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10:38 p.m. - April 08, 2002 Take a photograph of some spectacular ruins, the ruins of something that was once wonderful, preferably worshipped by millions, and then superimpose over the image of a screaming face, surrounded by tinkling glass and guitar pieces everywhere. You've got Faith No More's Album Of The Year. I had a dream about lying back high in the air on a lounger made of gossamer clouds, watching the smoke from under my neck curl upward and disappear into the atmosphere. I smoked sticks of tea and knew somewhere in the back of my mind that if enough smoke swirled away, my support would be gone and I would fall away, most likely in little bits, like crumbly candy. Think about an orchestra, heavy on the strings and the percussion, scant on the winds and brass, but they're there, and include bass and guitar and a voice so smooth it's almost not a voice, but some ethereal chant or hum, and then take the whole thing and put it under the control of a wild-eyed, manic-depressive dark-humored conductor. You've got Silverchair's Neon Ballroom. I thought about music and people and how much I categorize everything/everybody and how I think of everything as having a 'type', according to many factors, but especially music. I will go through people's CD collections, fascinated, fancying I can pick out bits and pieces of their personalities from the skinny spine of the disc cases, those titles and artists. Sometimes I'm right. A lot of the time I am. But I don't like putting so much stock in what people choose to listen to. I've got an incredibly musical mind, and tones are almost a language to me. There are people like Nikki who hardly listen to it at all, and I can't comprehend that, what it must feel like to not have songs in your head, yours or someone else's, all day long. Just today I was walking out of work with FNM's Paths Of Glory playing clear as day inside my brain, and when Mike called goodbye to me, it stopped, and I felt it as abrupt as if someone had just pushed the mute button on a pair of speakers. I didn't get the song back, but the rhythm of my shoes pattering and squishing through the rain created a new beat that I hummed a melody to, inside my head. And the boy at the shoe store was cute. ---- 'I don't want to die, I'm as innocent as anybody; I don't even know how to spell revolutionary...' -Frente!, 'Cuscutlan'
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