Seperis (seperis) wrote,

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about the not getting the beatles, right

So that was a lie. I am a Beatles person. I am totally a Beatles person. It's like--IDEK. Apparently, I didn't know this until deep-sixing my way into remastered albums. Even the stuff I hated is now merely faint dislike that makes me smile when I see Paul's cheery little face. I like things so perky it makes my teeth ache.

I've made everyone listen to We Can Work It Out because that shit is deep, okay, and also, Paul's cheery face! I mean, granted, I figured out early that I wasn't going to get connection here without a visual component, and fine, while apparently Kirk/Spock were the first slash pairing, John/Paul must have been the first RPS because I didn't even have to try, that was all I would get when I hit youtube. That's not how I roll, I said, which again, oh the lie.

...I keep randomly bursting into tears when I sling Let It Be, How Do You Sleep, and Here Today together like I need an emotional abyss or something to really round out my life. I'm in the middle of a deeply felt hatred for all the music we lost and okay, my God. This can't end well.

I also have to wonder it's like when the entire fucking world is shipping you and your best friend while you write hate music about each other. I mean, not like it was just fangirls; there is video of non-fangirl people out there illustrating the fact that the universe had a thing for them.

The facial hair revolution is surreal to watch. I remember my Dad going through these phases--okay, remember mostly with pictures, but I stare at Paul and just have flashbacks like whoa.

John got way too skinny there for a while and never got over it.

Paul is like the most adorable adorableness ever. If he wasn't doing two people a night, I--actually don't believe his numbers aren't four digits. I just can't conceptualize that.

I'm thinking about the screaming.

In an entry [personal profile] svmadelyn linked me to--doesn't she always?--the poster mentioned she might scream when she saw McCartney in concert. Why, she didn't know. Screaming girls, such a cliche, why do they do that, and I still don't know why, but I know it's there.

When I was a cheerleader--no, not the beginning of a very involved joke that ends with a rabbi and a boat--when I was a cheerleader, I was a professional enthusiast. I'd get up there and go at it with the best of them, but it was what I did, and I was very good at it.

But once, I lost my voice. Three times, actually, but they're all one time in the end. This was the first time.

I was a cheerleader and I was a professional at getting people to pick up the energy and run with it, to feel it in their fingertips and their bodies, and drag it out until they had to do anything, anything to get it out. I didn't know then it was power, I just knew how to do it; now I know what I was doing all those nights, the same thing I did when I played basketball or when I stepped on a stage or sometimes, wrote a story.

That's what I did, what we all did; we were professionals with an audience, and most of the time, that's what we were. Then once in a while, we stopped being that altogether; once, during a basketball game I forgot how to do anything but play; once, I performed a play and forgot to do anything but feel; and once, I was a cheerleader who forgot to do anything but scream.

I don't remember the game, and I don't remember what happened--that's a lie, I do, I totally remember what set it off--but it was close and we'd been cheering for hours, and my uniform always made me so self-conscious and I hated the tiny skirt and the bloomers and I went at my duty like a girl who was used to being in front of a mostly-enthused crowd. We'd been working them--not easy with a team that lost every game they ever played--but it was football and it's Texas, and we were used to having to work for it. I think we were angry, too--our football team was so bad and we were so tired, and then something happened and something in us snapped.

Here's the thing--it's hard to lose yourself in a crowd that isn't responding. But man, it's easy to get them when you manage to do it anyway, and it may have been conscious at first, but in the end, it wasn't. We were mean, we made up a very unsportsmanlike name for the other team, wrapped it in a cheer, and threw it like a brick. We were going to lose, sure, but God, it didn't matter at the end, we stood on teh rails of the bleachers screaming at the other team and laughing hysterically while the crowd swarmed to their feet and followed us wherever we wanted to go. We went, oh how we went, we kept going and didn't stop, and we couldn't even remember to want to, no matter UIL rules and our very disappointed and yet shocked coach, who didn't know her junior high girls had that in them, not to just be mean--we could do that--but to bring it like that, to bring a bleachers of tired parents and fans of a losing team far enough rip the air apart, to make the other side silent and still and watch, shocked themselves that all this time, all those horrible games, we could still make our crowd do that.

(Girls scream; so do guys. So do fifty year old men leaning half out of their bleacher red-faced and uplifted and hoarse and lost in that dazzling fog of pure sound and need. I've seen it. I've heard it.)

I don't remember why we had to scream; I know none of them did. Except it was really the only thing to do. We had to, like we breathed and like we walked and talked; we walked out (we lost) so high we didn't even feel the ground and I was so hoarse I couldn't even whisper, but I could still hear it and feel it and days later, I wondered at myself, at the tingling in my fingertips and the way the world went spongy beneath my feet and how it felt like it had to get out, had to go somewhere and I still had some left and it had to ease away by degrees over days when I didn't have the voice or the people to let it go.

It's happened since then; the sudden rush of energy, from somewhere, anywhere, everywhere, the rise of the ground beneath me, the shocked effervescent joy of it pushing pushing pushing against the cork to let out, to get out, and every time it happens, it hits me all anew, and it's good, it's great, it's like magic and like flying and like falling apart and it doesn't happen often, but man, when it does, I wonder how people can hold that back, why they'd want to. It's so good. It's everything.

Never had that at a concert yet; I want to. The rush has to be amazing. I've never loved football the way I love music. Of course, I've never loved anything like I love performing, either. Maybe that had something to do with it. Just because I didn't recognize power then doesn't mean I didn't also get off on it.

Beatles. Yes. I'm forming my top ten, but my repeat-one seems to imply it's closer to a top twenty or something. Not even counting Lennon and McCartney's solo work.

Surrender by Digital Daggers. Random musical rec. All the fic I haven't been reading has been to this, because I can't listen to the music of people I'm totally not reading about while I'm not reading about them.

Not that anyone here has recs or anything, I suppose. Or knows how i can get my hands on certain fic that have been deleted from the intenret and I'm about to cry because hello not reading but if I was, I'd want to read them.

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Tags: crosspost, jenn's life, music
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