last show.

 The clerk mistook me for an abused housewife. Placed in a dress surrounded by a color I despised. My arms star-speckled in bruises from the series of shows I misplaced myself in the nights, weeks, and months before. I stumbled into the Moreland house after a series of stubborn car alarms and failing engines. In which I meet the start of Fight the Vomits set, seasick and star-struck, missing belly button rings and the crashing sound of my already cracked up head meeting the concrete. didn't affect the rush of the gravel below us. 

I greeted strangers I meet before, shuffling make-believe names waiting for somebody to catch the inconsistent storyline. we danced, threw arms, bodies, and rocks into each other as if we defending our family's name. greeting each other with unexpected smiles in between each song. the strangers I've met who clashed and fist-fought sat in unholy matrimony on a color-changing bus. swaying in and out of conversations as commiserates setlist roared in the background. I observed each band enough times to know when to look up during the clashing of symbols and synonyms. enough times to feel a part of something more than a setlist. 

I consider myself the type of person who plans each step but found myself slipping off the color-changing bus before I even got the time to process the familiar song humming in the background, played by a band I had not yet had the chance to hear before. Pushing Pluto created a retrograde of sounds, spinning the songs of bands I thought I knew. creating a type of urge to keep pushing my insomniac legs as I shook the pins and needles out of my hair, neck, and kneecaps. I wish I could have experienced the type of environment Moreland Home provides long before cops and robbers decided to play a part in the evening. Wondering a series of car alarm thoughts surrounding if Id ever find a type of safe haven like this again. the series of different ways I could gather up crumbled change in order to keep it running. And if id ever be greeted with another full set performance by pushing pluto. 

hannah/teddy/katbird/smith/whoever

i fucking hate this dress... reminds me of farmers and cooking for people with bottomless stomachs. also heyyyy.. um kinda a review but also more of an observation of the environment... ummm... yeah.. idk if I'm gonna keep blogging ab this stuff, but this is for the two dudes dancing on the bus... goodnight.... 

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