As I watch myself in third person I connect the dots in my chaos. I really enjoy writing, but it doesn’t happen until my mind is clear and I feel free to express myself, like it’s a privilege I earn. First I have to put in a good day at work and then get out to stretch my legs. The irony’s not lost that I’ve got it backwards; I contribute to society to clear my conscience to indulge in writing. Like a sleuth I’m piecing together evidence for residence in the padded room with bars slitting the sunlight. I’m pretty thrilled to finally get the little box from Amazon today for some new records. Never mind that the free shipping means they pack it on a donkey that treks the long way around the world to get to me. I’m confounded that I should wait two weeks for the physical media to get to me when I could fall back in with good old instant gratification from bittorrent.

One of the records I got today was The Raveonettes: Lust Lust Lust. I admit I cheated and listened in on the samples from amazon.com and I was instantly hooked. Within seconds I knew that record spoke a language I had learned from The Jesus and Mary Chain, Let’s Active, The Beach Boys and Shonen Knife. Just like watching enough David Lynch films, there was no reason to try to discern a linear plot except to follow the signs to some unspoken stories. Inland Empire was an discouraging catastrophe in setting a plot line, but I followed the language of the bewildering images, the haunting audio, and the absurd conceits. On the Raveonettes record on the first track I immediately identified with the assaulting beat, the over-saturated guitar feedback, and the droning, aloof vocals. Enticing, huh.