tuneresponding five

[Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Kiss Kiss and Warrior

Crystal Castles, Year of Silence ]

There might be something to the idea that a sense of style or good taste is derived from what we lack. Basically, everything that exemplifies artistry is everything we are not, is everything we aspire to be. I idolize swagger. I wish I could say that my actions always appear cool and confident and that I always appear to know what I am doing. This is not the case. Every now and again, a kind of assurance seizes me and I feel briefly invincible; I experience a temporary sense of exceptional capability. Sometimes I could chalk it up to alcohol or caffeine (The night where I go out with friends, and I at least perceive that I am saying just what I want to, just as concisely as I want to, and that I reach out to just the people that I want to, presenting myself exactly as I want to). These times are the exception, not the rule though.

I experience a satisfying calm tempered with a restless envy whenever I encounter art that exudes a tantalizing swagger and cool exuberance. Mainly I think of those songs with impenetrable rhythm and a wall of esteem. Pictures come to mind as well, usually of hopeless and beautiful youth, eyes far away like martyr statues, lithe forms, darkly magnetic charisma, aching, striking images, with pretences of intimacy. These perceptions of art bring me fevered fantasies, they make me want an unattainable probably destructive persona. I think of feeling more comfortable in my skin, having a muscular lithe physique, a mysterious countenance, having the ability to effortlessly draw in whoever I please. I think of being the object of admiration, of being that art that makes people invest so much of their thoughts and dreams in me, as they agonize over the details of my presence. I imagine being a social nexus in a situation, people revolving around me in a darkly lit room or maybe huddling with dreamy yearning young artists on distant beaches, in a life of endless joy rides and motels along interstates. Avarice is definitely an element of my obsession with swagger.

I know that I can get wrapped up in wishing that I was different, in wanting what I can’t have and I know that this results in not appreciating what I have. My body and my identity are all that I have, so I should respect and appreciate them as my anchors to this world. I certainly feel more comfortable with myself than I have in the past, especially in my Dark Ages, the high school years (I can say this half- melodramatically and half-laughingly). I certainly revel in the crystalline, epic, and esthetic composure of my idols and my preferred art because I held onto these images in those unfulfilled times. When I wanted to recklessly proclaim who I was but did not have the potency, I had songs and images to turn to, in a dreamy and yearning state, those things I looked at from obscurity.