You called yourself a Rastafarian. You smoked pot every morning, grew your hair out and didn’t shower, put a big poster of Bob Marley on your dorm room wall.
That was so last semester. Now you’re into the activist scene. You grew a mohawk and bought thrift store clothing, covered your L.L. Bean bag in punk rock patches and sharpied slogans. Fuck the Police. Anarchy Forever.
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ReplyDeletethere's an implicit judgment being made here, but you don't come right out and say it. very accusatory tone. these can be the lyrics to our punk band's first song, eh?
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ReplyDeletehell yeah.
ReplyDeletefitting, too, since the tone i was going for (somewhere between accusation and parody) is straight out of "terminal preppy," "anarchy for sale," "holiday in cambodia," or pretty much every dead kennedys song about college students.
Karl gave me Stop Making Sense at Christmas. When I wanted to loan the dvd to a psychotherapist friend who had never heard of The Talking Heads (I guess irony endures), I discovered it was a temporary gift. So I borrowed it back. To loan it out. There are two kinds of people in the world, you know: those who listen only to the music of their youth, and those who keep on listening. Have you done field work for each of your stories? Are they really rooted in these states? Or at least rhizomed? Or am I too concrete? Houston is the first place I've lived with no native rocks or stones. In northern Indiana there are boulders in front yards dropped by the retreating glaciers. Houston has plenty of concrete. Its freeways must be one of the wonders of the modern world. You should come see.
ReplyDeleteNo field work yet, just research, with degrees of depth that vary from state to state. This is intentional (the subtitle for this part of this project is "prediction," after all) and I plan to get out to see them all someday, and to revise my stories then. I'll make sure to visit you in Houston. That much concrete must be something to see.
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