I was thinking about the key to failure and how setting goals is critical. Doesn’t take scientist to understand what’s going on. Anyway, let’s find out if that love souvenir will make a fool out of me!
I got that feeling once again; I can’t explain, you would not understand. Depression should be linked with a period of mourning. But what is it that we are giving up unconsciously? Play it safe or play it cool?
Hygiene must be constant, otherwise the body feels a lot of pressure and we might split the family in 2, and finish in the streets (maybe of Philadephia). Is it east versus west, or man against robots? I read somewhere that the subconscious mind was essentially programmed, like a robot. I must say, one day, I felt like one: it was a very strange experience and lasted 10 minutes.
Supermassive Black Hole
“Pumped up Kicks” is a song by American indie pop band Foster the People, a Los Angeles indie rock band that started off as a solo project for vocalist, guitarist and keyboardist Mark Foster, who had been working as a jingle composer for commercials. It was released as the group’s debut single in September 2010, and the following year was included on their EP Foster the People and their debut album, Torches.
Independent music (often shortened to indie music or indie) is music produced independently from major commercial record labels or their subsidiaries, a process that may include an autonomous, do-it-yourself approach to recording and publishing. The term indie is sometimes also used to describe a genre (such as indie rock and indie pop); as a genre term, “indie” may include music that is not independently produced.
The song was widely praised by critics, and it has been licensed for use in a wide range of popular media since its release; it received a Grammy Award nomination for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance. Contrasting with the upbeat musical composition, the lyrics describe the homicidal thoughts of a troubled youth.
The track received considerable attention after it was posted online in 2010 as a free download, and it helped the group garner a multi-album record deal with Columbia Records imprint Startime International.
“Pumped Up Kicks” proved to be a sleeper hit, a song that becomes successful gradually, often with little promotion. “I like to write about real-life topics, and I like to write about different walks of life. For me, that song was really an observation about something that’s happening in the youth culture these days.
I guess I wanted to reveal that internal dialogue of a kid who doesn’t have anywhere to turn, and I think the song has kind of done its job. I think people are talking about it, and it’s become a point of conversation, which I think is a really healthy thing.”
In another interview, Foster said: “’Pumped Up Kicks’ is about a kid that basically is losing his mind and is plotting revenge. He’s an outcast. I feel like the youth in our culture are becoming more and more isolated. It’s kind of an epidemic.
Instead of writing about victims and some tragedy, I wanted to get into the killer’s mind, like Truman Capote did in In Cold Blood. I love to write about characters. That’s my style. I really like to get inside the heads of other people and try to walk in their shoes.”
Foster says he considered writing the song from the perspective of the victim, but felt that would be a cop out. He also points out that there is no actual violence in the song, as the threats are all the kid’s internal monologue.
About those “Pumped Up Kicks” the other kids in this song are wearing: In the late ’80s and early ’90s, the Reebok Pump basketball shoe enjoyed modest popularity. The sneaker had a pump shaped like a basketball on the tongue, and the idea was that if you needed a little extra lift, you could just give it a few pumps – keep in mind that Nike had Michael Jordan selling its kicks, so Reebok was pretty desperate.
The shoes were very expensive, and kids with that kind of money to spend on basketball sneakers who didn’t opt for Air Jordans tended to be the privileged poseurs who annoyed the hell out of anyone wearing Converse or Keds.
In this song, the kids with the pumped up kicks, or at least these type of kids, are threatened with grave violence. Talking about writing this song in Rolling Stone, Foster said: “I was trying to get inside the head of an isolated, psychotic kid. It’s a fuck you song to hipsters, in a way – but it’s a song the hipsters are going to want to dance to.”
It is confirmed: let’s dance, but watch out for that oral fixation. I didn’t know what to do, but I was sure there were things not to do. Like saying goodbye. Isn’t that saying hello also?
What strikes me is that my narcissistic pervert has awful moments of putrefaction. You know, like moments when the landscape is so awful that you wonder how you did end up taking the path that no one goes. The culprit was the neighbourhood, and any attempt to say the contrary will remain vain.
“Before you diagnose yourself with low self-esteem and depression, make sure you’re not surrounded by assholes” (William Gibson). Yes, I have been freed and, along with sunshine, there is summer rain. I hope though it won’t be in vain. The curvature of spacetime is making ripples and it could get ugly.
As I look back on that desperate fight, one thing I recall: only misunderstanding and no one tried to do something about it. Thanks to my strong identity and dignity, instilled by my parents and my family, I have an amazing promise: blood, sweat and tears.
I might have a few marketing problems to deal with before that blog starts to take off. As I look back on victory, one thing I recall: you should make sense out of it, otherwise it will mean nothing.
I forgot to shed some tears, and sweating is something useful as it allows to evacuate the emotions out. As for blood, that chemotherapy I did in 1997 has serious side effects, notably bone marrow suppression.
Two jumps in a week
I bet you think that’s pretty clever, don’t you boy?
Kill yourself for recognition
Kill yourself to never ever stop
You broke another mirror
You’re turning into something you are not
High and Dry
30 cigarettes a day, I guess that’s pretty clever, don’t you boy? I don’t know why but I can’t make love anymore. Must be Casanova 70, a 1965 Italian comedy film where the main character is a ladies man with an unusual libido: he can only seduce women in situations where his life is in danger. Sing for absolution!
Maybe the decision is difficult, maybe I should give up being a hypocrite and smoking 2 packs a day. Comes like a comet, did it sucker my friends? It seems it did, at least a few of them.
Sometimes, I feel selfish but what does it mean to lose all your hair? It’s a sign or symptom of a serious disease (a sign is objective and a symptom is subjective). Slowly rebuilding, I have to kill bills and my liver, who is hanging by a thread. How long before I can talk to the boss?
Feelings of guilt and shame are pushing me to the limit. Courage is the first level of true force, where you perceive a challenge, not a burden. I think my challenge would be to make an amazing promise: peace in the Middle East.
Let’s do to them what they did to us: completely helpless, unprepared and unexpected. I mean, of course, when you win a war, the red colour of your skin flashes, and ribbons of youth should not be taken lightly. The thing about the heart is that it’s a control tower for the rest of your humanity.
The word is out on the street, the fire in my heart is under control. What is war, except serious heart matters? At the moment, I am reviving my 1997 torture. A friend of mine just dropped by and we played “Riders on the Storm” by The Doors.
There’s a killer on the road, his brain is squirming like a toad. That might be the boss, because I think some employees really messed up.
Classic signs of low motivation include pressuring your heart with the hand (tedium vitae) and fleeing the country or the neighbourhood. I’m writing that blog for me, because it helps me a lot with my conscience. I hope it will help some of you too.
Power of Equality
Little bug, do you hear me? Have a heart because even my mama thinks my mind is gone. As I walk through the valleys of Neptune (or maybe Sirius), I realise Jimmy Page was right: the wrong teacher can really mess you up.
We need education, we don’t need dark sarcasm in the classroom. On a regular basis, I stumble upon books we used to read when we were young. They are very interesting in hindsight.
Sadly, I still know nothing, even if I know something. I can’t tell you why, and I’m not talking about men and women, I’m talking about mankind. I’ll take you to the alley: I’m a pure product of the worst criminals of the 20th century (I’m not talking about my parents).
I’m on the verge of regressing into an animal that existed 1 million years ago. Little bug, do you hear me? Another queen of hearts is always the safest bet and maybe I will make an effort to let someone love me before it’s too late.
What if wisdom was a dangerous path between two extremes? The etymology of the word philosophy is “love for wisdom”. Give me a reason to do nothing! After all, we are 6 billion on Earth, and reasons to be angry are plenty.
I read somewhere that a first trauma can change the response to a future stress! Each time someone reaches for me, I have that awful stress response. We need an angle for the short and long term. And I think I found one robust enough.
An idea I had was BRAD (not Brad Pitt). BRAD is a method where you have 4 alternatives to make sense of what you’re going through: make commonplace, put in perspective, make it better and drama school (I named it BRAD because in French the first letters of those words are B, R, A and D).
Music is a nice angle to approach modern life, along with poetry and literature. Some artists put in music poems of the first part of the 20th century. It’s important because it’s obvious we are still not over WW2.
Heed the path that led mankind to moral bankruptcy and civilians slaughtering. 20 millions: ain’t talking about dollars but casualties. Please, don’t erase the border between soldiers and civilians. Otherwise, make sure to drop a warning.
Another reason to refrain from losing that game is experience. Now we’re planning the crime of the century: who are those men whose plans dragged us into the abyss of insulting our neighbours? You can get accustomed to a certain kind of failure: years of care and loyalty were nothing but a sham it seems.
Are you for rent? Or did you sell your soul to the miracle of fatigue and nausea? According to Sir Winston Churchill, “chance doesn’t exist, what you call chance is attention to detail”. He also said that “always remember, however sure you are that you could easily win, that there would not be a war if the other man did not think he also had a chance”.
I dreamed I had a good dream and I got well rewarded for making that vision come true. But I see red people: must there always be these colours, without names and without sounds? Everything’s on hold, except maybe rivalry and vengeance.
Once I went to a 30 Seconds to Mars concert: the charismatic leader tried to make the crowd jump. Otherwise they might have remained a bit confused about what he meant when he was shouting “Jump! Jump!”.
At the moment, I get up and even a small breeze gets me down. It’s the beauty of my life, caught in the middle of a desperate fight, looking for solutions to problems that are poorly stated. Everything but Baghdad!
When it Comes to You
I always dreamed I had nice friends and I got work/life balance. And I achieved that. Let me tell you it’s an awesome feeling. I knew there was a better way of life that I would slam to find.
In other words, time is always on your side; otherwise how will you get over that awesome party where you drank a bit too much? Hygiene must be constant and you will fail at a lot of things but I think hope is just a matter of decision.
My narcissistic pervert has a brand we should all be aware of: when it comes to war, he doesn’t have any problem. But don’t get him talking about the polar bear, or the ozone layer. The only thing he has in mind is how political regimes can kill millions of people.
I have been classically conditioned to keep my mouth shut; I don’t have a problem with that until you realise medicine is a business and they need profits. Too much love will kill mankind, just as sure as none at all.
The Drugs Don’t Work
I’m a good musician, I know it. How do I know it? It’s just I’ve been practicing for 20+ years. This is an amazing promise: when I need an idea for a paragraph, I’ll take a sentence in a song and start from here. I try to get the job done, instead of wondering for years and years if it will be OK.
For some unknown reason, I have to mourn something. Maybe I will die in a hotel room and I will suffocate with my own vomit, or maybe I will let new influences take control of my life; influences that will allow me to get back on the fundamental track of normal libido.
We have to kill Bill, and break down the clot. Did you know you could have silent strokes, and that this could permanently damage your brain? How exactly are we supposed to kill bills (bills, bills) and subtract insult from injury? Maybe patience, or less is more…
If you liked that post or more generally my blog, don’t forget to go to my about page for details on “like, share, comment and donate”. In other words, this sounds serious and I might give up before being seriously injured by sailing into the mystic.
Robert’s got a quick hand
He’ll look around the room, he won’t tell you his plan
He’s got a rolled cigarette
Hanging out his mouth, he’s a cowboy kid
Yeah he found a six-shooter gun
In his dad’s closet, in the box of fun things
I don’t even know what
But he’s coming for you, yeah he’s coming for you
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
You better run, better run, outrun my gun
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
You better run, better run, faster than my bullet
Daddy works a long day
He be coming home late, and he’s coming home late
And he’s bringing me a surprise
‘Cause dinner’s in the kitchen and it’s packed in ice
I’ve waited for a long time
Yeah the sleight of my hand is now a quick-pull trigger
I reason with my cigarette
Then say, “Your hair’s on fire, you must’ve lost your wits, yeah?”
Run, run, run, run, ru-ru-ru-run, run, run
Ru-ru-ru-run, run, run, run
Ru-ru-ru-run, run, run, run, run, run