It would've been different.

I was late.

Maybe if I wasn't late, we would've made it there alright.

But I was.

I was late because I had an important meeting at the tallest building in the city.

It just popped up, as I was getting off work.

The meeting that is, not the building.

The Building.

The building was beautiful.

It had been abandoned for years.

The paint, lead, chipping from every wall.

And the foyer looked the way train stations do in movies.

You would've loved it.

I asked if you could come and see for yourself.

But they said you couldn't.

So I gave it to you in pictures.

But it wasn't the same.

It would've been different.

If I hadn't taken the pictures that weren't the same.

If I wasn't late.

But I was, and we never really got there.

It was sunny when we left.

I can't remember if it was hot or cold.

But it was sunny.

And I can't tell you how long we rode for, but it was cloudy when we got there.

Or to where we thought there was.

Neither of us had ever actually been.

It would've been different.

If it were still sunny when we got there.

If we had ridden just a little faster.

If I wasn't late.

It wasn't bad while we were there.

Or where we thought there was.

In fact, I loved it at the time.

It seemed perfect.

But it wasn't where we meant to go.

We were just a quarter mile short.

One lap in gym class.

It would've been different.

If we could've powered through.

It was the seventh grade all over again.

The reason I'm saying all of this is because I went there today.

I finally made it.

And it was beautiful.

It was perfect.

You would've loved it.

I didn't take any pictures this time though, because it wouldn't be the same.

I only hope that someday you make it there on your own.

It would've been different.

If we had powered though.

If we had beaten the sun.

If I wasn't late.

It would've been better.

A very loud place.

You called me from your living room and asked me all sorts of questions. Not easy questions either. The kind that you have to sit and think about for a couple of minutes before you can really even begin to answer them. But I couldn't hear you:

"IM IN A VERY LOUD PLACE RIGHT NOW"

Everyone else in your house was sleeping and you were patient at first, repeating the questions in a hushed and steady voice. These are very important questions, and I'm the only one who really knows the answers. Because; Who can you trust these days? And I wanted to answer them, I really did. But I couldn't hear you:

"IM IN A VERY LOUD PLACE RIGHT NOW"

You stepped out back. The night was colder than you'd imagined, but you didn't really notice. The questions were the only thing on your mind. On my mind too. You raised your voice to express your concern, to emphasize the questions and what they mean. To you. To me. To us.

But I couldn't hear you:

"IM IN A VERY LOUD PLACE RIGHT NOW"

You're yelling by now. A warm fog shoots from you with each syllable and diffuses into the cold night. I want to tell you, just as badly as you need to know. But I can't hear you:

"IM IN A VERY LOUD PLACE RIGHT NOW"

Let's talk about this when we're near. When it's quiet and we're close.

Two things beautiful (and British):

Tim Ten Yen - Everything Beautiful Reminds Me Of You

This is just about the britiest-poppiest album I've ever listened to.

It's insanely fun and catchy.

Slow Club - It Doesn't Have to be Beautiful

For some reason, this reminds me of the Bright Eyes songs that I actually enjoy.

There are only two tracks.

Both are pretty solid.

SURF ROCK FROM SPACE!

Man, or Astro-man? - Is it man, or Astro-man?

They say space is a vacuum, and that no sound can exist because there's no matter for sound waves to travel through.

This isn't entirely true.

Space IS a vacuum.

It's just off most of the time.

Man, or Astro-man turn the space-vacuum on, and scare your dog.

Music, once more:

I realize that the purpose of this blog has been somewhat taken over by bad poetry.

This ends now!

Skate Korpse - Discography LP

I spent most of the seventh grade on a skateboard.

I never even learned to ollie.

I like to think if I'd had this record soundtracking my not-so-gnar shreddage, things would have been different.

Things would have been better.

Each Night

Just as I'm about to go to sleep
the birds start singing
I don't know what they sing
but I'd like to think it's
"Things are gonna get easier"

But I never heard a bird
sing in any key
I could put my heart around.

Returning to the Blog

What is the world
but one small fire
for just one minute
with everyone
burning in it

When I awoke:

I asked my pillow what it does all night while I'm asleep.

But it's a pillow.

So it didn't say anything.

There are such things as stupid questions.

The summer I met you, I was spending all of my time trying to erase the speckles from robins' eggs.

You'd always ask me why, and I'd never have a real answer.

So I'd say: "Equality is more important than beauty. Even in nature."

You never said so, but I could tell you disagreed.

I went through a lot of eggs that summer, and I never got those spots to go away.

Some things, you just can't change.

Thank god.

The Drum that plays itself.

We were headed north for Canada, when we stopped along the road.

You saw a street-side vendor and asked if I would pull over.

I did.

The man operating the kiosk was tall and thin and said his name was Norgie.

I didn't believe him.

You picked through thises-and-thats for more than half an hour.

I waited by the car.

We weren't in a hurry, but I still felt incredibly inconvenienced.

When you had finished, you approached the car from behind.

Thump.

"Did you get anything?" I asked when I realized you were there.

You did. Thump -- Thump.

"It's a drum that plays itself." You said, looking rather amused with your purchase.

"The only thing is..."

Thump.

ThumpThump.

ThumpThump -- Thump. Thump.

"...It can't keep time"

"Hmm..." was all I could manage.

The drum that plays itself played itself, off beat and out-of-tune, all the way to Canada.

You always buy the most useless shit.

When you walked in on me last night,

I was in a bad shape.

in bad, bad shape.

I made a reach for the lights,

but they were too far away,

and I could barely stay awake.

You set the room a-spin.

The room was spinnin'.

And when you walked out on me last night,

you left me in bad shape.

in bad, bad shape.

You never even turned the lights off.

You just left me in your wake.

You just left me at my wake.

An Apple Out of Reach

There are some apples that reside way up in the tops of trees.

And no matter how far you stretch, you just can't seem to wrap your fingers about them.

And I know for certain that these apples are best.

They aren't grainy or mealy like some apples.

They're saccharine-sweet, and when you bite into them they crisp louder than you can imagine.

And all the thoughts in your head are replaced for one moment by the cavernous crunch that echos in your ears, and the simple sugars linger on the backs of your teeth, and the skins are delicate and never tough. 

You could rip your arm from its socket grabbing for one of these apples.

It's all for nothing.

These aren't the kind of apples you can pick as you please.

But if you're lucky, and I mean if you're really lucky you'll be standing beneath the tree, and the wind will blow just right, and its mighty stem will snap in two, and the fruit will fall from its place way up in the canopy, and it will land gently in the palm of your hand. And if you don't hesitate or linger on questions of its origins; if you just accept that you've ended up in the right place, at the right time, you can enjoy an apple in perfection. As it was meant to be.

An apple out of reach is a beautiful thing.