The Foghat Crescendo

Sometimes instead of walking up through the Friley arches and in front of Beardshear I walk behind Carver and across the courtyard to Ross. I’ve convinced myself that the latter way is faster but sometimes I guess it doesn’t matter that much because I’ll take the former route. It might be a minute’s difference. Or two.

I’m in college again and taking some classes again. I try to tell myself I can still be inspired and I haven’t lost it but every time I decide I really would like to write something, the first words that come out are “I can’t write about stupid love shit anymore because I’m not upset.” Not really but if I always wrote what I felt that’s probably what would come out most of the time. Sometimes I’ll think of a neat phrase and type it and then erase it. Sometimes I listen to indie pop music and those band people are happy and they make music nobody’s ashamed to listen to, they must love the lyrics and don’t find them emotional or whiney but then you know, I listen to the lyrics and they’re the same as a whiney song but since they’re in a pop song they’re okay. I wonder sometimes what forum that leaves for writing. What am I writing and who am I writing for?

Does everyone see the funny hypocrisy in music criticism and artistic expression? Sometimes I think I’m above artsy-fartsy criticism of shitty lyrics because I can see where the lines are.

How many times do you need to be removed before nobody cares about your observations? You can write lyrics that talk about writing lyrics. You can write songs that say you will write no more songs about writing songs. Can you be above that? Can you write songs that are so fucking observant that they are about writing songs that deal with songs that are about not writing songs about songs? Look it’s artistic amazing enclosed in a package real trendy real witty and sharp! Oh baby you’ll buy it it’s worth more than cat shit and deserves to be stuck in your yard!

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