Blackbird Blackbird

Pure


Blind


...

We lived in a suburb of Phoenix during a time when it was still regarded as a place you pass through on your way to more provocative cities like L.A. or Las Vegas. Because of this we harbored a festering resentment for our parents and our environs by virtue of the fact that none of us chose to be there. Our mothers and fathers, we felt, tolerated banality in exchange for warmer climes and better pay, and for that they could not be forgiven. We fostered dreams that one day California would break off into the Pacific, allowing topographers the world over the glory of mapping Arizona's new coastline.

Californians: learn to swim.

It was a strange time. We were all secretly envious or upset or in love with each other, slightly twisted or confused by the changes going on around us, by our own inner weather. We were all bored to bits, wondering what else was out there beyond the desert fringe, beyond the belt of dry heat that kept us from ever exploring further than our own curiosity.

We were restless.

We were waiting for an earthquake.

In the meantime we would fill our tanks with just enough petrol to get lost and find our way back again. We would antagonize our god-given form with an assortment of iniquities, loading up on vices that allowed us to forget our imperfections and our encroaching responsibilities. We had our mixtapes cued up in the tape deck. And we would drive without direction or purpose. Our plan was to have no plan, to follow our bliss as far as our nerve would allow. We drove just to feel like we were going somewhere. And invariably we would pass the time with long drives that lasted until sunrise, exploring every inch of our much maligned teenaged wasteland. When we weren't in silent contemplation of the music, we were having conversations that were amusing and pointless, conversations that, like our road trips, often led to dead ends. In retrospect we realize how ironic it truly was. But it was okay back then because we felt that there was always tomorrow, always another opportunity to do it again, to get it right. And it is only now, while carrying the load of all our adult obligations, that we understand just how lucky we were to be that terribly naive. It is a bliss that we have yet to return to.

Too funky

Beastie and MIA mash:

Conan O'Brien's 2011 Dartmouth College Commencement Address

toothpicks

Scott Weaver's Rolling through the Bay from The Tinkering Studio on Vimeo.