Dynamite

And I shall drive my chariot
Down your streets
And cry, 'Hey, it's me,
I'm dynamite
And I don't know why'

The fury that held me, crooked and on the verge of tears, has not left me. In fact my anger is growing, something intangible but not without substance. I suspect that a poet like Whitman or even Van Morrison, whose soul tearing cries can raise the hair on my neck, could phrase it so you could understand. This weekend has been good and bad, happy and sad and altogether too mischievous, even if a little too cruel.

I wonder if everyone has a soundtrack that plays endlessly in the background. Music is always playing in my head and rarely do I wish I could turn it off. There was Stars and Broken Social Scene, some Camper Van Beethoven, some Brad, Amos Lee and, as you can tell by the quote above, Van Morrison. Faraquet, which I can't seem to find anywhere, came before the Scissor Sisters and then I listened again to that Fall Out Boy track, which everyone seems to hate. Ben Harper, borrowed and likely never returned (sorry) and that funny little man, Beck.
No Guster. Not now, maybe later. Maybe some day I can listen to it again.

For now,

And you shall take me strongly
In your arms again
And I will not remember
That I even felt the pain.
We shall walk and talk
In gardens all misty and wet with rain
And I will never, never, never
Grow so old again.