プラスティック・トゥリー/ Plastic Tree
Friday, April 29, 2011
"Yes, I Will Pick It Up Tomorrow."
Tomorrow is the day I buy my Epiphone.
みらいいろ/ Mirai Iro
プラスティック・トゥリー/ Plastic Tree
プラスティック・トゥリー/ Plastic Tree
Dances With Mops In Library Carparks
Our breaths fog the windows of this little red car.
As always, there is licorice and ginger beer, pretzels and cake. Come tomorrow, we'll still find crumbs in our pockets, in the seat, on the roof, in our hair.
It's winter now, and although it's never white where we are, it's ok because we're never warm enough anyway. That's why the heater is on full blast.
We'll play bad dance music on our Ipods - lamenting the loss of the CD player - and reminisce about how we used to dance at night in summer, I would watch, and you would dance with the mops and brooms.
We don't really discuss anything worthwhile. I amuse myself with drawing on the window while you bitch about someone at work. "Yeah, that guy, I hate him too", I agree.
"We're having kinky sex, wish you were here?"
When did I start becoming so perverted?
We never really accomplish anything. At some point, we'll drive to your house, and we'll sit in your living room - at the table that's been there since you were born - and we'll drink tea and eat cake.
Or rather, you'll eat cake, because you know how I can't stomach sugar and you take it away from me before I can eat it anyway.
I'll flip idly through a magazine about something and nothing in particular while your voices drift over my head, and I'll catch pieces of another conversation.
Sometimes I feel like I should join in, but I know you don't mind when I space out.
Someone always starts talking about how they miss summer nights, when we would sit outside and watch fireworks and make a bonfire. A really puny bonfire, I think.
"I like winter more," I add.
"I know you do," you'll say.
Sometimes I'll join in too, and we'll laugh ourselves silly. Anyone else would stare at us, wild gestures and expressions. They wouldn't understand that you have different faces, and these hand gestures are because I've painted my nails with stars. Face 1 is scorn. Face 2 is disapproval. Face 3 is when you laugh like you'll explode.
Sometimes I will sink into a quiet silence. I'll pick at books that are strewn about, or pick at a piece of cake I can't eat. You always take pity on me and make me toast.
Conversation never wavers, even though I drop in and out. It's like we adjust to make room for each other's habits. Habits that we know so well they might as well be our own.
So when you start waving your hands about, I know you're getting frustrated and I'll change the topic.
And when you start flicking your hair with irritation like that, I know you want to go and do something.
And when you start tapping at the table, I know you're probably thinking about someone.
I wonder what habits I have? If I asked you, you probably won't be able to tell me.
But when I look, I notice that there's always something salty in the shopping basket (we spend too much time in Foodtown), you always look at me funny when I say I'm fine and you always say my favourite line:
"That's just who you are."
These are the things I want to remember us by.
As always, there is licorice and ginger beer, pretzels and cake. Come tomorrow, we'll still find crumbs in our pockets, in the seat, on the roof, in our hair.
It's winter now, and although it's never white where we are, it's ok because we're never warm enough anyway. That's why the heater is on full blast.
We'll play bad dance music on our Ipods - lamenting the loss of the CD player - and reminisce about how we used to dance at night in summer, I would watch, and you would dance with the mops and brooms.
We don't really discuss anything worthwhile. I amuse myself with drawing on the window while you bitch about someone at work. "Yeah, that guy, I hate him too", I agree.
"We're having kinky sex, wish you were here?"
When did I start becoming so perverted?
We never really accomplish anything. At some point, we'll drive to your house, and we'll sit in your living room - at the table that's been there since you were born - and we'll drink tea and eat cake.
Or rather, you'll eat cake, because you know how I can't stomach sugar and you take it away from me before I can eat it anyway.
I'll flip idly through a magazine about something and nothing in particular while your voices drift over my head, and I'll catch pieces of another conversation.
Sometimes I feel like I should join in, but I know you don't mind when I space out.
Someone always starts talking about how they miss summer nights, when we would sit outside and watch fireworks and make a bonfire. A really puny bonfire, I think.
"I like winter more," I add.
"I know you do," you'll say.
Sometimes I'll join in too, and we'll laugh ourselves silly. Anyone else would stare at us, wild gestures and expressions. They wouldn't understand that you have different faces, and these hand gestures are because I've painted my nails with stars. Face 1 is scorn. Face 2 is disapproval. Face 3 is when you laugh like you'll explode.
Sometimes I will sink into a quiet silence. I'll pick at books that are strewn about, or pick at a piece of cake I can't eat. You always take pity on me and make me toast.
Conversation never wavers, even though I drop in and out. It's like we adjust to make room for each other's habits. Habits that we know so well they might as well be our own.
So when you start waving your hands about, I know you're getting frustrated and I'll change the topic.
And when you start flicking your hair with irritation like that, I know you want to go and do something.
And when you start tapping at the table, I know you're probably thinking about someone.
I wonder what habits I have? If I asked you, you probably won't be able to tell me.
But when I look, I notice that there's always something salty in the shopping basket (we spend too much time in Foodtown), you always look at me funny when I say I'm fine and you always say my favourite line:
"That's just who you are."
These are the things I want to remember us by.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Stars Will Go Around And Tomorrow Will Come
"If you can chase your dreams with all your might, it's ok if sometimes all falters.
For the stars will go around and tomorrow will come."
"Nobody knows what the distant future looks like
"Tomorrow" is what you seize today."
Break Down
ギルガメッシュ
Trips And Guitars, Purple Basses and Grassroots.
Despite many years of business majors and accounting papers, this year I realised what my dream really is.
To be honest, I am terrified of working in an office or a company, of climbing the corporate ladder. The idea of being a manager or director scares the bejesus out of me.
I think I would like to give the dreams I had when I was 14 a shot.
It all starts and ends with music.
But don't worry mom and dad, I don't want to be a musician.
To be honest, I am terrified of working in an office or a company, of climbing the corporate ladder. The idea of being a manager or director scares the bejesus out of me.
I think I would like to give the dreams I had when I was 14 a shot.
It all starts and ends with music.
But don't worry mom and dad, I don't want to be a musician.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Nuclear Boy; Hang In There
Uploaded by GenkiRadio on Youtube.com on 16 Mar 2011
Original upload by http://www.youtube.com/user/onaradaijobu
Translation by http://www.shibatabread.com
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Epiphone v Gibson
Plastic Tree - Hanamoete
Ryutaro Arimura
プラスティック・トゥリー 「花燃えて」
有村竜太郎
EDIT: My bad, that's an Epiphone Casino. Point still stands. He can play a Gibson, but he goes with Epiphone. Good man.
Friday, April 22, 2011
So Thin/ Sometime Next Tuesday
He was so thin, the kind of thin that comes from living a reckless life with no heed for taking care of oneself. A life of immediate gratification without any fear or thought of the consequences that come with tomorrow. Wrists and arms that seem to fade to nothing, shoulders that jut out and ribs that slightly show beneath plain t-shirts that no one else could possibly wear - no, own - like that.
And yet still, he slings that guitar around like it weighs nothing with an energy that burns you out the moment you take a breath. So you know that the minute he steps off that bare-yet-hallowed stage, he'll collapse and awaken sometime next tuesday.
But that's not a bad thing, because it means that he throws everything he has at this, at music. Doesn't that make you smile? Make you believe that there are people in this world who care, who believe in their dreams and who have something, anything to live for.
He runs and staggers and dances and sways and god, doesn't everyone look at him like he's some kind of deity? Oh, but isn't that exactly what he is? On this stage, in this crowded noisy, burning live house, with eyes in the crowd blazing with a desire that can't be named, he's basked in a glow that gods crave.
So maybe he's just human any place else, with problems and obstacles and things that just don't work. But not here.
In years to come, I will remember him as the reason I play the guitar, draw eyeliner too thick and paint my bass a purple from my dreams. I will remember him for the way I care about everything and believe in my dreams and how I, small and insignificant as I am, have something to live for.
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