Zebras are Reactionaries, Antelopes are Missionaries...

Someone told me it's all happening at the zoo.
I do believe it, I do believe it's true.
Not to sound emo, but music's my only friend. I went to Rozy's party yesterday. After Shohei and Emily and Monica and The Attic Sounds and Rozy and Megan played, I went up. I'll admit I was nervous, but for all the wrong reasons. I wasn't nervous because the spotlight would be on me. Frankly, I love that. It was the I feared they'd overanalyze my songs, like I do. I tell people too much. I trust them too easily. And then I write a melody and put down some words, and realize that it can be interpreted to be my feelings on the latest drama, which it's often not, but the sad part is that I realize these things first, and end up not playing the song. I was going to play 5 originals yesterday. I ended up only playing 3. I also played 5 covers. It's a fair statement to say that every good song has been written, but, then again, John Mayer's still cranking out things, Paul McCartney's got a good song every so often, and Brian Wilson can write three notes that pwn my entire body of work. And he probably wouldn't say pwn. And it's not just melodically, but lyrically. And there are few better lyricists than the irreprehensible Paul Simon:

Time it was,

And what a time it was,

It was...

A time of innocence,

A time of confidences.

Long ago...it must be....

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories,

They're all that's left of you.

Sheer genius. John Mayer's lyrics are usually amazing, Elvis Costello's got some fantastic stuff, but this is the highest you can get. It's poetry. Dickinson's got nothing on this:

Old friends,

Old friends,

Sat on their park bench

Like bookends.

A newspaper blown through the grass

Fall on the round toes

On the high shoes

Of the old friends.

Old friends,

Winter companions,

The old men
Lost in their overcoats,

Waiting for the sunset.

The sounds of the city,
Sifting through trees,

Settle like dust
On the the shoulders
Of the old friends.
Can you imagine us
Years from today,

Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy,

Old friends,

Memory brushes the same years,

Silently sharing the same fear....

It's not long until school lets out. 24 more days in school. It's a scary thought, knowing there's two years and 24 days until I'm legally done with school. I'm just getting accustomed to this school, and to this year's classes and teachers, and POOF.

Good things about next year:

• Being an upperclassman/Seniority
• No 0 Period P.E.
• Madame Gutleben/Not doing anything in French class
• Driver's Licence
• APUSH
• A job
• More privileges

Bad things about next year:

• Still not being a Senior
• 0 Period Chem
• Madame Gutleben/Not learning anything in French class
• Gas prices
• APUSH homework
• A job
• More responsibilities

  I want to write. I don't want to be a writer. I want to write some piece of music or poetry or fiction that's so unbelievably emotional, so powerful and understated, that I can't believe I wrote it. I have the tools, all I need is the inspiration.

-Jason

At The Zoo