we lay in bed together, the hum of the fan blowing onto us while we embraced underneath the covers. i ran my fingers through her hair the way people run their fingers through sand at the beach. she looked at me with a pained look on her face. i thought she was going to level the anvil on me; i thought she was going to tell me we can’t do this anymore, “we can’t do this anymore” being eligible as the title of the story of my life.
"i remember the way you were. before you got your heart broken. even in intermittent points after that. what happened to that guy? what happened to proper-noun Martin Douglas? the cocky internet heartthrob, the sex symbol for moody introverts? the guy who everybody loved because it always seemed as though he was having more fun than them? where did that guy go? i — all of us — need you to find him and bring him back to us."
she turned over and went to sleep. i rested my nose on the back of her neck, breathing softly through it as i normally did. that guy took a vacation, a sabbatical, just fucking disappeared, and everybody got stuck with this one. it’s a lot like subletting your own life. you know it’s yours, but it feels like you came into a party in someone else’s clothes and ineffectually pretended to be them. what happened to that guy? i lifted my head sharply from my pillow after i woke up from the conversation i had to the dead friend that visits me in my dreams.
i put on my only pair of sweatpants, scuffled out to sit in the bed of my el camino, and trixie and i sat and watched the nightlife, or lack thereof. just a boy and his car. she’s never known anything but this me, and so have a bunch of people in my life, and i feel responsible for that. i watched the squirrels scurry across the street and washes of late-night traffic as their lights became larger and then became smaller in the distance.
This is more of a “self-reference for self-care” sort of things since I’ve desperately needed that sort of thing. As most of you probably already know, most of what I put on Tumblr is more for self-reference than it is pleasing some sort of “audience,” but some people don’t, so I thought I’d add that disclaimer.
Keep your eyes on the prize, even if that prize is as small “make it to the end of the day.”
Don’t worry about how farther along other people are in life.
If you’re feeling extra-shitty, do something, anything to take your mind off of it.
If this happens while you’re trying to go to sleep, try to do something other than go to sleep.
Don’t depend on outside sources (physical activity, weed, sleep, affection) to stay positive about yourself. Look inside yourself and the good things in there.
Look at all the stuff you’ve survived. You can survive yourself. You are tougher than you give yourself credit for.
I’ve spent nearly three years pretending I haven’t been as depressed as I am, putting on a moderately happy face for people, trying to will myself into thinking I’m finally going to be on the upswing soon, attempting to “tough” myself out of whatever I’m feeling and thinking, tossing and turning at night, going to sleep early and waking up after nightmares of me seeing cell phone footage of me purposefully running into traffic and being knocked off my feet by a car, being hurt, being angry, being lonely, wondering what I’m missing, whether or not I have what it takes. Not to be successful but to be alive. Why is wanting to die such a persistent feeling inside of me? Why can’t I be fully satisfied by anything except the thought of not having to open my eyes again?
Honestly, it’s taking everything inside of me to not disappear. Not from in the bullshit internet hiatus kind of way, but legitimately and permanently. I don’t know how to get myself out of this. I wake up in the morning and ask myself, “Do I really want to do this anymore?” I honestly don’t know sometimes. A lot of the time — more often than not in these past three years — I’ve been fighting every urge inside of me to give up.
Nobody thinks Antics is a more significant album than Turn on the Bright Lights, and I would even include myself in that class. But is it a better album, even after ten years? In this article, I explore that question.
People always tell me I’m smarter than I think I am, but I think my gift lies in finding smart people, and finding out what kind of smart they are. I think I can spot a smart person from forty yards away. They could be street-smart, they could be book-smart, or they could just think they’re smart. I don’t know what it is about me, but I feel as though I continually find smart people and smart people continually find me. I’m honestly not sure what it is.
I’ve always considered myself to be a creative person. When I first started working on American Water, I knew this is what I had always wanted to do with my life. When I was seven years old, writing mini novellas about vampires in those notebooks with the white and black covers. I knew I wanted to create characters and put them in situations and have them relate to the readers and each other. All I ever wanted to be was an artist.
And then came the world of music writing. I found something I was good at, this assessment of other people’s work, and it taught me what it was about art that interested me. It taught me a great deal about the happy place in my mind when I get to play with structure or study the structure of someone else’s work. Music writing became an intellectual practice that infinitely helped my creative work. It exercises my brain in a different way. I don’t really care for the politics that come with music writing, and that’s why I write for the places I consider home. But that’s because I know I want to create, I want to be an artist. And I know it’s going to be a while before anybody sees my artistic work, and that sort of disappoints me, because I’m impatient.
I want to be an artist, but for now, I’m a music writer. For now. But just you wait. When I come out as an artist, you’ll know it’s what I was meant to do. I was born to be a creator.
The return of my Passion of the Weiss column is live on the site with a review of the new King Tuff record, complete with a dissection of the King Tuff persona, the gratuitous use of the word “tunes,” and parenthetical asides referencing both Arrested Development and the “Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase. Things are just as normal as they ever were.
My Passion of the Weiss return is imminent, as I’m currently working on some good stuff. And I don’t mean “return” as in “write one or two posts and then disappear for another nine months,” I mean “return” as in “I’m back for real this time.” No Boy Who Cried Hiatus shit, it’s back to business for your boy Martin Douglas.
“When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.”—Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace (via mar-see-ah)
When “Ode to Viceroy” comes on and you and the person you’re with are just stoned enough to dance together in your loft (and watch wrestling, and eat veggie fried rice at 10pm, but those are other stories), that’s the best feeling, regardless of how temporary your situation with that person is.
No Vacation for Murder is on Spotify, but you can also listen to it here. I made eight of the twelve beats on the album. I would recommend it if you’re interested in hearing a defined noir aesthetic applied to rap music.
The Zilla Rocca post reminds me: I made a post a couple of months asking if somebody had sampled PJ Harvey's "The Devil" and totally forgot about the 47 ronin beat. Killer sample, so props.
Thank you! A lot of my beats that made No Vacation for Murder were ones that I made in like 2011, 2012. I think the beat for “47 Ronin” was one of the first beats I made on this project, which was originally intended for somebody else. But much like Clipse and the Neptunes, Zilla will always and forever get first run of my beats.
“For the white man to ask the black man if he hates him is just like the rapist asking the raped, or the wolf asking the sheep, ‘Do you hate me?’ The white man is in no moral position to accuse anyone else of hate! Why, when all of my ancestors are snake-bitten, and I’m snake-bitten, and I warn my children to avoid snakes, what does that snake sound like accusing me of hate-teaching?”—Malcolm X (via dynamofire)
If you are a woman or nonbinary person who plays music, your appearance will always be scrutinized and reviewed to the nth degree and torn apart to examine your fuckability or lack thereof (of course if you are a trans woman there are extra layers of bigotry to deal with, and nonbinary people who present in particular ways often get similar treatment, and race also intersects here in predictably shitty ways - the misogynoir in reviews of Black female artists is often staggering, for instance).
You can’t win. If you happen into a body that conforms to social beauty standards, you’re A Pretty Girl first and a musician far down the list, and that’s all anyone will talk to you about. If you happen into a body that doesn’t conform, you are so ugly you don’t deserve to be on stage (if I had a penny for every time some dude said this about me I wouldn’t be so stressed about money; I also get ‘I’d fuck her’ sometimes, which, like, nobody asked you. It’s interesting to watch dudes negotiate when they’re attracted to people who aren’t conventionally attractive, and by interesting I mean it’s like watching a fly dying in a glass of water you wanted to drink).
We play music because we love doing it, because we are creative and brave and because there is catharsis and joy in it - just like anyone else. Comment on our music, not on the ways in which we are not dudes and/or not white and/or not cis. Tear that apart if you want, or love it, or both. But I am so tired about reading about my appearance and the appearances of other musicians, be they friends of mine (this was actually inspired by reading an insipid sexist piece of shit review of Perfect Pussy at the Rock n Roll Hotel, which I will not link because it is vile) or not. Talk about our music on its own merits or yr review goes in the toilet.