I sit here in a room lighted by a lamp on a dimmer switch, about half-lighted, finishing the remains of spiced apples that didn't make it into the pie last night. Cinnamon good. Sugar good. Flour, not so much. Rode the red line up to Van Ness after work to give love to the local record shop- Revolution Records. There is something godless about Tower, however easy it might be.
Picked up "From A Basement on A Hill" by Elliott Smith, and I am struck here listening. It is lush, and will take several listens to fully digest. Every fade out and every pregnant cacophonic pause gives extra weight to the already fatalistic beauty that it is. My response, as soon as I finish typing this, I'm going to the Iota to see my friend Laura play. It's raining, I'm a little tired and phased.