melancholy, sweet sweet melancholy
I'm listening to ByteFM, a habit from the time when Julian was on good terms with me and I was allowed to go through his wallet and laugh at his ID pics. Do I dare say Julian's last name is his nationality? That is where this "gute" music comes from. On air Nina Simone, "Gimme Some"... wait now Booka Shade "Bad Love"... What is this.. European electronic music? Why does Europe feel like the eighties from across the Atlantic? Like everyone is still wearing sweaters over their shoulders, tying the arms in a knot over the chest. Like all the girls are Nina Hagen. Like everyone vacations in Ibiza. Can I have my melancholy in one shot, on the rocks please?
A jolly good time I'm having. My fortune cookie number two from Chinese New Year foreboded: "Enjoy your own company. If you don't, who will?" I like myself in now-playin' sweet melancholy mood. There are many other moods in which I find myself intolerable and have to have the company of others to suffer through them. This one, I feel blue with a fluttering smile as if I were to embrace all things present and past. Animate, inanimate. I almost want to embrace the "Fuck you!" that came in an angry e-mail from the Irish girl living downstairs. I want to write kind words to console her, to snatch her out of her anger and expose her to this music: Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip - Get Better (The Errors Remix).
The present moment is perfect: a streetcar has just passed -what is it with me, I end up living either by trains or streetcars. Current silence in the house was preceded by high pitched giggles from Elliott and co in the living room. It was soothing, people laughing and chatting while I danced and dallied up here like a child comforted by the brouhaha of a summer festival. Es ist acht uhr. No, lady it is two am out here, just move on from number eight.
The sweet sweet melancholy wraps around flashes of today, which is yesterday but now that I am awake let's just call it the extended play day. Basak sits at the Common amongst hipsters, waiting for me. I take her to Aziza, a small café run by a Somalian woman, her daughter and friends. A large hipped, wide smiled lady takes good care of us, contrasting the hipsterish brushing off "I'm doing you a favor serving you overpriced espresso in casually thrown in looking standard good taste magazine like vintage feel". I like my people warm, not cool.
It's dark when I strut past Dovercourt on College to a Portuguese photo store where Ege chats away the day on what is called the social media. A Portuguese couple comes in to clean the store, the lady'd brought family pictures to be blown up and put into ornamented frames. "Free of charge!" Ege declares before he and I leave. Then we walk into a Portuguese hardware-trinkets store. We eat churrasco at a Portuguese restaurant, tune into the Blade Runner trial on CNN and marvel at how much this restaurant and the people in it feel like Istanbul. And if I write one more time 'Portuguese' I will stop enjoying my own company.
Wheeler Brothers are singing "Home for the Holidays". I'm finally sleepy. This room. Right here. Now. Is filled with so much goodness. Vivian kissing me goodbye in the morning to catch a flight. Asli's spectacular hangover. Nima and I flipping through the pages of a picture book of Coco's. Quietly drawing at the table with Wai-Yant, Coco and Zoya. Udo barely fitting the futon after a night at the Emmett Ray. Dispersed as we are, der Stand der Dinge, what a melancholy feast.
http://www.byte.fm/
A jolly good time I'm having. My fortune cookie number two from Chinese New Year foreboded: "Enjoy your own company. If you don't, who will?" I like myself in now-playin' sweet melancholy mood. There are many other moods in which I find myself intolerable and have to have the company of others to suffer through them. This one, I feel blue with a fluttering smile as if I were to embrace all things present and past. Animate, inanimate. I almost want to embrace the "Fuck you!" that came in an angry e-mail from the Irish girl living downstairs. I want to write kind words to console her, to snatch her out of her anger and expose her to this music: Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip - Get Better (The Errors Remix).
The present moment is perfect: a streetcar has just passed -what is it with me, I end up living either by trains or streetcars. Current silence in the house was preceded by high pitched giggles from Elliott and co in the living room. It was soothing, people laughing and chatting while I danced and dallied up here like a child comforted by the brouhaha of a summer festival. Es ist acht uhr. No, lady it is two am out here, just move on from number eight.
The sweet sweet melancholy wraps around flashes of today, which is yesterday but now that I am awake let's just call it the extended play day. Basak sits at the Common amongst hipsters, waiting for me. I take her to Aziza, a small café run by a Somalian woman, her daughter and friends. A large hipped, wide smiled lady takes good care of us, contrasting the hipsterish brushing off "I'm doing you a favor serving you overpriced espresso in casually thrown in looking standard good taste magazine like vintage feel". I like my people warm, not cool.
It's dark when I strut past Dovercourt on College to a Portuguese photo store where Ege chats away the day on what is called the social media. A Portuguese couple comes in to clean the store, the lady'd brought family pictures to be blown up and put into ornamented frames. "Free of charge!" Ege declares before he and I leave. Then we walk into a Portuguese hardware-trinkets store. We eat churrasco at a Portuguese restaurant, tune into the Blade Runner trial on CNN and marvel at how much this restaurant and the people in it feel like Istanbul. And if I write one more time 'Portuguese' I will stop enjoying my own company.
Wheeler Brothers are singing "Home for the Holidays". I'm finally sleepy. This room. Right here. Now. Is filled with so much goodness. Vivian kissing me goodbye in the morning to catch a flight. Asli's spectacular hangover. Nima and I flipping through the pages of a picture book of Coco's. Quietly drawing at the table with Wai-Yant, Coco and Zoya. Udo barely fitting the futon after a night at the Emmett Ray. Dispersed as we are, der Stand der Dinge, what a melancholy feast.
http://www.byte.fm/
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