I am filthy. And happy.

Actually, I was filthy ten minutes ago. Now that I've washed the smell of Lollapalooza (a pungent mix of sunscreen, sweat, and marijuana) out of my hair, I'm not much less satisfied. A little more tired, maybe. And a little sore.

But worth it. So, so worth it. Performances in order of awesomeness:

1) Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes: performed on a minor stage and literally packed the entire grassy area around it. People were climbing in trees to get a better view. Such good energy. And NPR was right -- they're much better live than recorded. Must see again.
2) Phoenix: I wasn't a big fan until today. But wow. I was tired and dehydrated and dizzy from the pot smoke around me, and they still blew me away. Now must listen to "1901" for the rest of my life.
3) The xx: I saw them at Cat's Cradle last spring. Not quite the same vibe in broad daylight, but still contagious and supersensual.
4) Metric: Not much to say. A lot of hair-flailing.
5) Spoon: I'm not their biggest fan. But performance was on point. And gotta love the brass section.
6) Stars: A friend told me that Stars live is a disappointment, and I . . . can't not agree. Amy Millan was onstage in a shiny black dress and heels at least a decade too young for her. And it's just strange to hear her rhyming "ecstasy" and "sex with me" (to steal Pitchfork's observation) alongside a blue-violet-reflective-sunglasses-donning Torq Campbell.
7) Grizzly Bear: Okay, I know these guys can harmonize the shit out of everything, but they were really low-energy. And not interesting. And boring.

I need to make music festivals a habit. Actually, I need to make this summer a habit. Need to reflect on this more. Will be back when it's not 4:00 a.m. EST.

Writing: thoughts.

I had lunch with one of my favorite professors today, at a pretty popular Latin American café about five minutes walking distance from campus. She always asks me about my future in English, and I never know what to say to her: graduate school is so difficult (and not lucrative), but fiction writing isn't anything to hang your hat on--but maybe if I went to law school first and learned how to fend for myself in this big bad world and then went for my MFA?

Future's wide open. What I want most of all is to be published: She told me about her first published story, then about her slow journey upward--publication in The Kenyon Review, then being contacted by some random publisher to do a collection of short stories, then being reviewed in The New York Times, etc. etc. If only talent were so guaranteed, but more and more I really do think it's all just a matter of taste and whether or not someone important has the same aesthetic sense as you.

So maybe what I really need to do is develop my aesthetic, which is to say: develop myself. (It always comes back to this.) Do some experimenting. I admire my professor for her fearlessness--she told me about sending a snarky letter to an editor that hadn't gotten back to her about her work (only to find an acceptance letter in her mailbox that same day), but I'm far too timid for my own good.

I know right now exactly what sort of story I want to write (think: the emotional restraint of "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead," with the same undertone of disgust/calculated insouciance--taking my cues from Stars), but I don't know if I could pull it off. It'd be a perverse little thing, but that's how I like them.

God that was strange to see you again:
Introduced by a friend of a friend,
Smiled and said "Yes I think we've met before."
In that instant it started to pour.
Captured a taxi despite all the rain,
We drove in silence across Pont Champlain.
And all of the time you thought I was sad,
I was trying to remember your name.

♫ "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" (Stars, Set Yourself On Fire)

Melancholia.

A phrase from my heresy class this semester that won't leave me alone/needs to be turned into something:

"a creeping empty glory."

Reminds me of:

Are the beating drums,
celebration guns,
the thunder and the laughter--
the last thing they remember?

(x many many repetitions)

♫ "Celebration Guns" (Stars, Set Yourself On Fire)

Even if you knew.

Show the soul you never had:
a fad that will not save you.

♫ "Honeymoon" (Bombadil, Tarpits in Canyonlands)

Obsession continues. Time passing in increments of five-minute songs.

Falling slowly.

I don't know,
but I want you
all the more for that.
Words fall through me,
always fool me,
and I can't react.
Games that never amount
to more than they're meant
will play themselves out.

Take this sinking boat,
and point it home.
We've still got time.

[ . . . ]
You've suffered enough
And warred with yourself.
It's time you won.

♫ "Falling Slowly" (The Swell Season, The Swell Season)

For me, when everything is beautiful, life is music -- especially sad, sad music, especially soulful lyrics. This is why I think that I might be destined for poetry, not prose. Lately I've been looping the same few songs on my iPod, and it's put me into a strangely calm, reflective mood (despite finals in less than a week):

1. "Falling Slowly" (The Swell Season, The Swell Season)
2. "Broken Horse" (Freelance Whales, Weathervanes)
3. "Cosmic Love" (Florence + The Machine, Lungs)
4. "Honeymoon" (Bombadil, Tarpits in Canyonlands)
5. "Generator ^1" (Freelance Whales, Weathervanes)
6. "Melectric" (Ramona Falls, Intuit)

The Lollapalooza line-up seems really promising this year, and I'm tempted to fly out -- have at least one really good friend going, and another good friend is staying in Chicago for the summer.

But oh god, that look in your eye:

Trouble that does not search words.
It sprung from the biblical vine and
Awaiting to return to the dirt.

(But oh god, that curve in your spine:
A question mark, a doctor's sigh
Was framed by the windowsill.)

And you saw something I did not in the night.
You saw something I did not in the night.

♫ "Broken Horse" (Freelance Whales, Weathervanes)

:) Dum da dum.

Recently I just started sharing my music status on a chat application.
It's actually so great to see what my friends are listening to. I feel much closer. And almost spiritually intimate.

Okay seriously this is all coming out in a stream of horrible simplicity. I mean that: music is so ambient and essential to me that to understand, in the moment, what someone four hundred miles away is experiencing actually makes a big difference.

:) I'm all smiley and happy because of it. I just . . . haven't been so giddy and incoherent in a long time.