ohmyfurandwhiskers: (oh fiona...)
I have this suddenly irresistible vision of me sitting in the middle of a grand wooden dining table, surrounded by messy stacks of papers and books I intend to eventually read.

I'm reading this article about Fiona Apple and alternately singing along to songs from Tidal, adding to a post I'm going to put on Dear Heart's FB wall, and copy/pasting random bits I especially adore from the article.

Before July 28th, 2000, from 1996 on, when I was 10/11, I would listen to her as often as I could when I wasn't listening to Journey, Alanis Morissette, or Hanson. Over time, and before July 28th, I got into the habit of obsessing over Fiona's voice and music every summer. The summer of 1999, I spent one whole month listening to Tidal on repeat and unwilling or unable to listen to anything else. I would lay in the dark, on my mother's bed, with her voice intermingling with my heartbeat, and watching the shadows passing cars created on the walls.

Soon after July 28th, all I wanted to do was listen to "Sullen Girl" over and over all day and night and never leave my bedroom as I stared out at the street in front of our house and imagine lying on a beach, in the wet sand.

I've been ardently in love with her for sixteen years. She lives in my heart. I want to live in her brain.

I've discovered that she does three things that I've done all my life...

(1) I feel like she collects information like I do.

(2) For so long she’d identified with the idler wheel, a mechanism that “has a big impact on whatever machine it’s in, but it just looks like it’s doing nothing, sitting and taking in everything,” but now she wasn’t sure.

(3) mostly meditating, which she does from time to time, she told me, “to become myself as a child.”

This reminds me of something verily similar Dear Heart told me after a Serious Talk in the back room at work... She said I was her friend now. “We’re friends,” she said. “I mean this.”

Random bits from the article that I especially adore...

alone, stalking
slipped into unconsciousness beneath the coffee table.
— sanity and love —
Butterflies in my brain.
her extraordinary voice ricocheting across space: musical onomatopoeia
“I couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on with my brain.”
Here she gasped.
“that’s gonna make me look crazy.”
she began reading rapidly, furiously, from the small piece of paper:
very sincerely.
1:41 a.m.
5:34 a.m.
“I’m out walking,” she wrote, “it’s nice out.”
tired but giddy,
the place where two lines of music “crack together,”
a waving, malevolent line in the background.
I had no idea what she was talking about.
bungalow near Venice Boulevard
coconuts she’d drawn funny faces onto
“Let’s not be too precious,”
She asked about vodka and hash.
because she wanted “to make people happy.”
she did not want to be ashamed. She told them the truth. She told them she had been raped.
We drank marijuana-laced lemonade and left.
in a swirling flock of branches that made a perfect tunnel, impervious to light.
she showed me her favorite tree
she said she loved hearing people’s lives, especially their music, from the outside.
Very long spans of time passed with neither of us speaking.
outside the sky had completely drained of color.
I asked her not to watch while I was doing it and stopped abruptly because I felt foolish.
a cross between scatting and talking in tongues.
her lying in a bed of soil, covered in snails;
I just want to feel everything …
spontaneously dancing in the middle of the room
a lifelong, inherited struggle
with whom she climbed onto her roof to watch the sky
“How can I ask anyone to love me / When all I do is beg to be left alone?”
in total silence among strangers
— the click, click, whoosh from her knee —
a little machine that projected a million green stars orbiting across the whole space of the ceiling.
Despite my protests, she came over and put her arms around me. We stood there for a while, hugging.
The green galaxies of the universe spun above us.
like sparks at the start of an electrocution.
leafing through her artwork.
deeply shadowed, the features dark and stormy

And, also...

When she was 16, she told me, after hearing the boy to whom she’d recently lost her virginity express interest in another girl, she wrote “Never Is a Promise.” That song would appear, virtually unchanged, on her first album, after one of the few dozen copies of the demo tape her father had urged her to make ended up in her future manager’s hands at a Christmas party hosted by a woman whose babysitter was Fiona’s friend.

*("Never Is a Promise" is my favorite of her songs.)

He had a knife or screwdriver in his hand and said he’d kill her if she screamed.

*(David McHenry told me he would kill me if I "tried that again" when I attempted to defend myself against him.)

Mirror neurons Audrey Hepburn eyes drawing Funny Face empathy blind for a day Andrei’s mom yesterday quote friend naturally then again bad therapy rehash rehash retell details no! distract with laughter —

that’s what empathy is, and making this string of connections now, she’d been all bored and blank and anxious upstairs, and then around the corner this comes — mirror neurons — it made her heart beat, it made her hot, and now she was so excited that she was “having, like, tics and shit—

And then there were the voices: hers and, later, in an incredible melodic round, her sister Maude’s. There was no looping or Auto-Tune; for hours they’d stood at the same microphone, weaving their voices in what she called “the most intimate moment of our lives together.”


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D. Troy

July 2012

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