expanding my knowledge of coffee. I am a long way from anything like this, but that is something to aspire to.
In a couple weeks I will make my way to New York for the NYC popfest and some espresso tourism. should be a good time. That's all I've got for now.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
With school over and summer right around the corner, I am looking forward to reading, drinking coffee and lazing about. On the horizon is a possible new job at this shop called cafe fixe. The place is really top notch. Pour-over drip coffee to order, high quality espresso, and a beautiful veloce mirage . They currently serve Barrington coffees, which is a really high quality roaster. Barrington does a lot of direct business with farms throughout the world, paying high prices to ensure high quality and fair wages to farm workers. A cafe like that is exactly where I want to be. A place where I can take what I already know, which is not a whole lot mind you, and expand my knowledge, my palette and my experience.
My cafe now is not exactly a terrible cafe, but I have gone beyond the point of where I can learn anything more about coffee and be open to new opportunities in the coffee industry. The owner of L'aroma is a callous man who is a control freak and an untrusting man. He treats his employees like shit and expects us to bend over backwards for asshole customers who also treat us like shit. The only reason that I stay for now is my co-workers and I love making coffee, even if it is subpar compared to what other shops are doing. We all put in an inordinate amount of hard work making that place function, and their is very little incentive to do what we do, so must of us just go through the motions until something better rears its head.
I am just not really that enthusiastic about pouring 20 oz. maple spice lattes for the eurotrash crowd on Newbury street. i don't mind that people don't know anything about coffee, I am willing to share what I do to make your coffee experience as eye opening as possible with the beans I have to work with. but frankly, it is hard to see what the fucking point is, when someone sees a macchiato on the board and asks if they can have it iced and with caramel...ugh. I continue to work at my shop because I love coffee and am dedicated to coffee, not people. I am just holding out for the new place, and working on my pouring technique, my tamping technique, refining my palette and expanding my knowledge of coffee. I am a long way from anything like this, but that is something to aspire to.
In a couple weeks I will make my way to New York for the NYC popfest and some espresso tourism. should be a good time. That's all I've got for now.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
the burdensome reenactment of my life
It has been quite some time since I wrote here, not that anybody is listening anyhow, but the year thus far has been less than stellar, but i will save that for another day. The past few weeks have been incredibly rough for a number of reasons, but mainly because of this overwhelming feeling of having wasted my time and my life thus far. I know that many people have not done the things that I have. There are tons of kids who wish that they could have been in a band that put out records and toured, let alone making a nice little name for itself in its community. But maybe I'm wondering if it was all just a mistake. I have never felt normal, hell I have never been normal. I have spent the greater half of my life playing in punk and metal bands, reading punk and metal zines, being part of a scene that was my community. For all its faults it was mine.
And now I find myself isolated from the very place I grew up, and frankly I feel a little lost without the comfort of a scene to fall back on. Out here in this helliest of hellish places (Boston, MA) I am largely without friends and community. Living outside of the current of life is okay by me, I don't mind living on the fringes of society. But, I must admit that this city is pretty devoid of any subversive scene worth being a part of. I left Portland, OR with the idea that the east coast was something I needed to experience. I have not necessarily given up on that notion, but here in Boston is definitely not the place to live out a fulfilling life of meaningful activity.
The years leading up to living here were fairly uneventful, and were more an attempt at reconciling what had happened to me and who I had become. Now I look back and feel a whole lot of regret for what i view as having lived a bucket of mistakes, making a trail littered with all the people I hurt or abandoned along the way. It's just that I no longer feel a part of anything, and that's hard feeling alone. I find myself looking back and staring at all the idleness just to wonder what the fuck was I waiting for, this? this life? I feel empty in spit of all the accomplishments, in spite of the love I receive and I am a selfish prick for it.
My past isn't this horrible spectre even, it is just what it is. I was manipulated by my friends, I let myself be manipulated, that is what makes me so angry. That I felt so shitty about my life that I let fuck-ups fuck up my life. And now after damn near 15 years of hesitation and the punk rock runaround, here I am, working towards something, an education I guess, to what? I don't know, I'm still figuring that out and working towards being okay not being anything. It is awfully hard when you spend so much time in scenes where everything is compartmentalized, to not compartmentalize yourself.
Trying to move away from identifying myself by the bands I listen to and just identify me. Nope, no longer a punk, a crust punk, a trash punk, a pop punk, a metal head, a black metal kid, a trasher, a doomhead or for that matter an indiepop kid. just a kid who isn't a kid anymore. I'm almost 30 and I still feel 20, man, where did the time go? I wish I could count the cigarettes I smoked and the gin and tonics I drank maybe that would tell me something useful.
And now I find myself isolated from the very place I grew up, and frankly I feel a little lost without the comfort of a scene to fall back on. Out here in this helliest of hellish places (Boston, MA) I am largely without friends and community. Living outside of the current of life is okay by me, I don't mind living on the fringes of society. But, I must admit that this city is pretty devoid of any subversive scene worth being a part of. I left Portland, OR with the idea that the east coast was something I needed to experience. I have not necessarily given up on that notion, but here in Boston is definitely not the place to live out a fulfilling life of meaningful activity.
The years leading up to living here were fairly uneventful, and were more an attempt at reconciling what had happened to me and who I had become. Now I look back and feel a whole lot of regret for what i view as having lived a bucket of mistakes, making a trail littered with all the people I hurt or abandoned along the way. It's just that I no longer feel a part of anything, and that's hard feeling alone. I find myself looking back and staring at all the idleness just to wonder what the fuck was I waiting for, this? this life? I feel empty in spit of all the accomplishments, in spite of the love I receive and I am a selfish prick for it.
My past isn't this horrible spectre even, it is just what it is. I was manipulated by my friends, I let myself be manipulated, that is what makes me so angry. That I felt so shitty about my life that I let fuck-ups fuck up my life. And now after damn near 15 years of hesitation and the punk rock runaround, here I am, working towards something, an education I guess, to what? I don't know, I'm still figuring that out and working towards being okay not being anything. It is awfully hard when you spend so much time in scenes where everything is compartmentalized, to not compartmentalize yourself.
Trying to move away from identifying myself by the bands I listen to and just identify me. Nope, no longer a punk, a crust punk, a trash punk, a pop punk, a metal head, a black metal kid, a trasher, a doomhead or for that matter an indiepop kid. just a kid who isn't a kid anymore. I'm almost 30 and I still feel 20, man, where did the time go? I wish I could count the cigarettes I smoked and the gin and tonics I drank maybe that would tell me something useful.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A little less than expected
These first two weeks of school have been fairly painstaking, insofar as things not working the way I had envisioned them. Two weeks away does not seem like an inordinately long time, but it is surprising just how much you lose in terms of memory in that short span. I'm not exactly sure if that means that the things I lost from last semester were of no great import, or if I simply did not work hard enough to retain them.
So what that means is continuing the path I was already following, but in some ways it is starting over too. Every new year is like another chance to fix the problems of the past. While that does not always happen, it at least feels like you're given another chance. Lat year was incredibly hard and long. Never have I felt so isolated from people, from friendship, and in no small part, from life. A little lesson from the learned: Never move to a city without sufficient research.
I still find Boston to be a place that is full of ugliness in all its myriad forms. I just don't like it here. Instead of feeling vital and vibrant, a place with a human heart beat coursing through the very veins of the city, all I feel here is death, the void and bad juju. This is one of the most disconnected places that I have ever been. It seems to me that people here are so self-involved and selfish, that it is hard to find valuable human interaction.
While living in Portland, I was close friends with people who were from here, and they missed the directness of this place. But I view the directness, as a means of gain and protection. What can you give me, and how do I get it from you. I know these are gross generalizations, yet this is how I feel in large part. On a recent trip to San Francisco, I remembered just why I miss the west coast, and why it is very likely that I will someday call that coast my home again. There was that missing vitality, that creative spark, that rampant kindness. I do not like how many layers of ice you have to chip through to get to people here.
I know that I complain a lot about this place. It's just that Boston has turned out to be a little less than expected. A little less than expected. A little less than expected.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
So what that means is continuing the path I was already following, but in some ways it is starting over too. Every new year is like another chance to fix the problems of the past. While that does not always happen, it at least feels like you're given another chance. Lat year was incredibly hard and long. Never have I felt so isolated from people, from friendship, and in no small part, from life. A little lesson from the learned: Never move to a city without sufficient research.
I still find Boston to be a place that is full of ugliness in all its myriad forms. I just don't like it here. Instead of feeling vital and vibrant, a place with a human heart beat coursing through the very veins of the city, all I feel here is death, the void and bad juju. This is one of the most disconnected places that I have ever been. It seems to me that people here are so self-involved and selfish, that it is hard to find valuable human interaction.
While living in Portland, I was close friends with people who were from here, and they missed the directness of this place. But I view the directness, as a means of gain and protection. What can you give me, and how do I get it from you. I know these are gross generalizations, yet this is how I feel in large part. On a recent trip to San Francisco, I remembered just why I miss the west coast, and why it is very likely that I will someday call that coast my home again. There was that missing vitality, that creative spark, that rampant kindness. I do not like how many layers of ice you have to chip through to get to people here.
I know that I complain a lot about this place. It's just that Boston has turned out to be a little less than expected. A little less than expected. A little less than expected.
hearts and daggers,
Scot
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A lesson in suffering
It has been a long time since I wrote a blog on this here little thing. And you know what? It is high time that I make this a regular exercise. I guess it could be called a New Year's resolution of sorts, but really it is just an excuse to rant, to rave, to wave my arms in the air like a madman (metaphorically speaking of course).
So far this new year has been a bit rough. I most certainly hope this is not indicative of things to come, so help me....Anyways, here's the haps: school has been in session for three days and the books I need have not arrived in the mail. I won this scholarship for college books, sweet right? But, since my damned school starts almost a month before everyone else's, a mad rush occurred by the kids at the scholarship, they found my books, bought them and had them shipped via next day air. Here it is four fucking days later and still no fucking books. I am totally at my wits ends as far as that goes. I do understand that I should have given the scholarship people my info earlier (I have a bigtime problem with organization), but what the fuck? Fucking Amazon.com is a bastard enterprise. I vow that you will never get another cent from me. I have emailed the president of the scholarship, and just my luck, he hasn't responded to me. I am so fucking full of rage I want to punch babies.
I have a song that I sing sometimes when I'm at work, and the customer doucebaggery exceeds acceptable levels:
Your life makes me want to punch babies!
In this particular instance, that life would be mine, if you have a baby that would like to be punched, for a small fee i would be happy to oblige you.
So here I am scrambling like crazy to find any copy of Norton Anthology of English Literature volume 2. Who would have thought it would be that fucking hard to find a single copy of that book. The obvious place to look would be the school library right? Well, someone beat me to it. Next step: look at the public library. I did that and the online catalog said there were multiple copies in the library. The truth is that there was not a single fucking copy on the shelf. But luckily I found one, only it was in book delivery, which means in library use only, oh how genius! Except, the Boston Public Library is a monument to all things inefficient and bureaucratic. Imagine that, a Boston instution full of idiotic assholes...sigh. So I fill out the little tag, wait for a book from closed stacks for 25 fucking minutes, just for them to ignore it. I question them, and they hustle about, only to give me the wrong damned book. I tell them they gave me the wrong book, and I am informed they don't have the one I need. Perfect.
I hate that place with crazy homeless people huddled at every table in a crumbling building resembling the very finest craftmanship of soviet Russian architecture. Then heaven forbid you need to copy anything there. I searched for a working copy machine for twenty minutes, only to then pay 15 cents for a shitty, grainy copy. I have a new enemy: Boston Public Library. Oh how i despise you....
Hearts and daggers,
Scot
So far this new year has been a bit rough. I most certainly hope this is not indicative of things to come, so help me....Anyways, here's the haps: school has been in session for three days and the books I need have not arrived in the mail. I won this scholarship for college books, sweet right? But, since my damned school starts almost a month before everyone else's, a mad rush occurred by the kids at the scholarship, they found my books, bought them and had them shipped via next day air. Here it is four fucking days later and still no fucking books. I am totally at my wits ends as far as that goes. I do understand that I should have given the scholarship people my info earlier (I have a bigtime problem with organization), but what the fuck? Fucking Amazon.com is a bastard enterprise. I vow that you will never get another cent from me. I have emailed the president of the scholarship, and just my luck, he hasn't responded to me. I am so fucking full of rage I want to punch babies.
I have a song that I sing sometimes when I'm at work, and the customer doucebaggery exceeds acceptable levels:
Your life makes me want to punch babies!
In this particular instance, that life would be mine, if you have a baby that would like to be punched, for a small fee i would be happy to oblige you.
So here I am scrambling like crazy to find any copy of Norton Anthology of English Literature volume 2. Who would have thought it would be that fucking hard to find a single copy of that book. The obvious place to look would be the school library right? Well, someone beat me to it. Next step: look at the public library. I did that and the online catalog said there were multiple copies in the library. The truth is that there was not a single fucking copy on the shelf. But luckily I found one, only it was in book delivery, which means in library use only, oh how genius! Except, the Boston Public Library is a monument to all things inefficient and bureaucratic. Imagine that, a Boston instution full of idiotic assholes...sigh. So I fill out the little tag, wait for a book from closed stacks for 25 fucking minutes, just for them to ignore it. I question them, and they hustle about, only to give me the wrong damned book. I tell them they gave me the wrong book, and I am informed they don't have the one I need. Perfect.
I hate that place with crazy homeless people huddled at every table in a crumbling building resembling the very finest craftmanship of soviet Russian architecture. Then heaven forbid you need to copy anything there. I searched for a working copy machine for twenty minutes, only to then pay 15 cents for a shitty, grainy copy. I have a new enemy: Boston Public Library. Oh how i despise you....
Hearts and daggers,
Scot
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
a remembrance
Today i am recalling those instances of first love. these ideas are brought to my attention by the movie eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. granted that is just a movie, but i think that some of the concepts touched on are incredibly apt and correct. for instance, remembering that first touch, the first moment of contact when the beginning of a relationship comes about. there is something magical about those moments that remains etched in memory. that sickening expectancy, the intense anxiety, and of course those first moments when you touch, when the other persons body seems like a unknown relic waiting to be explored. who doesn't love those moments? the time that it takes to know someone can be endless, but i find it interesting how when you fall in love, how quickly that feeling of laying next to a stranger ends. the days then become one of not only physical intimacy, but also one of mental intimacy. of knowing your partner, their ideas and thoughts, their personage.
i have been lucky enough to have fallen in love several times in my life. many people do not get to enjoy that at all. so i sometimes take it for granted that my loved one is there laying next to me, sleeping in the same bed. but there are those moments when i am so overcome by how lucky i am to have found the person that i am with. mostly i find that emotion when i am walking home from work. the twenty minute walk both ways is some of the greatest quality time i get to myself. my headphones in, strolling at a loping pace, pondering my position in life. all of this is accompanied by a soundtrack, lately a rather melancholy one of sparklehorse and papercuts.
but, i think that we have a tendency to become so comfortable that we take our lovers for granted. not in a physical sense per se, but in the sense that we don't always acknowledge how great a person can be. thats all.
hearts and daggers,
scot
i have been lucky enough to have fallen in love several times in my life. many people do not get to enjoy that at all. so i sometimes take it for granted that my loved one is there laying next to me, sleeping in the same bed. but there are those moments when i am so overcome by how lucky i am to have found the person that i am with. mostly i find that emotion when i am walking home from work. the twenty minute walk both ways is some of the greatest quality time i get to myself. my headphones in, strolling at a loping pace, pondering my position in life. all of this is accompanied by a soundtrack, lately a rather melancholy one of sparklehorse and papercuts.
but, i think that we have a tendency to become so comfortable that we take our lovers for granted. not in a physical sense per se, but in the sense that we don't always acknowledge how great a person can be. thats all.
hearts and daggers,
scot
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