tim armstrong vs. allen ginsberg
so,
i'm standing in my favourite local bookstore last night. grabbing all my favourites in alphabetical order as i stroll through the aisles (well, there's only one aisle really). books are funny because i don't know the authors personally, but i feel that in a lot of ways i know them better than myself. picking up musty old books, i flip through the pages and when no ones looking, stick my face right up close so that the pages brush against the tip of my nose as i thumb through the pages.
old books. they smell like experience and like wisdom. i like forgotten books, that no one has read or thought about in 20 years. books that won literary honours and such, but that have disapeered in the black hole of time. they're like old girlfriends from high school, who you liked once, but have long since forgotten why.
not that these books and the stories they contain are any less valid than new ones being written today. moreso, their validity is exemplified by the fact that they contributed to the collective consciousness of us all, and in a round about way influenced and inspired the new books we read today. sort of like the six degrees of seperation of allen ginsberg.. or something.
like understanding yourself, it is important to go back and see where you came from. these books are our emotional history.
i like discovering books and taking chances with them. stepping off the beaten path of the greats and just grabbing a random story. this is why i like this bookstore i was in last night; their shit to gold ratio is pretty low. the staff are also much bigger booknerds than i and can help me out when i stray to far from the goodness of goodness.
so i'm going through and grabbing stuff and i realize that what i actually want is the 5 dollar copy of motley crue's autobiography and this experimental stream-of-consciousness book that henry rollins wrote in the mid nineties(eye scream). and i'm standing there in my leather jacket, ripped jeans and dirty shoes like the ultimate cliche: "of course the punk rock guy wants the punk rock books".
i stood there for wondering how my bookstore cronies would cringe and look down on me when i brought my selections to the counter. here i was buying books written by musicians (clearly unacceptable) and not only that, but they were obnoxious rock musicians. what could these people possibly have to say that i would be interested in hearing, and moreover, why would i be interested in hearing it?
the funny thing about punk rock is that it's addictive.
it's like cocaine for the spirit.
it's who i am and it's what i identify with. i didn't wake up one morning and decide to find punk rock, it found me. it lifted me up and told me about all the things good and right in the world. i am grateful to it for that. it's the way i view the world around me and the way that i feel it views me.
and i can't get enough.
i don't think anyone really cares what i'm reading, least of all the bored employees at a bookstore. the only one who really has an issue with it is me. i guess i felt a little guilty and maybe a little like i sell myself short by participating in what some(most) would consider low-brow entertainment. wasting time reading about the exploits of an eighties hair metal band when i could be reading the works of the GREAT CHARLES DICKENS!?
it's about balancing the two, and i guess that's the point i've been trying to make in this post. and in my life. i always seem to find balance in the two diametrically opposed sides, and i love being there in the middle. i love making each confront the other and making them feel like they're missing out on something great for excluding the other. the only drawback of this is that i never get to live in either world fully.
too dumb to be smart and too smart to be dumb.
that's why i felt uncomfortable standing there with the books i had chosen. it wasn't about admitting something to the guy behind the counter, it was about admitting something to myself.
but i read the first 50 pages of the rollins' book last night, and i enjoyed every last sentence. if the goal is still happiness after all this time, then why not be happy with who i am rather than unhappy about who i'm not?
put another dime in the jukebox baby...
i'm standing in my favourite local bookstore last night. grabbing all my favourites in alphabetical order as i stroll through the aisles (well, there's only one aisle really). books are funny because i don't know the authors personally, but i feel that in a lot of ways i know them better than myself. picking up musty old books, i flip through the pages and when no ones looking, stick my face right up close so that the pages brush against the tip of my nose as i thumb through the pages.
old books. they smell like experience and like wisdom. i like forgotten books, that no one has read or thought about in 20 years. books that won literary honours and such, but that have disapeered in the black hole of time. they're like old girlfriends from high school, who you liked once, but have long since forgotten why.
not that these books and the stories they contain are any less valid than new ones being written today. moreso, their validity is exemplified by the fact that they contributed to the collective consciousness of us all, and in a round about way influenced and inspired the new books we read today. sort of like the six degrees of seperation of allen ginsberg.. or something.
like understanding yourself, it is important to go back and see where you came from. these books are our emotional history.
i like discovering books and taking chances with them. stepping off the beaten path of the greats and just grabbing a random story. this is why i like this bookstore i was in last night; their shit to gold ratio is pretty low. the staff are also much bigger booknerds than i and can help me out when i stray to far from the goodness of goodness.
so i'm going through and grabbing stuff and i realize that what i actually want is the 5 dollar copy of motley crue's autobiography and this experimental stream-of-consciousness book that henry rollins wrote in the mid nineties(eye scream). and i'm standing there in my leather jacket, ripped jeans and dirty shoes like the ultimate cliche: "of course the punk rock guy wants the punk rock books".
i stood there for wondering how my bookstore cronies would cringe and look down on me when i brought my selections to the counter. here i was buying books written by musicians (clearly unacceptable) and not only that, but they were obnoxious rock musicians. what could these people possibly have to say that i would be interested in hearing, and moreover, why would i be interested in hearing it?
the funny thing about punk rock is that it's addictive.
it's like cocaine for the spirit.
it's who i am and it's what i identify with. i didn't wake up one morning and decide to find punk rock, it found me. it lifted me up and told me about all the things good and right in the world. i am grateful to it for that. it's the way i view the world around me and the way that i feel it views me.
and i can't get enough.
i don't think anyone really cares what i'm reading, least of all the bored employees at a bookstore. the only one who really has an issue with it is me. i guess i felt a little guilty and maybe a little like i sell myself short by participating in what some(most) would consider low-brow entertainment. wasting time reading about the exploits of an eighties hair metal band when i could be reading the works of the GREAT CHARLES DICKENS!?
it's about balancing the two, and i guess that's the point i've been trying to make in this post. and in my life. i always seem to find balance in the two diametrically opposed sides, and i love being there in the middle. i love making each confront the other and making them feel like they're missing out on something great for excluding the other. the only drawback of this is that i never get to live in either world fully.
too dumb to be smart and too smart to be dumb.
that's why i felt uncomfortable standing there with the books i had chosen. it wasn't about admitting something to the guy behind the counter, it was about admitting something to myself.
but i read the first 50 pages of the rollins' book last night, and i enjoyed every last sentence. if the goal is still happiness after all this time, then why not be happy with who i am rather than unhappy about who i'm not?
put another dime in the jukebox baby...
posted by the ghostwolf at 5:34 AM
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