Jets To Brazil - I Typed For Miles
There are fantods that come from, more than anything, slipping up. Not the slight-of-hand, err-of-tongue mistakes but the too-soon/too-late-turn, wrong exit, six-hours-wasted-so-give-up-and-go-home mistakes. The ones that start from rotten ground and grow crooked. The ones where the wrong answer comes from input overlooked, and the results are like like rabbits. Rabbits or insects or some kind of new math germinating into restless self-abuse. Where, afterward, proportion disregards perspective and the whole thing weighs you down in ways that seemed unimaginable when you thought you had the answers - not all of them because I doubt anybody really thinks they have it all, but enough to get by.
I was going to start this month out with a much less known song by a band from Connecticut but I guess this one probably works better because it more directly relates to the rest of the songs I’d like to post, and the things I want to talk about: writing, connectivity, people, apologies, music itself. Maybe we’ll get to the other band tomorrow.
Note to self: No one cares.
I am 23 years old and from Rochester, New York. I tend to live like a hermit and when I am let out into public I have this embarrassing habit of to talking too loud for too long. My name is Brian Latimer.