& the vampires roam

building a mystery (album version, video) ~ sarah mclachlan

"you're a beautiful,
a beautiful fucked up man."

the stories continue, whether we choose to write them, or not. i close my eyes to sleep and the characters dance in my head, nudging at me, persistent and unshakeable. i never remember it any different from this - i think i was writing before i knew how to hold a pen.

just like music, and my ability to love, the drive to write has always been with me.

i don't think i'd ever want it any other way.

but gravity always wins

"and if i could be who you wanted,
if i could be who you wanted,
all the time, all the time."

i was perusing this space, full of that sad stain of nostalgia that feels weighted and rough. one of those moments where i think i'll either start at the beginning and see what the fuck i was on about, or just stop all this writing. i guess the words are too strong, and the music, well i'm not ever able to let the music go. and it dawns on me, terms like synchronicity and fate, karma if you like, if you open your eyes up and listen to your insides, everywhere you truly look will have a gift to give.

i cannot give up the writing, nor the music, never, ever, ever. i may be lousy at love, but this, i think i just might be good at this.

turn back to the start of this space, and this is what i found (guess i needed to remember):

http://dreamsgavemeaway.blogspot.com/2007/08/and-if-you-shake-her-heart-enough-she.html

there are ways we decide to express ourselves; be it in the way we write, talk, think, dream, invest our time, or as i tend to do more often than not, through the music we listen to. i may wake up with invisible tape over my lips, rendering me silent and wordless, but what spins in my car stereo or streams through my headphones, is where most of my truths lie. sometimes i get lost in the twists and turns of a simple lyrical refrain, other times the simple pleas of a singer wailing into the mic reduce me to a pool of tears, or bring on such strength and renewal that i swear i could fly.

inside the songs i often hide confessions, longing and unnamed pain. it seems easier to tuck them away in a melody, and to throw them out into the ether of existence and airwaves - the music keeps all my secret wishes safe and sound. sometimes i tie ribbons around them, leave soft kisses on the curve of each note, slide them into a brown-paper package, and send them off to the hands and ears of someone else. they are my gifts of heart and mind, they are my love, my anger, my logic, and my dreams. music is connection to me, and if the receiver is too far away to touch, the songs are my offered hand to hold, my fingers entwined with theirs, my arms wrapped around them in a long embrace.

at times, the songs are enough to fill the ache and pull of distance and regret. other nights, though, they are the strung-out reminders of a damaged heart awash in loneliness. the liner notes are etched in a scrawl too convoluted to see clearly, but if i could make out the words, they would sound something like i miss you, i wish you woulda put yourself in my suitcase. and your un-written replies, well i imagine them alight in the burned spirals on that cd you sent; the one i still carry around with me everywhere.

i don't want to be lost

from my own true love (lost at sea) ~ the decemberists

"mr. postman, do you have a letter for me?

mr. postman, do you have a letter for me?

a letter for me,

from my own true love,

lost at sea.

lost at sea."

and this song reached out and held hands with the words i just read from a story that a friend (and amazing writer) is weaving. perhaps the two meet int he middle, and it all works, the lost are found, and neither feels the tug to lose themselves anymore. is that not what true connection is? what we all are searching for, secretly or openly?

"i don’t want to be lost. i want to be found."

(from 'three steps to heaven' by tania mcintosh)

calling all writers, artists, et al

keep art alive; art by rich007

For Immediate Release
April 1, 2008

Vagabondage: Traveling about without any clear destination.

Vagabondage Press is pleased to announce that our new online literary magazine, The Battered Suitcase, is now open for submissions.

Vagabondage Press has been established to promote the publication of intelligent, imaginative and experimental fiction. Our goal is to offer an open forum for writers and artists that allows them the freedom to take risks, to offer unusual viewpoints and unique perspectives.

The Battered Suitcase is the flagship publication of Vagabondage Press and is an online literary magazine aimed at new directions in the exploration of art and literature. It is published online on the first calendar day of the month.

We would like to invite you to grab your own suitcase, take to your own road leading off to any and all unnamed destinations, and to capture it. We are interested in the best of your stories and artwork, and are searching for writers and artists who defy expectations and take risks. You're invited to share your stories from the Journey.

Come take a look at what we are all about and feel free to contact us with questions.

Vagabondage Press
http://www.vagabondagepress.com
info@vagabondagepress.com

so love me now

keep art alive; art by josh hart

no one would riot for less ~ bright eyes

& the video

"well wake, baby, wake.

but leave that blanket around you,

there's nowhere else safe.

i'm leaving this place,

but there's nothing i'm planning to take;

just you, just you, just you, just you..."

i've said for a long time that music is my oxygen, my sanity, the way i focus and often exist. lately i have noticed that it is my muse, though i'm sure i always knew this, never writing a word in a notebook, composition book, blank blog space, or even the backside of a postcard without a song playing in the background.

so now, as i push myself through to finish a story that keeps building, determined to not be the girl who never finishes anything anymore, i find myself with my ears open, taking in every turn of a lyric, and progression of sound. i've found myself pulling over to the side of the road, tears streaming down my face, as i see something so vivid in my mind.

characters seem to take over, nudge at me, tug at me until i stop and look, or listen - this is the path, over here, and don't forget...

i always heard writers talk about that at some point the story takes over. that you become, as the writer, a conduit - or perhaps it is just that you become so entrenched with the characters that you become pieces of them. as if you are playing a role on a stage, layering traits over your own, and mixing them until they are one.

all i know for sure is that i am carrying them around with me - everywhere - and they seem to have song preferences. by the end of this story i think i my end up with a soundtrack that is volumes long. time life will have to come around and make an informercial for it, or something.

the love behind your eyes

you talk ~ babyshambles (video)

"you talk, yes you talk a good game,

won’t you teach me the same?

oh i’d love to explain,

like showing your hand, and all about;

oh well i know, i know, i know, i know,

and so and so and so..."

just got past a spot of plot block with this song, which i've been listening to on and off all day. suppose it was trying to tell me something all that time.

i love the last moment of this video, with arms thrown up in the air.

twentieth century go to sleep

electrolite ~ r.e.m.

the video

over-caffeinated with a side of lack of sleep,

but the sun is shining and it is so beautiful outside.

i'm writing a story set in los angeles,

somedays i remember that i love it here.

"if i ever want to fly,

mulholland drive,

i am alive.

hollywood is under me.

i'm martin sheen,

i'm steve mcqueen,

i'm jimmy dean.

you are the star tonight,

your sun electric, outta sight;

your light eclipsed the moon tonight,

electrolite,

you're outta sight."

i love this song so much.

there is only now

devil in the details ~ bright eyes

"and i know the cause,
and i want to stop,
but i can’t do it,
i just can’t do it.

there was love i meant,
there were accidents,
so tell me which is which.

‘cos i just can’t work it out.
but for memory and clarity,
we had better write it down.

i have no way,
of knowing the truth,
with time dissolves.

i put the past into the ground,
i saw the future as a cloud,
if theres still time to turn around,
i'm going to."

there are characters that come to play, they write themselves, sneak into your consciousness and flow out of the tip of your pen. the ink stains your fingers, like blood, like memory, like a name that whispers in the stillness of night. the reader may render the shape familiar, but they are just composites of the whole, of everyone we know.