Set Lists, Stanzas, and Keg Stands:
Creatively Surviving College
Friday, August 20, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Life is About Choices...Right?
So I'm choosing this:
I choose not to love a man again for a very long time.
Look. Let me justify myself. I've officially been through all I need to go through at nineteen:
You know what? I'm exhausted.
I have all that excellent, dirty material needed to write a song; but the only thing I plan on loving from now until...whenever I feel like it...is my music.
And it's going to take one hell of a man to make me care about him more than my guitar.
So all my single ladies?
Put your hands up.
I choose not to love a man again for a very long time.
Look. Let me justify myself. I've officially been through all I need to go through at nineteen:
- The First Love = The first heartbreak, being left (for another girl), the resentment.
- The Perfect Boyfriend = The calm breakup, trying to be friends, realizing being friends with someone you could marry is hard.
- The Charmer = He really respects me, he cares about me, he's totally hooking up with that girl that just went into his room.
You know what? I'm exhausted.
I have all that excellent, dirty material needed to write a song; but the only thing I plan on loving from now until...whenever I feel like it...is my music.
And it's going to take one hell of a man to make me care about him more than my guitar.
So all my single ladies?
Put your hands up.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Fuck You
Inspiration comes in many different forms.
But assholes who lie and make smart, nice girls look like obsessive idiots is now my most prized inspiration.
I wanna shout out a big thank you to you for truly inspiring me to write music.
Beyond this, I wanna say another thank you for teaching me a lesson I needed to learn:
When a man is more into himself than you are into him, he's going to think you are obsessed with him regardless of how you feel or what you say.
When a man is a good liar, my god is he a good liar.
And don't let your mother fucking guard down, my smart, nice, beautiful, intelligent women out there.
Oh, and one more thing. I wanna shout out a big Fuck You to you as well, mister wonderful liar.
Inspiration is a wonderful thing.
But assholes who lie and make smart, nice girls look like obsessive idiots is now my most prized inspiration.
I wanna shout out a big thank you to you for truly inspiring me to write music.
Beyond this, I wanna say another thank you for teaching me a lesson I needed to learn:
When a man is more into himself than you are into him, he's going to think you are obsessed with him regardless of how you feel or what you say.
When a man is a good liar, my god is he a good liar.
And don't let your mother fucking guard down, my smart, nice, beautiful, intelligent women out there.
Oh, and one more thing. I wanna shout out a big Fuck You to you as well, mister wonderful liar.
Inspiration is a wonderful thing.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Fake.
I play music for myself. Writing songs takes all the sand out of my head and makes me feel real. But I can't escape feeling like a fake.
I try to be honest with my music. None of that "I'm sad because I'm not pretty enough for you" bullshit.
My lyrics and my songs translate my raw human experiences and emotions.
But still, I am followed around by my own shadow holding onto my heels saying "Face it, Patience, you're just a fake."
I taught myself guitar. I don't even know most of the chords I am playing. I remember them by how they sound. I feel insignificant playing with other musicians.
E minor 7th? Uhh...Yeah. That's a great chord. I love that one.
What am I playing? Uh...It's the chord that sounds like Sunday mornings. You know? That one.
This is how my brain works. I'm not a real musician at all.
My songs are never good enough. The chords become redundant, the purpose unclear.
I don't play enough. I should be booking gigs every weekend. I should be meeting people. I should be getting a full band together. But I don't.
Because I'm a fake.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Meu Pai Com Olhos Verdes
My father is
Warm
Dark
Madeira in his blood, in his
Eyes
Green like pine, like
Chá verde.
He used to
Tap his Vic Furth drumsticks
On my knees
And sing
“Goodnight” to me
By The Beatles when I was
Falling asleep.
My father would
Dance with me in the kitchen
After ballet, or on
Sunday mornings
The light leaking through
And sit on my bed.
He would lean down and
Put his arms around me
Humming
“Good night
Sleep tight”
Strangers’ cigarettes
The bitter backstage smell
And his musty jacket
Swimming into my
Dreams.
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