Jan. 9th, 2013

[identity profile] amethysting.livejournal.com

The Murmurs
Pristine Smut

I cracked.

I tore the scant number of scribbled-on pages out of my Moleskine so that I could start afresh. 

I must admit, I'm kind of disappointed.

I held tight to a lot of self-constructed ideas regarding perfection for a long time and I thought I had managed to let go of all of them, or at the very least, most of them (I mean, in all fairness, I have made progress; I shouldn't get over-dramatic here, it was just a few pieces of paper).

Something that is imperfect (found to have some fault or flaw--usually something I've made) has a habit of becoming an annoying itch incessantly scratching the back of my skull.  I focus on it unnecessarily, even when I know full well that it is not all that big of a deal.  Really, I am not as bad as I was in the past.  For instance, if a meal I've made doesn't quite turned out as planned, I resist the urge to dump the entire thing into the garbage bin and don't let it trigger bigger issues.  Every once and I while, though, something like the way my handwriting looks or the way I've written the date at the top of a page has an adverse effect, cultivates a sense of unease that cannot be abandoned until I set it right.

But, that's kind of dumb.  I mean, "perfect" is such ridiculous, amorphous concept that has no bearing on anything, really.  It's unattainable.  And, in the grand scheme of things, why would anyone ever want to achieve perfection anyway?  I like the idea of striving, trying--not for "perfect" but for...more?  Worrying about "perfect" would put such a damper on that process because "perfect" is absolutely stifling.

Why this song, then?  I think part of overcoming the need to cling to "perfect" is letting in things that make you uncomfortable.  I remember ordering The Murmurs's album "Blender" (probably from the now defunct Sam the Record Man) because I was working my way through the Lilith Fair program.  I systematically explored the list of participating artists, hoping to discover new
music.  I loved that the CD came in a pink-tinted plastic case and, upon listening to it, I quite liked Leisha Hailey and Heather Grody's delicate and girly voices and the relative simplicity of the music and lyrics.  BUT, I (stupidly) dropped this one like a hot potato when I found out that Leisha Hailey's girlfriend was K.D. Lang.  Suddenly she didn't fit in to some accepted standard that had a place in my head (surely it is more complicated than that, but for the sake of this post, that is what I am going to say--for now, anyway). 

"Genius" embraces the beauty of being strange or different ("She's kinda freaky/She's kinda weird/But I don't know/I think she's a genius") and the idea that something wonderful can come from something that isn't customary or someone's idea of perfect (if that makes any sense at all--it feels like this post is trying to go in a million directions at once).

All that to say: messy pages, neatly printed pages...both are equally beautiful (the pages are becoming a bit of a metaphor here, haha).  Getting the words out (whatever those words or ideas may be) is what actually matters.
[identity profile] cabaretlights.livejournal.com

: I can't believe I'm posting this.

No, but I really can't, though.

I hate Ke$ha.
I rail against her whenever possible. I hate her music videos, the way she presents herself, her products. I can't stand what she represents in the music industry: a talentless, anti-feminist waste of space who rewards the little girls who idolize her by drinking and fucking without thought or interest whenever caught on camera. She never has anything intelligent to say or impart. She is the total fucking definition of imperfect, if only because there is nothing she could amend for to make her worthwhile. Pure, undeniable imperfection.

But goddammit,
I fucking love this song.
I love this song.

Flip back three years, exactly -- because I have, in the past hour or so; I've been reading old LJ entries and biting my lip. We were in our last semester of Education, and we were not the same people. There were a lot of things that were fucked up, in different ways but for both of us. But: in ways I will never be able to articulate, I was more myself than I had ever been. I was absolutely fucking alive. 2010, from January to June, was a minefield of heart explosions. Lifebombs. Gratitude for the people in my life (many of whom are still profoundly in my life today, if not in the same city they were then), for the feelings I had never yet been able to feel, for that sense of letting go of a very deepseated dream -- being a teacher -- and for embracing the unknown. Maybe one day I would open a cafe. Maybe I would be a graphic designer. Maybe I would do neither of those things, but I knew one thing for absolute certain, back then: whatever I did, I would be striving for the next raw experience (on my terms, anyway).

It was an imperfect time,
but fuck if I didn't (and do) see it as perfect.
I listened to this song a lot, then.

I have changed a lot, since then.

I don't strive for experience the way I used to. I don't feel as connected to myself as I used to, though I have gained connections to other people (one in particular) in exchange. And honestly, to try to 'reconnect' myself back to the person I was then is a futile dream: I spent several months aiming for it, to disastrous effect. I grew up, and I changed, and I had to figure out where the new me stood. I can't go back to that time, even as I listen to this terrible goddamn artist singing those then-inspirational lines: "And I don't want the concrete / I am alive". I am not 23 and I won't be again. And it was messy --- youth is always so messy! --- and it was overwhelming, and it was idealistic and it was hard and it was raw and it was totally imperfect and it was absolutely, completely beautiful.

Ke$ha captures none of that -- she is, after all, as imperfect as youth can't help but be. Or, I guess, she captures none of it objectively. This song is a dancepop ballad -- a throwaway. Nothing interesting, nothing worthwhile, and will be forgotten in the annals of history in favour of her bigger singles, and she will only be remembered as a fad representative of its time. This song is imperfect, and this song will be forgotten.

But for as long as I fucking live, it will evoke a time in my life that was absolutely rife with memory.
This song is, and will forever be to me, alive.
And much as it pains me to post one of my least favourite people on the planet: if that isn't beautiful imperfection, I'm not sure what is.


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