And so begins the stealthy act of blogging at work..
"So this is the new year
And I don't feel any different
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions"
The moment I popped out of bed yesterday morning (and without a hint of hangover, mind you - yay for B12) I took out Transatlanticism and played this song to usher in 2008. My favorite part is when it gets jaunty, but when it did, it was disappointing this time, as the lyrics change tracks and plunges into relationship territory. That never gets old, does it? Anti-climactic, just like the actual new year. Due to a dry run of new songs I've downloaded (they aren't sticking), I've returned to the soundtrack of my high school existence. But what greets my ears is less than picture perfect. Speaking specifically of Death Cab for Cutie's first few albums, the ones before Ben Gibbard got a bit older and hopped on the pop train, I've realized that their lyrical matter is much more sexual, depressing, and violent than I never imagined. All that rolled into one. I can say the same about the world, and some of my friends. It's not really reassuring. So grow up already, right? Shock, demystification, acceptance. I hate acceptance.
How does one make an impression using art these days? In some ways, I hate our day and age, where technological advances have pushed consumption over the human speed limit. Today it is practice in discipline being still and focusing on one thing for more than a moment (for more than fifteen minutes?). We forget how to process and digest. Artists of the not quite genius variety have it hard these days, as talent is easy to come by. Living simply is obsolete. And you don't need a magazine to tell you how to do it. Ridiculous. Maybe it's just me; I'm always on the move, hunting for the next big thrill. I'll wait for it, but it had better come. All this makes me anxious.
And somebody should do something about all the world's problems!
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