(no subject)
" Scotland's KT Tunstall showed up to Angels and Kings in Manhattan the other night, and Gatecrasher says one of her people called ahead to make sure they had single-malts Talisker and Macallan in house, because she's very particular. "
it's late june and i'm spending all of my time in london working on the record, and i don't think i've had interaction with a human being who wasn't being paid to work with me in at least 3 weeks. i'm day dreaming choruses and waking up humming bridges i've never heard before. i spend 75% of my time at the studio, 20% at home and the rest going back and forth between the two. my ipod can't sync my changing tastes fast enough for me and i hate every single radio station that i can find, radio, internet or otherwise that might chance to play a song of mine without me even realising it as i'm "so deeply" intune with my current project, apparently, and i end up plagiarising myself before i realise it cos i've medlied it too many times it's hard to differentiate when it's been following a few (too many) sleepless nights. insanity but the next thing i know it's crazier yet.
i always have a pack of cigarettes at the ready, either at the bottom of my bag or tucked away in the corner of my suitcase (though at home it's the top drawer of my dresser), and always nearly full because i don't smoke. no really, despite what i just said, i don't. unless i just feel like it, cos i can, and it seems this night's one of those times, as suddenly i'm sitting out on the balcony with a book of matches in one hand, cig in the other with my back to the city. yeah, i'm a rebel and i'm turning a shoulder on the whole reason my flat costs more than it ever should. i can actually still see the night-time lights of the familiar view reflected in the glass doors, but i'm staring past them, through the glass and the smoke i keep exhaling. i realise the skyline's lights look like they're hanging off the walls in my bedroom, above the closed ensuite door, past the closet doors at a rather skewed angle, but lovely none the less.
tonight it's much colder than it was in june but not a lot else seems to have changed. i'm still staring through the glass, past the view the exact same way. i'm still transfixed by the sight of a very unique woman's thin, petite frame stretched across my bed; the sight of her laying alongside the gap that i've only momentarily vacated (barely long enough to choke back half a cigarette, to be exact). i'm thinking, as i watch her shamelessly, that she still looks just as beautiful as she did three months ago. but before i even complete that thought i realise it's outdated; i've learned so much about her in the last ninety days, from the ways her different scars and imperfections came to be, to the meanings behind a different tattoo every week or so; different stories that i probably haven't even broken the surface on yet but i still feel more privileged than i bet most people have ever been, and then i'm done my cigarette and it's time to go inside.
i'm crawling back under the covers and she's already pulling me close, her nose wrinkling when she kisses me, her warm hands sliding around my waist and before i know it, morning's trying to push its way into the room through the drawn shades and fighting it with the covers over our heads, but failing miserably. it's probably obvious i hardly mind as it's nothing short of an excuse to bury my face in her neck and try to forget what responsibilities lay ahead during the day, something that's all too easy to do when immersed in the warmth of the bed, especially in comparison to the cooler temperature in the rest of the room. i'm starting to ramble uselessly so i think it means it's time for me to go to bed. i love you baby, thanks for everything, especially an amazing few months.
it's late june and i'm spending all of my time in london working on the record, and i don't think i've had interaction with a human being who wasn't being paid to work with me in at least 3 weeks. i'm day dreaming choruses and waking up humming bridges i've never heard before. i spend 75% of my time at the studio, 20% at home and the rest going back and forth between the two. my ipod can't sync my changing tastes fast enough for me and i hate every single radio station that i can find, radio, internet or otherwise that might chance to play a song of mine without me even realising it as i'm "so deeply" intune with my current project, apparently, and i end up plagiarising myself before i realise it cos i've medlied it too many times it's hard to differentiate when it's been following a few (too many) sleepless nights. insanity but the next thing i know it's crazier yet.
i always have a pack of cigarettes at the ready, either at the bottom of my bag or tucked away in the corner of my suitcase (though at home it's the top drawer of my dresser), and always nearly full because i don't smoke. no really, despite what i just said, i don't. unless i just feel like it, cos i can, and it seems this night's one of those times, as suddenly i'm sitting out on the balcony with a book of matches in one hand, cig in the other with my back to the city. yeah, i'm a rebel and i'm turning a shoulder on the whole reason my flat costs more than it ever should. i can actually still see the night-time lights of the familiar view reflected in the glass doors, but i'm staring past them, through the glass and the smoke i keep exhaling. i realise the skyline's lights look like they're hanging off the walls in my bedroom, above the closed ensuite door, past the closet doors at a rather skewed angle, but lovely none the less.
tonight it's much colder than it was in june but not a lot else seems to have changed. i'm still staring through the glass, past the view the exact same way. i'm still transfixed by the sight of a very unique woman's thin, petite frame stretched across my bed; the sight of her laying alongside the gap that i've only momentarily vacated (barely long enough to choke back half a cigarette, to be exact). i'm thinking, as i watch her shamelessly, that she still looks just as beautiful as she did three months ago. but before i even complete that thought i realise it's outdated; i've learned so much about her in the last ninety days, from the ways her different scars and imperfections came to be, to the meanings behind a different tattoo every week or so; different stories that i probably haven't even broken the surface on yet but i still feel more privileged than i bet most people have ever been, and then i'm done my cigarette and it's time to go inside.
i'm crawling back under the covers and she's already pulling me close, her nose wrinkling when she kisses me, her warm hands sliding around my waist and before i know it, morning's trying to push its way into the room through the drawn shades and fighting it with the covers over our heads, but failing miserably. it's probably obvious i hardly mind as it's nothing short of an excuse to bury my face in her neck and try to forget what responsibilities lay ahead during the day, something that's all too easy to do when immersed in the warmth of the bed, especially in comparison to the cooler temperature in the rest of the room. i'm starting to ramble uselessly so i think it means it's time for me to go to bed. i love you baby, thanks for everything, especially an amazing few months.