A Dave-ish post
I'll blame this on my pursuit of an oatmeal stout that tastes as good as Gordon's.
It's odd how senses work. I think I figured out why I write songs/stories/poems/screenplays. The reason is this: to elicit emotion.
I can do these things:
Have you look at something I saw,
have you hear something I heard,
have you touch something I touched,
have you smell something I smelled,
and have you taste something I tasted.
But... I can't let you feel something I felt. I can describe the feeling. I can present you with things that may make you feel the same way, but I can't ever know if you actually feel the same thing I feel.
It's very disheartening.
I feel lots of good things. I want to share them with you. How can I ever be sure I did what I intended to do?
In the preparation of backing up my hard drive because of this Kama Sutra virus (yes, I download all sorts of porn...) I was listening to a song. It's called A Favor House Atlantic.
It made me think of a particular person. It's funny how it made all these memories and feelings come back. I must have replayed the song 7 or 8 times during the night. (I honestly don't even really care for the song.) When I was younger, I had always envisioned what the future would be like, and the role this person would have in it. Now, (I might say), it's the future, and it's not quite what I would have wanted.
Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly happy. I'd bet that I'm happier than almost anyone else who might read this.
But it seems that the more we have, the more we look at the things we don't. Maybe other people feel the same way. When I commented on the lack of people at our annual Christmas dinner, Dan said something like, "Hey man, that's just the reality of being a grown-up, and you are the awesomest dude ever."
That kinda sucks, huh? Not me being awesome (which is sweet, and by sweet I mean a swift kick in my Grandma's mouth), but me being a sucky grown-up.
Don't feel bad though-be good, stay alive. I'll see you again. There's years left, just look at all the old fogies around. Like, Pops Ickle, and Henry Arms. Those were some batting champions.
Stupid beer. Hey, I'm just a man who wants it all.
I'm not going to stop trying to get it.
"♫Bye bye beautiful
Don't bother to write
Distrubed by words and they're calling all cars
Face step, let down
Face step, step down.♫"
It's odd how senses work. I think I figured out why I write songs/stories/poems/screenplays. The reason is this: to elicit emotion.
I can do these things:
Have you look at something I saw,
have you hear something I heard,
have you touch something I touched,
have you smell something I smelled,
and have you taste something I tasted.
But... I can't let you feel something I felt. I can describe the feeling. I can present you with things that may make you feel the same way, but I can't ever know if you actually feel the same thing I feel.
It's very disheartening.
I feel lots of good things. I want to share them with you. How can I ever be sure I did what I intended to do?
In the preparation of backing up my hard drive because of this Kama Sutra virus (yes, I download all sorts of porn...) I was listening to a song. It's called A Favor House Atlantic.
It made me think of a particular person. It's funny how it made all these memories and feelings come back. I must have replayed the song 7 or 8 times during the night. (I honestly don't even really care for the song.) When I was younger, I had always envisioned what the future would be like, and the role this person would have in it. Now, (I might say), it's the future, and it's not quite what I would have wanted.
Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly happy. I'd bet that I'm happier than almost anyone else who might read this.
But it seems that the more we have, the more we look at the things we don't. Maybe other people feel the same way. When I commented on the lack of people at our annual Christmas dinner, Dan said something like, "Hey man, that's just the reality of being a grown-up, and you are the awesomest dude ever."
That kinda sucks, huh? Not me being awesome (which is sweet, and by sweet I mean a swift kick in my Grandma's mouth), but me being a sucky grown-up.
Don't feel bad though-be good, stay alive. I'll see you again. There's years left, just look at all the old fogies around. Like, Pops Ickle, and Henry Arms. Those were some batting champions.
Stupid beer. Hey, I'm just a man who wants it all.
I'm not going to stop trying to get it.
"♫Bye bye beautiful
Don't bother to write
Distrubed by words and they're calling all cars
Face step, let down
Face step, step down.♫"
1 Comments:
Is that a brew that make, or just something they sell that I could possibly find elsewhere? When I'm in Boston, I'm going to try to find some Black Bute Porter.
My next batch, by the way, will be an oatmeal stout. I'll call it, "Better than Instant Quaker Oatmeal Stout"
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