I've been cleaning today. I let my closet and drawers get really, really messy over the last 6 months, possibly even longer. It's amazing how much you can shove into small spaces. I filled an entire garbage bag and recycling bin with crap. I finally tackled the daunting project of sorting through old letters/poems/random musings that were just dumped all-together in a totally chaotic fashion. I have organized them by theme/year now. Much better. I am feng-shuied for the moment, at least in certain areas in my room. I still want to update the decor, repaint, change some furniture around and such, but I don't know if it's worth it in the end. We shall see how motivated I am to do this project by the end of the summer.
Anywho, I found lots of interesting hate letters to my ex-boyfriend, and huge picture of Jon's Lajoie's head pasted onto a heart, good times, good times. Haha. Gotta keep those for entertainment purposes for my future children. I always wished that my mom had left me more tangible things like that from her teenage years. While call it weird, but I plan on keeping stuff like that. I guess it's the obsessive scrapbooker in me. But no, I was like that even before I started scrapbooking, like in 5th grade when I started officially keeping a diary and writing, writing, always writing...
While cleaning, I also came across these words I had written on the front cover of a notebook. Yes, I used to write out lyrics and poems and the like ALL the time when I was younger. I was reading the words and literally felt them pulling at my heart strings - I practically recited it word for word, and yet couldn't quite put my finger on where it was from... then of course I realized it was from the sleeve cover of Morning Glory. And once again my sickly Oasis obsession became blatantly evident. Isn't it great I found this just in time for the month of August - I keep reminding Pat that his Oasis tutoring will begin so that he can brush up on his songs and facts before the concert in September. Hahaha... anyways, here's the words I found:
Coming down off the nova somewhere near the boiled egg that is the Royal Albert Hall, we watch Paul's sun crossed with John's star and hold ice cream hands. Someone slipped on a cassette as the one you wanted left with someone else but somehow it was cool because as the music filled the shadows, you heard a sound that was a million miles away from fakery and a step away from your heart.
Just like it always did, this sound puts the swagger back into your step, the rush into your blood, but somehow, and I don't know how, they had become deeper, wider, soulful, better at their craft, inspired by so many things like a world that is tilting who knows where and the applause they always knew was theirs but waited so impatiently to receive. Words cut you from all angles, backed up by a monumental sound that rises high, high and high to crash against your rocks and then changes, majestically and magically to soothe the wounds inside.
As you are dragged inside on this trip abandon, you hear a council estate singing its heart out, you hear the clink of loose change that is never enough to buy what you need, boredom and poverty, hours spent with a burnt out guitar, dirty pubs and cracked up pavements, violence and love, all rolled into one, and now all this.
At the end you flip over and start again because now you are not isolated. They have gone to work so that you can go home. High above the day turns pink and you feel your feet lift above the ground as new roads open up in front of you. In this town the jury is always rigged but the people know. They always know the truth. Believe. Belief. Beyond. Their morning glory.
- P.H. in the summer of '95.