"A little rain never hurt anyone."
“Yeah, but a lot can kill you.”
[As I wake up at 8 AM and feverishly clean my room and wash my clothes and drink clean water and contemplate the day ahead like it finally mattered more than a paycheck and a tip-out. Couldn’t explain it unless you accounted for the constant hangover, or the crohns flares but mostly what we’re actually concerned with is my favorite law of physics: the law of conservation of energy. Energy (like matter) can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only be transferred from one object to the next. The incendiary nature of a true artists’ heart can set the whole world ablaze regardless of that heart’s rhythm or permanent stagnation. One enkindled spirit. I was 3 years old when one of my favorite movies ever was made and I actually will never forget. You ever felt genuine love for someone because you knew they weren’t faking? You ever felt close to someone you never met because you had a feeling they’d understand? Even if it didn’t fully make sense to you? You ever felt the supreme energy of Robin Williams’ smile? Because I have a feeling I did today and there’s not a shred of my boozed up soul that deserves it. But here I am.]
What does "Collision Blonde" mean?
You ever see someone who bleached their hair an extremely light shade of blonde, but then at the roots, near their scalp, there’s an undeniable, natural darkness? There’s a metaphor there that is too personal to share here.
Hey man, been awhile, just wanted to let you know I'm super stoked on the new song and upcoming release. Hope you all are doing good, and come back to California soon! I'm living in San Francisco and would love to help you guys out in any way when and if you ever make it out here. Let me know if you ever need something man!
West coast is calling and I am fervently attempting to answer. I’ll be in touch if San Fran is in our near future. Thanks.
I've been waiting a long time for a follow up to Would You Understand? and, although nothing like the aforementioned or even what I was expecting, I'm really looking forward to the full release. I sincerely hope all involved are happy.
if you really look at it from the perspective of where this band was at would you understand? and what we became at the full culmination of collision blonde, its almost like CB is not even a follow-up but a full evolution. ben and joe didn’t even play on would you understand and i think that record was really just kind of a stepping off point for the kind of songwriting me and will were going to be able to do with ben and joe’s help. but either way, i think the response has been less confusion and more blown away, which we could never have imagined. anyway, thanks. happiness is swiftly fleeting and immeasurably shallow, but i think there’s been a little of it in louisville lately.
it’s not at all the way heartbreak is a steel slice through the muscle. It’s not a cramp. It’s a slowly dislodging splinter. The one you gave up on but never meant to let linger inside of you. But it’s too hard to cut it out.
But then you romantice. You hope it’s oak and charred to the black it makes your skin breathe. But you drink bourbon and feel right again. No pain.
But gasoline will never smell the same, however pertinent, however putrid, addicting. However screaming of beauty and fire and self-
Skin will never be so sweet. No touching of teeth. No midnight withdrawals. Nothing keeping me driving straight. I was the younger, sober brother for a while.
Holy, Sugar, Honey, Ice Tea / I guess that’s a prayer for a player like me / In my church clothes baking buds on the bible / The sweet temptation of my grand daddy’s rifle / Got me thinking ‘bout doing a jihad with these guys / Who only True Religion look better than Levi’s / Who baptize glass with beers and blood stain / You preaching to the choir that praise the drug game //
// Hallelujah // ‘Til the cops cuff me in the back of a cruiser
Ask me what I can do, not what I do, lovely girl, lovely wake of the sun through semitransparent fabric. I can commit to memory a whole page of the directory in three minutes flat but I am incapable of remembering my own telephone number. I can compose patches of poetry as strange and new as you are, or as anything a person may write three hundred years hence, but I have never published one scrap of verse except some juvenile nonsense at college. I have evolved on the playing courts of my father’s school a devastating return of service—a cut clinging drive—but am out of breath after one game. Using ink and aquarelle I can paint a lake scape of unsurpassed translucence with all the mountains of paradise reflected therein, but am unable to draw a boat or a bridge or the silhouette of human panic in the blazing windows of a villa by Plam. I have taught French in American schools but have never been able to get rid of my mother’s Canadian accent, though I hear it clearly when I whisper French words. Ouvre ta robe, Déjanire that I may mount sur mon bûcher. I can levitate one inch high and keep it up for ten seconds, but cannot climb an apple tree. I possess a doctor’s degree in philosophy, but have no German. I have fallen in love with you but shall do nothing about it. In short, I am an all-around genius.
Vladimir Nabokov, Transparent Things
Time to run until yr legs fall off kid, even if it’s just 400 meter ovals, ending where you began, except tireder. Three square meals a day, even if one is just a pbr in the shower. Time to hold someone even if they just keep talking and all you want is the silence and the warmth and the unspoken understanding. Time for coffee in the morning and at noon and then in the late afternoon and then right before you have to drive to work and it’s gone cold but goddamn coffee is coffee and you never did turn it down. Time to cry in the bathroom at work for a couple days with immunity because fuck the taste of coffee in your mouth just reminds you of death. Maybe the right phrase is buck up or pull it together or just cool it you stupid shit. All of the above. Once I thought I’d be lucky to die. Often actually. I’m just lucky I can feel this. That another tragedy didn’t just pass me by like a bullet grazing the shortest fairest hairs on my cheekbone. Time to let the blade sink in and pass through, heal with the full consideration that the scar will be gruesome and only available to show to those who would touch it like it were a hole they wanted to fill, and then act as though it weren’t there until someone were to fill it. That’s how it works, right?