I didn’t really listen to that much of Opeth’s Blackwater Park after I posted a facebook update proclaiming it to be a “Blackwater Park kind of morning”. Maybe four minutes of The Drapery Falls before moving on to perusing the first wave of year-end best-of lists; just now cresting on the smaller, fringier, grassrootsier websites and blogs. I only really discover a handful of super interesting music on my own during the year, so this is my own personal incarnation of a holiday feast.
A friend of mine told me where the name of the album came from, which resulted in this post. This is the first song I listened to. Enjoy.
Not that I write anything.
Not that I really ever write anything.
It’s mostly just thoughts, occurring in a line, and every once and a while a part of that line is interesting enough to write down. For some reason, you need to make a record of it in reality, amongst your things and interrupting the middle of your friend’s lines. Your sight is the wall between all that reality knowing that piece of the line you can see so clearly, as if it occurred to you as you stood behind a one-way mirror, from where you constantly criticized your interrogation of the world.
Most of the time, you hopefully wish in precursor that it would be something pleasing and profound enough to reteach you your understanding of your words, that enlightenment would reverberate back to you changed from how it fits in with the rest of that sprawling reality of yours. Most of the time, it just sticks that, while that thought line keeps spitting by just behind your retinas like mental ticker tape.
Your world is a paper mache monolith you stabilize and conform daily. Sometimes willy nilly with brazen defiance to noticing, sometimes with desperate percision, your joint aching as you painfully will them not to shake.
There aren’t many moments alone anymore. Days full of so many faces. So many words. So many rooms holding vastly different but no less demanding intentions. So many blocks of time highlighted on paper, designating periods of thought line to things we can’t afford to flex into the dialogue right now. We’d have yards of typewriter jams on our hands. I can’t afford it. The open spaces with nothing yet penciled in make me nervous.
To rest seems like forfeiting momentum, even though the forward motion of my progress could be compared to rolling down stairs in fits and starts, my equilibrium snatched from me by some sad twist of fate. Any level moment before the next stumbling decline is merely chance, but it’s in those moments I assure myself that it’s all apart of a plan, a system. It’s enough to have me braced for impact almost every time.
Participation is a long overdue advancement. Then again, that’s only something I feel when I’m alone. I can only envision the digital marquee in my brain in the dark and quiet in between moments, as if I let it run off for awhile, around the fenced enclosure where I can keep it in my line of vision, sometimes contemplating it’s adventure, usually while tattooing the textbook definition of ‘metaphysics’ on my skull in some sort of semi adult stoner comedy.
I rate this work of art, created with flourish from newspaper and paste, the time i just spent distracted by something else before finishing this sentence: 23 minutes.
for your goodbye blowout.
(songs from 2012 metal albums as chosen by that guy)