I Grew Up On The Smiths

I am currently sharing a flat in Eastern Europe. The flawlessly appointed apartment is visited by random workers weekly, or daily. Not per my request. First the cable guys, who drilled a hole through my bedroom wall and failed to cover it up, leaving plaster in the corner. Then some unidentified guys making unnoticeable tweaks to the kitchen. Most recently, guys putting up unnecessary furniture. I am waiting for their return in an hour; I have not slept, listened to music, communicated with anyone for 24 hours, or managed to check my e-mail. I did, however, make a few pre-dawn runs to a local gas station to stock up on necessities.

In between the constant drilling, intrusions from workers and various favours for friends, I haven't had the time to update this blog. I am listening to Peter Doherty's Grace/Wastelands album on repeat, mostly because I'm lazy, also because I have a soft spot for The Libertines and this album sounds like one's expectations for the lead of that particular explosion of a band.

Another integral part of last week's aural landscape at post-indie HQ is Bat for Lashes' second album, very good for chilling. Not a particularly comfortable listen, but relaxing in that certain mood ingendered by hours of drills and dull text messages. Gods, bring me tortured, bring me slow of tempo, bring me confortable. Bring me something my Smiths-reared ears will recognise as background music. Bring me terrible hints, give me selfconscious wry angst, give me something I can't relate to now - something I could see myself relating to sometime. Grant me an utter lack of Eastern-European politics, morality or norms. Grant me my friends put to music. Grant me one full night of peaceful sleep, and I will update this monster of a blog. I will not be a better person as I'm already reasonably nice, but I'll be more careful. I'll be more discerning.

I leave my soul to whichever deity finds it. Grant me as much freedom as I can handle, and I will not stray from what I think I'm meant to do. That's as much of a promise as I can keep. As for you, well - if you've been online to read this message in a bottle, you can stay online to find something to fit your own prayers. If it was that difficult, I wouldn't have done it.

Until next time, I remain yours truly,
T.

P.S.: E-mail me suggestions an I will at least listen. Whatever you listen to, it can't be worse than the incessant sound of a drill nearby.