Snakes? Or something...

Happy St. Patrick's Day peoples. This holiday has an astounding significance for a people of which I am not a part.

I am alone again tonight - Beck is in Walpole for a last day in the ER before a jaunt South-ward to, you know, determine our future - and am having an overly emotional response to Postal Service's "Such Great Heights," which, all of its musical merits aside, has one of the most beautiful / sappy emotional first verses in the history of etc. (google lyrics such great heights) (though this is my own rhythmic meteric arrangement):

I
Am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images
And when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned
And I
Have to speculate
That God himself did make
Us into corresponding shapes
Like puzzle pieces
From the clay
And true,
It may seem like a stretch,
But it's thoughts like this that catch
My troubled head
When you're away
When I am missing you to death
When you
Are out there on the road
For several weeks of shows
And when you scan
The radio
I hope this song will guide you home

It's beautiful touching and excellently constructed (and touching) in some kind of lonely missing you much sentiment. Whatever; I think I take too much credit if I portend a romantic element to this tendency of angst (pronounced ahngst). It's really the same old same old, or more directly, S.O.S. Meanings fade and I "just don't know what to do with myself;" I end up staring and fixing a drink and thinking of meals as rewards and dreams as capitalist enterprises. It's all largely sickening, despair-inducing and in all other senses another Saturday night.

I get the feeling that the Midwestern tendency is to smile and pretend everything is alright and mindlessly pursue that which is mandated to be pursued; I don't mean that as insulting but rather as casually anthropologically observant. I guess I mean to insinuate that I don't necessarily think all bars are set the same, or not in the same places, or the same (such great) heights, and oh is that the sound I hear of the metaphor dying.

There's a sameness to the basketball (the March Madness, exciting in its mundane repetition of buzzer beaters and parity) that is soothing and rip-roaringly pointless. I read today that Vivaldi and others of his ilk died penniless and buried in unmarked graves; one (and by one I mean I) wonder(s) if there's an eerie correspondence in the 10% Ohio State graduation rate and this sad fact. As much as I dig his tunes... I mean that there's no real connection there other than an approximate name and some kind of very abstract concept, and maybe I should appreciate that it's just the limits of things and I should no more be lamenting my lack of an ability to fly, but seeing these boy-men flounder all over the court for a second round upset that will be dropped from the collective memory *even harder* than last week's celebrity poker scandal is chokingly sad.

It was Xavier 2007 that almost upset the super one seed Ohio State today, for the very transient record.

There's no thesis here. Other than to say that I am nonplussed to be alone on yet another night and miffed that Beck is leaving and that more than anything I am no more looking forward to the future (at least in this very present second) than I am looking forward to the past.