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I go to loud places to search for someone to be quiet with, who will take me home

You go to loud places to find someone who will take you higher than I took you

Didn’t I take you to higher places you can’t reach without me?

I have never reached such heights

I see music in your eyes

I go to those places where we used to go

They seem so quiet now, I’m here all alone

You go to new places with I don’t know who

And I don’t know how to follow you

http://pitchfork.com/news/58982-jamie-xx-shares-loud-places-featuring-the-xxs-romy-madley-croft/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=general&utm_campaign=news

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I’ve been in Brazil for 8 weeks. One thing I missed, the only thing other than my dog, was music. And I’ve returned to some beauty. The above tune awakens the romantic in me. Beautifully produced and sung. I have a lot to say about Brazil but for now, I think my feet are steadily finding ground, like a feather floating from a few hundred miles up. There will be no crash landing, but hopefully a peaceful recognition of what the hell it was all about. Wow. I’m in awe, and currently stuck in between varying emotions. Brazil, I miss you. Freedom of spirit, I miss you. Not caring about who I am, I miss you. Exploring exciting, wondrous places, I miss you. Random people who made me smile, I miss you. Life away from here, I miss you.

He came to visit. He travelled from lands afar to meet and greet, indicated my family with a ceramic bowl, stroked the welcoming, yet sometimes glaring, head of my dog. He made a good impression on them and on me. We explored the city, some parts of which I hadn’t seen for so long and all of which he hadn’t ever seen or would have imagined he was going to see. He entered my safe haven, which wasn’t made any less safe by his arrival. He fitted in, he washed his dishes, he hung out with me and my sister as we watched on in pride as our family friend, sometimes referred to as our baby sis, sang shakily in a local, trendy bar to a receptive and generous crowd. We moved from action to action smoothly, naturally, at ease, as if we had known each other for years, as if this wasn’t the first time we had met in the flesh. He tried the “exotic” food of my mother, who fed him like he was her own. “Eat. Eat more.” Typical Indian hospitality. We walked the dog around my leafy neighbourhood and watched the route of my bus journey, strolled up and down Oxford Road and skated on some ice. He seemed impressed by my ability. He watched me as he took little strides, watched me as I went from holding on like a scared child to sprinting as fast as I could, absorbing the moment, allowing the fresh icy air to cool down my exerted efforts. We shared a bed, although unlike a new bout of passionate lust, we took it steady, making sure that we continued to follow suit, to not rush…. as per our journey so far. It had taken me over a year to let him in for fear of pain and even as I write this I do wonder, in a reflective manner, how I came to be so guarded. Shouldn’t an experience like this, and my life in general, make me feel content? If I’m questioning him still, should I be pursuing this? Why do I have to ask so many questions?

We slept easily after my volcanic eruption, like a felled tree lying heavy on the moss. Laughter happened – and that is most definitely the way to my heart.

Perhaps it’s cuz it’s so late, it’s 4:50am, even after the clocks having been turned back an hour. I’m sitting in my big blue comfy office feeling a sense of yearning after listening to some music through my phone. This music pinged at me through a Facebook status, friends of friends within a group message sharing tracks of a festival gone by. And then I did that thing where an artist reminds me of a song by said artist and the inevitable click culture on YouTube begins. As I get this yearning, this feeling in the pit of my stomach, a sort of swirling of emotion centred around what could potentially be a chakra or just the plain ole gut, I look around my bedroom seeking somebody to share this feeling with. I then wondered whether I’d ever share such a feeling with someone or, as I’m considering as I type, whether it’s a feeling made just for me. Even if it were, I’m not keeping it to myself because of this urgency of wanting to share. Thoughts drifted forwards to a more day dreaming sense of future. I don’t even know if what I’m typing is making sense, but nonetheless, music, my vice, my love, has done this to me again. The after effects of a huge festival are definitely still all up in me.

Today has been a peculiar day. I taught a student of mine privately, in the usual manner. Everything was as normal, we sat in our usual city centre cafe, I bought a coffee, the third of the day up to that point, and we conversed. We spoke about his move from place to place, his English language acquirement, he described his walk from the city centre to his new place, you know, the usual. I monitored what he said, took notes of any mistakes or any pronunciation issues and he continued, as usual, by asking me questions about specific and detailed English language queries. He’s proficient in English so now he’s learning the nitty-gritties. You know, the usual. 

After two hours we walked from the area we were in and through the city centre for about 5 mintues to another cafe, a livelier coffee shop branded in franchised red and frequented by a hugely diverse and international crowd. It was, and is always, busy and noisy and today in particular there were kids fighting at a table opposite us while we sat amid a group of middle-aged Arabic ladies who seemed to be enjoying themselves, relaxing together, taking time away from their families and gossiping, perhaps. 

At the end of the third hour and the lesson, my student proclaimed something that at the time I overlooked. Tiredness consumed me so, after he told me, I avoided eye contact for a second, probably selfishly, as he looked on awkwardly towards me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him this evening and I can’t help but think that I’m here to help him somehow, not only with his English needs but in other ways too. I’ve already somewhat coached him out of a lack of self-confidence in regards to his English use. He hasn’t really compared himself to any other learners and doesn’t recognise his ability, steep progression and detailed knowledge of the language, despite my continued efforts. I guess the teacher’s job is never over. At times I have felt a little protective over him. He has opened up recently and it’s a peculiar situation because I have to maintain professional, without becoming emotionally involved, but it’s not within my nature to not help, particularly after having built a bond over the past six months. 

I have yet to decipher what his real issue is but he has said many different things that could allude to how he’s feeling. What struck me most was his question about the language:

“Do people say ‘Drink yourself to sleep?'” 

“Yeah. That’s correct.” After an uncomfortable pause I queried: “Why?”

After a brief chat unrelated to that comment he said: “I think I’m depressed.” 

Today has been a peculiar day. I taught a student of mine privately, in the usual manner. Everything was as normal, we sat in our usual city centre cafe, I bought a coffee, the third of the day up to that point, and we conversed. We spoke about his move from place to place, his English language acquirement, he described his walk from the city centre to his new place, you know, the usual. I monitored what he said, took notes of any mistakes or any pronunciation issues and he continued, as usual, by asking me questions about specific and detailed English language queries. He’s proficient in English so now he’s learning the nitty-gritties. You know, the usual. 

After two hours we walked from the area we were in and through the city centre for about 5 mintues to another cafe, a livelier coffee shop branded in franchised red and frequented by a hugely diverse and international crowd. It was, and is always, busy and noisy and today in particular there were kids fighting at a table opposite us while we sat amid a group of middle-aged Arabic ladies who seemed to be enjoying themselves, relaxing together, taking time away from their families and gossiping, perhaps. 

At the end of the third hour and the lesson, my student proclaimed something that at the time I overlooked. Tiredness consumed me so, after he told me, I avoided eye contact for a second, probably selfishly, as he looked on awkwardly towards me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him this evening and I can’t help but think that I’m here to help him somehow, not only with his English needs but in other ways too. I’ve already somewhat coached him out of a lack of self-confidence in regards to his English use. He hasn’t really compared himself to any other learners and doesn’t recognise his ability, steep progression and detailed knowledge of the language, despite my continued efforts. I guess the teacher’s job is never over. At times I have felt a little protective over him. He has opened up recently and it’s a peculiar situation because I have to maintain professional, without becoming emotionally involved, but it’s not within my nature to not help, particularly after having built a bond over the past six months. 

I have yet to decipher what his real issue is but he has said many different things that could allude to how he’s feeling. What struck me most was his question about the language:

“Do people say ‘Drink yourself to sleep?'” 

“Yeah. That’s correct.” After an uncomfortable pause I queried: “Why?”

After a brief chat unrelated to that comment he said: “I think I’m depressed.” 

Love this. Reblogged inspiration.

The Better Man Project ™

IMG_2983

As time has gone on it has become much more clear.

Time itself is so short.

One minute you are there and the next minute you aren’t.

The “moment” that is.

The sweet spot.

The  zone.

It makes me think about the time that I have spent here

and the time that I want to spend.

Who I want to spend it with.

Where I want to spend it.

How I…

White hot and passionate.

::nodding::

There are other ways to do things.

But you just become another floorboard.

Nothing special about you.

Of course you could be made out of beautiful wood

but with all the others

you are the same.

That’s the last thing I want to be.

The same.

I chose to live my life a different way with different standards

and the yields at times have been difficult.

But in actuality it all has trained me…

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