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Skip=300 and counting.
Apr. 24th, 2008 10:40 amThis past weekend, I was clearing out an old computer-odds-and-ends drawer and came across a copy of a mix CD I made for someone, a long time ago. And isn't it funny that although each song taken individually doesn't really remind me of the person I made the CD for, the sight of that case immediately brought everything back in vivid technicolor; and even though things between us finally broke down badly, likely past the point of repair, today I am missing my friend the way I'd miss my left thumb if I were forced to do without it, the loss of living without something that was once so necessary to me that adjusting to its absence means reordering my whole life.
So, yeah, funny.
And I've been missing everything lately, missing you and others, wanting the contact but not feeling quite up to making it, getting the way I do sometimes where having people around me makes me claustrophobic and having no one around me makes my chest hurt, and I'm all ungainly and tight inside my skin. Why do I get this way, where the things I want the most make me so crazy I'm incapable of doing anything but fucking them up? I mean, okay, it's not as though I don't know why. But there's a difference between knowing why it happens and being able to fix it. I'd like to be able to fix it. I like fixing things.
:::
On a lighter note -- it's about time for one, I know -- it's just occurred to me to appeal to you, my Gershwin-loving friends, for a really good by-the-book version of "How Long Has This Been Going On?" because the only version I have is by Ella Fitzgerald, and while I do love me some Ella, her tendency to vocal improv is not doing it for me just now. So what about it, folks? Any recs?
So, yeah, funny.
And I've been missing everything lately, missing you and others, wanting the contact but not feeling quite up to making it, getting the way I do sometimes where having people around me makes me claustrophobic and having no one around me makes my chest hurt, and I'm all ungainly and tight inside my skin. Why do I get this way, where the things I want the most make me so crazy I'm incapable of doing anything but fucking them up? I mean, okay, it's not as though I don't know why. But there's a difference between knowing why it happens and being able to fix it. I'd like to be able to fix it. I like fixing things.
:::
On a lighter note -- it's about time for one, I know -- it's just occurred to me to appeal to you, my Gershwin-loving friends, for a really good by-the-book version of "How Long Has This Been Going On?" because the only version I have is by Ella Fitzgerald, and while I do love me some Ella, her tendency to vocal improv is not doing it for me just now. So what about it, folks? Any recs?
