(no subject)
Been told to be be in shape for the Efterskole, so went running tuesday, and today, and yesterday I went working, so did something there too... I've decided to run 5km every other day... Going to the concert with Under Byen and Saybia on saturday. Main reason I post is I wrote a libs fic:D
"Chemistry,” Peter thought,”that’s what it’s about. Chemistry. It’s not the music and poetry, or the love for your fans, it’s the chemistry on-stage. Nobody wants to see a band consisting of a few hip, young blokes playing tunes, maybe dance a bit, and then say their goodbyes. No, the crowd wants that affection between the musicians, a special kind of affection. It’s an intimacy so real, so raw you can feel it all the way down in the bottom of your stomach. And it’s not only the audience that feels it, the band does too, and that’s what happens. Band and crowd share that feeling, and of course the music and it somehow creates that tension, that chemistry, that can’t be held in, and eventually explodes in wild cheering, drinking, celebrating, fucking and dancing.” Peter paused in his head for dramatic effect, “That’s what makes the gigs so fucking beautiful.” Peter said to himself, “Carlos and I, we have that chemistry.”
---
Peter is lying on his crappy bed, that is just that wee bit too hard to be comfortable. For half an hour now, he’s been just staring at the ceiling, thinking and talking to himself. He often does that, talks to himself. Peter thinks it‘s a wonderful thing, because it prevents you from feeling lonely, even when you are, very much, alone. Sometimes, Pete sings to himself as well, more often than not, really. It’s better than talking, because the melody softens the sound of a voice in an empty room. And when you’re not good at being alone, music is truly the best thing ever to have happened.
Just by thinking of it, Pete instantly feels the familiar itching in his fingertips. They ache to play. He reaches for his guitar and sits up too quickly, causing his vision to blur for a few dizzy moments. He doesn’t care, and starts playing a homemade little thing. It’s quiet and soft.
Peter really has no reason to feel lonely, he’s got lots of mates, and they all admire him. They see him as some great 18th century poet, a tortured artist who has his little ways, but is loved nonetheless. But while some of this might be true, he might be a bit of a lunatic, and incoherent to some, he still has a little boy inside him, who just wants to come out and play with the other boys. His friends doesn’t seem to understand this, which annoys him. It annoys him that the only one who would call Peter when bored, is Carl. His Carlos, his Beautiful Biggles. Why doesn’t anyone love him like he does? John, Gary, Wolfman…as much as he likes and cares for them, he could never make himself trust them with his thoughts and worries like he could with Carl. He trusts Carl…
Suddenly Pete starts laughing at himself, “Ah, fuck it, this is just bullshit. Who am I kidding? I don’t need anyone but my Biggles. We’ll do just fine without them!” Peter says out loud. His playing is growing impatient and louder, as his temper does, and ends in an angry Fm chord, before Pete throws away the guitar and stands up, once again feeling a sudden punch of dizziness.
“Enough of this!” he exclaims, dramatically, to his bare wall, “I’m a fucking libertine! A libertine’s not supposed to sit in his flat alone just because it’s Sunday afternoon, practically drowning in silence.
Peter grabs his leather jacket and runs out the door, not bothering to lock it. As he’s running down the stairs from the flat, he finds his cell phone in one of his many pockets, and dials Carl’s number. Five beeps, and then some scrambling as the phone is lifted on the other end. “No, mum! I already told you-” an angry voice was cut off by Peter, as he slid down the final banisters, and yelled out: “Carlos! Meet me in the park, we’re going out!” he hung up before Carl could protest.
"Chemistry,” Peter thought,”that’s what it’s about. Chemistry. It’s not the music and poetry, or the love for your fans, it’s the chemistry on-stage. Nobody wants to see a band consisting of a few hip, young blokes playing tunes, maybe dance a bit, and then say their goodbyes. No, the crowd wants that affection between the musicians, a special kind of affection. It’s an intimacy so real, so raw you can feel it all the way down in the bottom of your stomach. And it’s not only the audience that feels it, the band does too, and that’s what happens. Band and crowd share that feeling, and of course the music and it somehow creates that tension, that chemistry, that can’t be held in, and eventually explodes in wild cheering, drinking, celebrating, fucking and dancing.” Peter paused in his head for dramatic effect, “That’s what makes the gigs so fucking beautiful.” Peter said to himself, “Carlos and I, we have that chemistry.”
---
Peter is lying on his crappy bed, that is just that wee bit too hard to be comfortable. For half an hour now, he’s been just staring at the ceiling, thinking and talking to himself. He often does that, talks to himself. Peter thinks it‘s a wonderful thing, because it prevents you from feeling lonely, even when you are, very much, alone. Sometimes, Pete sings to himself as well, more often than not, really. It’s better than talking, because the melody softens the sound of a voice in an empty room. And when you’re not good at being alone, music is truly the best thing ever to have happened.
Just by thinking of it, Pete instantly feels the familiar itching in his fingertips. They ache to play. He reaches for his guitar and sits up too quickly, causing his vision to blur for a few dizzy moments. He doesn’t care, and starts playing a homemade little thing. It’s quiet and soft.
Peter really has no reason to feel lonely, he’s got lots of mates, and they all admire him. They see him as some great 18th century poet, a tortured artist who has his little ways, but is loved nonetheless. But while some of this might be true, he might be a bit of a lunatic, and incoherent to some, he still has a little boy inside him, who just wants to come out and play with the other boys. His friends doesn’t seem to understand this, which annoys him. It annoys him that the only one who would call Peter when bored, is Carl. His Carlos, his Beautiful Biggles. Why doesn’t anyone love him like he does? John, Gary, Wolfman…as much as he likes and cares for them, he could never make himself trust them with his thoughts and worries like he could with Carl. He trusts Carl…
Suddenly Pete starts laughing at himself, “Ah, fuck it, this is just bullshit. Who am I kidding? I don’t need anyone but my Biggles. We’ll do just fine without them!” Peter says out loud. His playing is growing impatient and louder, as his temper does, and ends in an angry Fm chord, before Pete throws away the guitar and stands up, once again feeling a sudden punch of dizziness.
“Enough of this!” he exclaims, dramatically, to his bare wall, “I’m a fucking libertine! A libertine’s not supposed to sit in his flat alone just because it’s Sunday afternoon, practically drowning in silence.
Peter grabs his leather jacket and runs out the door, not bothering to lock it. As he’s running down the stairs from the flat, he finds his cell phone in one of his many pockets, and dials Carl’s number. Five beeps, and then some scrambling as the phone is lifted on the other end. “No, mum! I already told you-” an angry voice was cut off by Peter, as he slid down the final banisters, and yelled out: “Carlos! Meet me in the park, we’re going out!” he hung up before Carl could protest.