#driving in my car with emotion playing is THEE experience

[naeviaas]

thank u japanese cd site for allowing me to buy carly rae jepsen's magnum opus 2015 album emotion AND emotion side b on cd for $20 which I couldn't find ANYWHERE on western sites at all, and if I did it was $50+

[frankiefellinlove]

This is it! The whole article where John Landau writes that Bruce “is the future of rock n roll”. Long but so worth the read, to see that quote in context.

GROWING YOUNG WITH ROCK AND ROLL

By Jon Landau

The Real Paper

May 22, 1974📷

It's four in the morning and raining. I'm 27 today, feeling old, listening to my records, and remembering that things were diffferent a decade ago. In 1964, I was a freshman at Brandeis University, playing guitar and banjo five hours a day, listening to records most of the rest of the time, jamming with friends during the late-night hours, working out the harmonies to Beach Boys' and Beatles' songs.

Real Paper soul writer Russell Gersten was my best friend and we would run through the 45s everyday: Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By" and "Anyone Who Had A Heart," the Drifters' "Up On the Roof," Jackie Ross' "Selfish One," the Marvellettes' "Too Many Fish in the Sea," and the one that no one ever forgets, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas' "Heat Wave." Later that year a special woman named Tamar turned me onto Wilson Pickett's "Midnight Hour" and Otis Redding's "Respect," and then came the soul. Meanwhile, I still went to bed to the sounds of the Byrds' "Mr. Tambourine Man" and later "Younger than Yesterday," still one of my favorite good-night albums. I woke up to Having a Rave-Up with the Yardbirds instead of coffee. And for a change of pace, there was always bluegrass: The Stanley Brothers, Bill Monroe, and Jimmy Martin.

Through college, I consumed sound as if it were the staff of life. Others enjoyed drugs, school, travel, adventure. I just liked music: listening to it, playing it, talking about it. If some followed the inspiration of acid, or Zen, or dropping out, I followed the spirit of rock'n'roll.

Individual songs often achieved the status of sacraments. One September, I was driving through Waltham looking for a new apartment when the sound on the car radio stunned me. I pulled over to the side of the road, turned it up, demanded silence of my friends and two minutes and fifty-six second later knew that God had spoken to me through the Four Tops' "Reach Out, I'll Be There," a record that I will cherish for as long as [I] live.

During those often lonely years, music was my constant companion and the search for the new record was like a search for a new friend and new revelation. "Mystic Eyes" open mine to whole new vistas in white rock and roll and there were days when I couldn't go to sleep without hearing it a dozen times.

Whether it was a neurotic and manic approach to music, or just a religious one, or both, I don't really care. I only know that, then, as now, I'm grateful to the artists who gave the experience to me and hope that I can always respond to them.

The records were, of course, only part of it. In '65 and '66 I played in a band, the Jellyroll, that never made it. At the time I concluded that I was too much of a perfectionist to work with the other band members; in the end I realized I was too much of an autocrat, unable to relate to other people enough to share music with them.

Realizing that I wasn't destined to play in a band, I gravitated to rock criticism. Starting with a few wretched pieces in Broadside and then some amateurish but convincing reviews in the earliest Crawdaddy, I at least found a substitute outlet for my desire to express myself about rock: If I couldn't cope with playing, I may have done better writing about it.

But in those days, I didn't see myself as a critic -- the writing was just another extension of an all-encompassing obsession. It carried over to my love for live music, which I cared for even more than the records. I went to the Club 47 three times a week and then hunted down the rock shows -- which weren't so easy to find because they weren't all conveniently located at downtown theatres. I flipped for the Animals' two-hour show at Rindge Tech; the Rolling Stones, not just at Boston Garden, where they did the best half hour rock'n'roll set I had ever seen, but at Lynn Football Stadium, where they started a riot; Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels overcoming the worst of performing conditions at Watpole Skating Rink; and the Beatles at Suffolk Down, plainly audible, beatiful to look at, and confirmation that we -- and I -- existed as a special body of people who understood the power and the flory of rock'n'roll.

I lived those days with a sense of anticipation. I worked in Briggs & Briggs a few summers and would know when the next albums were coming. The disappointment when the new Stones was a day late, the exhilaration when Another Side of Bob Dylan showed up a week early. The thrill of turning on WBZ and hearing some strange sound, both beautiful and horrible, but that demanded to be heard again; it turned out to be "You've Lost That Loving Feeling," a record that stands just behind "Reach Out I'll Be There" as means of musical catharsis.

My temperament being what it is, I often enjoyed hating as much as loving. That San Francisco shit corrupted the purity of the rock that I lvoed and I could have led a crusade against it. The Moby Grape moved me, but those songs about White Rabbits and hippie love made me laugh when they didn't make me sick. I found more rock'n'roll in the dubbed-in hysteria on the Rolling Stones Got Live if You Want It than on most San Francisco albums combined.

For every moment I remember there are a dozen I've forgotten, but I feel like they are with me on a night like this, a permanent part of my consciousness, a feeling lost on my mind but never on my soul. And then there are those individual experiences so transcendent that I can remember them as if they happened yesterday: Sam and Dave at the Soul Together at Madison Square Garden in 1967: every gesture, every movement, the order of the songs. I would give anything to hear them sing "When Something's Wrong with My Baby" just the way they did it that night.

The obsessions with Otis Redding, Jerry Butler, and B.B. King came a little bit later; each occupied six months of my time, while I digested every nuance of every album. Like the Byrds, I turn to them today and still find, when I least expect it, something new, something deeply flet, something that speaks to me.

As I left college in 1969 and went into record production I started exhausting my seemingly insatiable appetite. I felt no less intensely than before about certain artists; I just felt that way about fewer of them. I not only became more discriminating but more indifferent. I found it especially hard to listen to new faces. I had accumulated enough musical experience to fall back on when I needed its companionship but during this period in my life I found I needed music less and people, whom I spend too much of my life ignoring, much more.

Today I listen to music with a certain measure of detachment. I'm a professional and I make my living commenting on it. There are months when I hate it, going through the routine just as a shoe salesman goes through his. I follow films with the passion that music once held for me. But in my own moments of greatest need, I never give up the search for sounds that can answer every impulse, consume all emotion, cleanse and purify -- all things that we have no right to expect from even the greatest works of art but which we can occasionally derive from them.

Still, today, if I hear a record I like it is no longer a signal for me to seek out every other that the artist has made. I take them as they come, love them, and leave them. Some have stuck -- a few that come quickly to mind are Neil Young's After the Goldrush, Stevie Wonder's Innervisions, Van Morrison's Tupelo Honey, James Taylor's records, Valerie Simpson's Exposed, Randy Newman's Sail Away, Exile on Main Street, Ry Cooder's records, and, very specially, the last three albums of Joni Mitchell -- but many more slip through the mind, making much fainter impressions than their counterparts of a decade ago.

But tonight there is someone I can write of the way I used to write, without reservations of any kind. Last Thursday, at the Harvard Square theatre, I saw my rock'n'roll past flash before my eyes. And I saw something else: I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen. And on a night when I needed to feel young, he made me feel like I was hearing music for the very first time.

When his two-hour set ended I could only think, can anyone really be this good; can anyone say this much to me, can rock'n'roll still speak with this kind of power and glory? And then I felt the sores on my thighs where I had been pounding my hands in time for the entire concert and knew that the answer was yes.

Springsteen does it all. He is a rock'n'roll punk, a Latin street poet, a ballet dancer, an actor, a joker, bar band leader, hot-shit rhythm guitar player, extraordinary singer, and a truly great rock'n'roll composer. He leads a band like he has been doing it forever. I racked my brains but simply can't think of a white artist who does so many things so superbly. There is no one I would rather watch on a stage today. He opened with his fabulous party record "The E Street Shuffle" -- but he slowed it down so graphically that it seemed a new song and it worked as well as the old. He took his overpowering story of a suicide, "For You," and sang it with just piano accompaniment and a voice that rang out to the very last row of the Harvard Square theatre. He did three new songs, all of them street trash rockers, one even with a "Telstar" guitar introduction and an Eddie Cochran rhythm pattern. We missed hearing his "Four Winds Blow," done to a fare-thee-well at his sensational week-long gig at Charley's but "Rosalita" never sounded better and "Kitty's Back," one of the great contemporary shuffles, rocked me out of my chair, as I personally led the crowd to its feet and kept them there.

Bruce Springsteen is a wonder to look at. Skinny, dressed like a reject from Sha Na Na, he parades in front of his all-star rhythm band like a cross between Chuck Berry, early Bob Dylan, and Marlon Brando. Every gesture, every syllable adds something to his ultimate goal -- to liberate our spirit while he liberates his by baring his soul through his music. Many try, few succeed, none more than he today.

It's five o'clock now -- I write columns like this as fast as I can for fear I'll chicken out -- and I'm listening to "Kitty's Back." I do feel old but the record and my memory of the concert has made me feel a little younger. I still feel the spirit and it still moves me.

I bought a new home this week and upstairs in the bedroom is a sleeping beauty who understands only too well what I try to do with my records and typewriter. About rock'n'roll, the Lovin' Spoonful once sang, "I'll tell you about the magic that will free your soul/But it's like trying to tell a stranger about rock'n'roll." Last Thursday, I remembered that the magic still exists and as long as I write about rock, my mission is to tell a stranger about it -- just as long as I remember that I'm the stranger I'm writing for.

[tastingmellow]

Could you do a rapper Erik fic, I’ll let your mind make up the rest.

To set the mood, listen to Big Ole Freak by Megan Thee Stallion or My Type by Saweetie. That’s my shit, yo. LMAO 🤣

_____________________

Erik was on top of the fucking world. His album came out and immediately took off, climbing the charts. Earlier in the week, his album reached number one in Hip Hop. So, what better way to celebrate than pop a couple bottles, dance with a few baddies, and reap the rewards of all his hard work. 

It was Friday night, Erik and his crew were in Blue Flame, each brother having a bottle whatever they wanted. A few Instagram models surrounded the group, a few hanging off some of the men’s arms. Erik was seated on one of the couches, legs spread and arm resting on the top of the couch while a girl sat by him, boring the fuck outta him.

On the opposite end of this story, Y/N NEEDED a break from niggas. Her last little boo was on his fuck shit, playing with her emotions but she cut that shit quick. She was tired of trying to be boo’d up wit somebody sun so fuck a nigga, hot girl summer it is. She stepped out with her closest friend Melanie, putting on a little black number. Spaghetti straps, suede material on the outside and silk on the inside, she let her hair remain in it’s natural state with a face beat to the GAWDS. She was gon’ have somebody choosing tonight, as long as he was fine, could hold a conversation and wasn’t on no fuck shit.

___________________________

The night progressed on, Y/N getting approached by dudes but none of them peeking her interest. Melanie had the same experience, both of them sitting at the bar and laughing. Y/N went to order another drink before feeling a hand tug her arm. Melanie looked awestruck as she stared behind Y/N. “Damn, bitch, you might as well yank my damn arm off.” Y/N huffed and turned around, trying to find what Melanie might be staring t. “That’s fucking Killmonger.” Melanie spoke, moving Y/N head in the right direction. 

Y/N chuckled and bit her lip, eyeing him up down. Erik was talkig to his homeboy, laughing so you caught the gleam of his grill. You licked your lips and took in a deep breath, eyes nearly rolling bak. “He finer in person...” You muttered. Melanie stood up, downing her drink and yours. “Come on, bitch. Let’s dance.” You looked at her sideways. “Bitch, did you just take my drink?!” You exclaimed over the music as she pulled you into the crowd.

Ay, big ole freak

Big booty, big ole treat

I'ma make him wait for the pussy

Hit it 'til he big ole skeet

You smirked, Melanie noticed and stepped back. “I know this yo shit, bitch!” You playfully shook your head, noticing a group of girls trying too damn hard to look sexy. One of the girls caught your grimace and bucked. You rolled your eyes and Melanie laughed. “Y/N, don’t play with these bitches.” You nudged her and licked your already glossed lips before putting your hands above your head and move your body, feeling yourself as the song progressed. You sang the lyrics with attitude, Melanie hyping you up.

Erik and his crew laughed loudly, some of them beginning to make their way to dance floor since they knew Megan had women feeling like the shit. Erik sat back, sipping from his bottle. His eyes ran over the crowd before seeming to be stuck on shorty in the black suede dress. She looked like she was in her own zone, having the time of her life with her friend, one singing the lyrics to the other. 

Erik took another swig before standing up, his chains swinging as he made his way out of his section and to the floor. He smoothly made his way through the crowd, politely removing female hands from his body. He stopped when he got Ms. Suede and rubbed his beard as he watched her bend over, rolling her hips. 

See I'm a big ole freak, I love to talk my shit

And you must be a pussy boy, if you get offended

Bitch it's Tina Snow, they love me 'cause I'm cold

And you can't take no nigga from me

I got mind control

You felt a pair of  hands gently slide their way from the side of your thighs to your hips, moving with every roll, twerk, and grind of your body. You stood up, reaching behind you. You let your hand rest on the back of his neck, feeling his chains. You glanced at Melanie, waiting for confirmation to continue or dip and she nodded vigorously, eyes wide. You were slightly confused before continuing to roll your body, one of his hands making their way to your mid section while the other rested on your thigh.

The song faded out and you were finally able to get a look at the mystery man. When you saw his face you stumbled back slightly, luckily Melanie held you up. “Killmonger in the building!” The DJ yelled and Erik looked up nodding his head, smiling before looking back to you. He gestured for you to come with him and you shook your head, gesturing to Melanie. He gestured for you to bring her too and you took her hand, following him through the crowd. The three of you finally got to his section and Melanie peaced out, the two of you still remaining close enough to each other in case something happened.

Erik leaned over and whispered in your ear. “You really put the moves on a nigga, huh?” You chuckled and shook your head, leaning over. “You kept up.” He chuckled and the two of you chatted for what felt like thirty minutes but was quickly proven wrong when you looked up and saw only half the crowd that was initially there in the beginning of the night.

You started looking for Melanie, seeing her talking to one of Erik’s friends, giggling up a storm. You got her attention and gestured if she was ready to go. She hesitated, nodding eventually before turning to Erik’s friend. You turned to Erik. “I have to go, it was really nice meeting you. I’m a huge fan and you’re just as cool as people say you are.” You smiled and Erik licked his lips. 

“Let me walk you out, Ma. I’m bout to dip too.” You nodded and stood up, pulling your dress down. 

_____________________

You watched Melanie get in her car and waited for her to text you that you were good to get in yours before you sighed softly. You looked down at your feet, wanting to relieve them of the heels so bad but you didn’t wanna be barefoot on the ground. Erik noticed your look and walked in front of you, bending down slightly. You lightly chuckled before jumping up and getting on his back. “You’re a life saver.” You spoke and Erik chuckled. 

“Where you park, mama?” You point to your car and he walks the two of you over, making you laugh the entire short trip. “Here you go.” he put you down and you sighed, unlocking your car before getting in. You didn’t shut the door, still talking to Erik. “Let me take you out, princess.” He spoke and you laughed softly. “You getting real cozy with these nicknames.” He shrugged and bit his lip, leaning over. “They just suit you, so what you say?” 

You chuckled and looked to your phone, texting Melanie that you were about to leave. “We’ll see, my ig is @(________).” Erik pulled out his phone and immediately looked you up, following you back since you were already following him. “Hit me up there nd we’ll talk.” You smirked and he licked his lips, eyeing you before nodding. “Aight, ma. I’ll hit you up then. Bye, Ms. Suede.” You laughed and rolled your eyes, putting on your seatbelt and shutting the door before putting the car in drive. “Bye, Erik.” You smiled and pulled off. 

As you drove you got a dm. ‘@thekillmonger: I got you, Princess. Good night.’

_________________

You woke up the next morning with a slew of messages and follows. You first checked Melanie’s message and it was a screenshot of the The ShadeRoom. The headline read “Killmonger spotted with a new boo.” It was a clear picture of you and Erik talking outside your car. You groaned and checked your DMs. After scrolling through death threats, compliments, and just blatant perverted ass shit you got to Erik’s thread. He had sent you the same post with a concerned emoji. ‘If you gon fuck with me, you gon; have to deal with a lot princess.’

Were you ready for all the mess that came with even talking to a celebrity?

__________________

A/n: I am making this a series! I really liked the direction and I wanna explore this more! I hope you enjoyed it though, boo! Reblog, like and comment! Feedback is always appreciated. 

[talk-less-smilemore]

Cabeswater's Guardians

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, guilty of dust and sin.

RONAN

Cabeswater has never thought up anybody quite like Ronan Lynch.

As an individual, he is unique; as a part of something more, he is essential. As a creature, a human, the Greywaren has been pumped so full of emotions and colours and thoughts that he is almost ready to explode at any given point - so it's something of a shock that Lynch never expresses himself in such a way. He never wears anything but black, and there's a permanent greyness about him, as if the whole world is dimmed by the awful moods he works himself into. Cabeswater knows it's difficult for his friends to remember how he used to be before his father died, but deep down, there was always, always something darker about him - in his sense of humour, in his violent tendencies, in his awful language. The bird - Chainsaw - is a creature of misfortune and death created by her master; an omen, if you will, constantly croaking a finite melody from the clouded skies of the terminable, diseased planet that Ronan Lynch has created for himself. The words that the tir e elintes used to sing, in their time, come back to Cabeswater in another language: "I sought thee in a secret cave, and asked if peace were there; a hollow wind did seem to answer, no, go seek elsewhere." It remembers a lot, even from so long ago, and it knows a lot, even from such a new time. It knows that Ronan is a flawed, twisted, secretive thing, with an inclination to hide and lie, and the forest wonders, sometimes, if it has made a mistake in choosing its Greywaren, for how can such a broken character help it in any way?

ADAM

Then, there is the Magician.

"I will be your hands," the boy had promised; "I will be your eyes." And yet he strays so far from the path of devotion. There are constant interferences with what Cabeswater wants, what it needs, because of the people Adam Parrish associates himself with: Ronan Lynch, the worst possible influence on any human being; Richard Gansey, who spends all of his time looking for a long-dead king; Blue Sargent, a fiery ball of energy who makes decisions for herself and only herself. Each plays a different role in sustaining Cabeswater, but they were never supposed to mingle; their roles were never supposed to intertwine in such a way. The old druids, they all knew what they had to do - everyone had a set place; the forest was taken care of, in effect, by a smooth machine, not a dysfunctional group of teenagers who probably don't even know what the word 'tradition' means. Adam concentrates too much on things that Cabeswater doesn't determine important - school, friendships, family. Though it tries to understand him, hundreds of years ago, the world worked differently, and this is hard to forget. The only things that mattered were the songs of the guardians and the growth of the forest - "They send us bound to rules of reason... All these fences." Yes, all these fences keeping Parrish from fulfilling Cabeswater's commands: his father, his friends, his conscience. In what way could this boy possibly be the embodiment of a forest?

GANSEY

Years searching for a fallen king have led Gansey on a selfish road away from Cabeswater. All of his time is devoted to research, research, research, and he never learned to live in the moment, to feel, to experience - which is something that ultimately, being in a forest is all about. Cabeswater thinks that, when it really needs him, Gansey's mind is clouded with other thoughts and opportunities, so he only truly appreciates what life he has left when he's afraid, even though he promises others things are "safe as life." How safe is his life? Perhaps it is a little too safe. The King is a good ruler, but, as the tir e elintes used to sing, his "breast was full of fears and disorder." A good King is not afraid. A good King would rule continents, not three teenagers that he just barely keeps under control.

Cabeswater misses Glendower. Sometimes, it doubts if Gansey deserves the crown atop his head.

BLUE

The mirror, finally, is something Cabeswater should take great pride in. Mirrors are deceptive, beautiful creations, and Blue Sargent... Well. Quite possibly the only thing she inherited from her father, apart from the dull remnants of his magic, was his stubbornness. She's a short, impatient creature, with a dripping sarcasm and constant tendency to make mess that sometimes gives Cabeswater a metaphorical headache. She is so much the opposite of what the tir e elintes used to be, but no matter how hard it tries, the forest simply cannot detach itself from her. Her clothing is atrocious, her viewpoints set, so there's no hope of tradition - "when man's sight was dim," the tree-lights sang, "and could see so little..." That was her father's favourite poem, and yet she knows so little of it, so little of him. So little of what is expected of her. Yes, Blue Sargent was different from the beginning. But that doesn't mean she is needed.

And yet, Cabeswater is inclined to muse, despite the flaws of these humans, it is still somewhat attached to them, to the odd, quirky way in which they work to satisfy it. The Greywaren, in all his darkness, can dream it a body that is beautifully natural, that is such an obvious contrast to it's creator. Adam Parrish, surely, must have something to do with this:

"Life isn't just sex and drugs and cars," Ronan had told the racer Kavinsky, and when Parrish is about, it isn't. Lynch is softer, quieter. He leaves his darker urges to someone else for a change, and whenever he dreams, talking of somebody who can physically drip goo the colour of an abyss, Ronan's dreams are full of light. There are bucketfuls of gold and sparkling crowns and miles and miles of glistening jewels, so even he himself thinks that maybe, when he is around Adam, he is happier than he lets on. The Greywaren and the Magician are vital to the survival of a world within a world.

Maybe Ronan he still is the person he once was - maybe he has found peace.

"It prospered strangely," the tree-lights sang, "and did soon disperse through all the earth." And as for Parrish? His work, though slow and inconsistent, is effective, and Cabeswater is more than it once was. It will protect him as much as it can, because, whether it likes it or not, it needs Adam. We will be great. Cabeswater promises him as he stresses over another essay, another visit from Ronan, another day gone unproductively. The tree-lights used to say we will be great. "The sound of glory ringing in our ears."

Gansey and Blue, too, have an unbreakable bond, in their bickering, in their loving, in their laughing. Gansey might not be the best King, but with time, and with training, he will get there, and it has taken Cabeswater long enough to realise that, because he is more like Glendower than originally anticipated, he needs his friends surrounding him. He is a warm summer's evening; long, peaceful drives; vintage records that fit so well with the Page of Cups, who is emotion, beauty, brightness, intuition, attraction. A refusal to judge. Their songs fit well together, a "favour granting my request." A request for clarity, for ease, for rest, that "that which before was darkened... Vanished away, when Faith did change the scene."

So was it just faith? Cabeswater wonders occasionally. These children have saved it from many things, not just because of their faith, but because of their love. They adore each other. They would do anything for each other. And this is what sets them apart from the druids, from the tir e elintes: the forest fell under a perfect regime of intelligence and severity. It has risen under one based on love.

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine.

For @bookschocolatesworld ! Hope you like it x

Also, the poetry used throughout is by George Herbert, who was a Welsh poet - he lived about a hundred years after Glendower. I did try to get the time a little closer but all the poetry was really weird and he's the closest I could find; Herbert was a religious poet if your interested!

Ronan's Poem

Adam's Poem

Gansey's Poem

Blue's Poem

Beginning Poem

End Poem

[dontshootmespence]

Quiet Rolling Thunder

Chapter 2

Although the knife was standard issue for Navy Seals, it was possible that the unsub had acquired it in another way. He didn’t necessarily need to be a Navy Seal, active or not.

“You’re taking Y/N to the hospital?” Matt asked. He reached down toward the phone and dialed Garcia. 

“My fine furry friends! How can I assist thee?”

Matt smiled at Penelope’s outburst. He’d been friends with her for years, even before he started with IRT, but hearing her sunshine every day made all this hell they experience a little bit better. Hopefully, she knew how important she was to the morale of the team. “Hey Penelope, we need you to run a search on anyone who was issued or bought an Ontario MK 3 Navy Seal knife?”

“What are my parameters?” 

Spencer turned around from the map in front of him. “I did a bit of geographical profiling and he only operates within the city limits when it comes to victims and dumpsites, so keep your search within the downtown DC area.”

“Got it, Boy Wonder! I will hit you back when I have something!”

The clicking of keys filled their ears before she’d even fully hung up the phone. “We’ve got this covered,” Tara said. “Go take care of Y/N.”

“Thanks.” Emily gave the team a soft smile before returning to Y/N. Though she was the leader of the team and had the ability to make final decisions, she was forever grateful that the team had her back. She had complete faith that once she returned from the hospital, they’d have some knew information. 

As she walked back into the room, Y/N was waiting, staring off into the distance like she was trying to make sense of what had just happened. Emily had never been attacked in that way before, but she could only imagine the existential crisis that she’d be walking through if she had. Y/N? Are you ready to go?

She nodded, standing up to follow Emily out of the door. Emily held it open, ushering Y/N out, but she couldn’t move. Can you go first? The idea of having someone behind me is...I can’t.

No problem. 

In the car, Y/N couldn’t muster the energy to speak at all. The knife had been right at her throat. She felt so violated. She hadn’t been - not technically, but she felt dirty. Like all she wanted to do was go home and take a shower. Agent Prentiss really wanted her to go the hospital though and in reality she knew she was right, so she agreed. 

As they pulled up to the hospital, Y/N looked up toward the sky and watched as the clouds rolled in and covered the moon save for a small sliver at the top. She stood frozen for a moment, taken by the beauty of the sky. If she’d made even one small move differently, she wouldn’t be here to see the moon playing hide and seek in the clouds. 

With a deep breath, she pulled her attention away from the sky and looked toward the sidewalk, where Agent Prentiss was standing patiently. Emily started signing as they walked. I can’t imagine what this is like for you right now, but you are very much here. You’re safe. And it’s going to be okay. With the information you gave us, we can find this guy and make sure he never does this to anyone else.

Thank you, Agent Prentiss. I don’t really know how to feel right now, but having you say that is keeping me grounded I think. So thank you again. 

Once inside, Y/N was ushered off to be checked out. She declined a rape kit, because she hadn’t been raped and she didn’t feel like being touched if she could help it, but she did allow them to take scrapings from under her fingernails. Maybe they’d be able to get some DNA. With nothing but a few minor scrapes and bruises, she was released after a couple of hours. When she walked outside, she saw Agent Prentiss still there.

You’re still here?

“Of course. I wasn’t about to leave. Is everything okay?” Emily signed, speaking at the same time.

No concussion. Nothing really but cuts and bruises. One of the nurses also gave me the number of a therapist that deals with assault cases, so I don’t know...maybe I’ll go. I’m not sure. She shrugged. She didn’t really know what to say. What was someone supposed to say? Anything? But she couldn’t deny that she appreciated Agent Prentiss staying with her. Something said that wasn’t necessarily normal - that she was going above and beyond, and Y/N appreciated it.

Emily asked her if she wanted a drive home, to which she said yes. At a red light, Emily said the first thing that came to mind. It’s your choice to go to a therapist or not, and you don’t need to make a decision hastily, but please don’t feel like the circumstances of your attack were any less harrowing than someone else’s.

Y/N’s lip quivered slightly, so she turned toward the window and gave it an imperceptible nod. She was telling her exactly what she needed to hear. How did she know? In the hours since she was attacked, a raging train of emotions rattled through her. She’d been violated, but not as badly as others had been. Plus, she’d made it out alive. Somehow she felt like she didn’t deserve to feel as bad as she did, no matter how dumb she knew that was. Thank you. She started signing wildly, praying that Emily could keep up even though she was driving. I think I need to give it a few days to give myself time to process what really happened. Not that I don’t know, but...you know? Anyway, I probably will go to talk with someone, but I need a few days.

That’s completely understandable. Emily said at the next red light. When she turned the last corner and drove up to Y/N’s apartment complex, she continued the conversation. Would you like me to walk you up to your apartment?

Y/N nodded and started to cry, not bothering to try and hide it. It seemed like Emily understood, and she’d been so kind. I’d really appreciate that.

They walked up the stairs in silence, with Emily once again leading the way so that Y/N didn’t have to deal with the feeling of someone walking behind her. She pulled her key out of her pocket and shakily approached the lock, but she kept fumbling with it. They dropped out of her hands and onto the wooden floor with a metallic thud. I’ve got it. Emily said. Let me. Once the door was open, Emily pulled out her card. If you need to talk to someone, I’m also here. I’m not a doctor, but I am a good listener. And please let me know if you can think of anything else that might help us catch this guy.

I will. Y/N said, standing in the doorway. Also, can you please keep me updated? At least as much as you can. I don’t know how I’m going to feel until this guy’s been caught.

I promise to tell you whatever I can. I’m going to stay until I here the door lock. Sleep safe, okay?

Y/N’s lips curled into the smallest smile. Thank you again, Agent Prentiss.

Emily. 

Thank you, Emily.

The door closed silently and locked behind Y/N. Emily finally felt okay leaving - as much as she could be considering someone who’d been so traumatized was still alone. But there was nothing much more she could do right now.

With a few quick swipes of her phone, she sent a text to the team saying she’d be back. The best way to make sure Y/N could recover from this was to catch this bastard.

@sam-carter-in-training @coveofmemories @jamiemelyn @iammostdefinitelyonfire26 @unstoppableangel8 @reddie-for-mileven @marvelfanlife @criminal-navy-writings @trollitis @sexualemobitch @rmmalta @lukeassmanalvez @amari-supercars @obsessed5sosfreak @sonhadoraativa @1enchantedfantasy1 @ace-and-rosey @ay-nako @twelveyearoldchildprodigy @entelechysymphony @pugs-cats-bb-8 @davidr0ssi @sarahkay-19 @remember-me-forever-silent-angel @pleasedftbaforever

[apostateangela]

Pay to Pay

I haven’t written in a while because I’m doing pretty well.

So that’s a good reason.

I hope it is anyway.

But this blog should be more than just a place to air my trauma.

And it has proven to be more for those of you out there that care.

I will try and be more consistent and address apostate issues that are relevant and interesting, even if they aren’t traumatic.

I fear it might be boring, as so much of my writing is emotionally charged.

We shall see.

My very wise apostate daughter shared with me an interesting observation the other day and that is going to lead to the topic of this post. She said this,

“You know, the church is like ‘Pay to Play’ for rec sports.

That’s pretty shitty, don’t you think?”

She’s not wrong and it’s shook me up a bit.

First, Pay to Play:

There is a concept in city recreation sports for young children called “Pay to Play”.

The basis of this is that if you pay the registration fee you get to play the sport/thing you paid and signed up for, even if you suck.

The intent is to ensure that young beginning athletes get competitive experience; making mistakes, learning from the mistakes, and enjoying victory through growth.

There is a warped version of Pay to Play in the LDS church, though no one would call it that.

It’s known as tithing.

Second: The Law of Tithing

Here is the law--yes, it’s called the Law of Tithing.

From LDS.org:

The Lord’s definition of the law of tithing is simple.

The law [of tithing] is simply stated as “one-tenth of all their interest” (D&C 119:4). Interest means profit, compensation, increase. It is the wage of one employed, the profit from the operation of a business, the increase of one who grows or produces, or the income to a person from any other source. The Lord said it is a standing law “forever” as it has been in the past.

This statement/definition is contained in a book that is used as an instruction manual for Sunday School teachers and the instructors of the men’s and women’s classes ages 12 and up.

Young children are taught the Law of Tithing from the time they are three years old: through simplified instructions, object lessons (1 penny for every dime), and primary songs.

Here’s an example:

I Want to Give the Lord My Tenth

Lyrics

1. I want to give the Lord my tenth,

For ev’ry time I do

It makes me think of all the gifts

He gives to me and you.

2. He gives us life, this lovely world.

And though my tenth seems small,

It shows my faith and gratitude

To him, the Lord of all.

So… the law, the rule is that you give ten percent of your money to God, through the church of course. Yes, this helps the church operate; buildings, utilities, helping the poor both here and abroad, disaster relief--all the good things the church does and provides. The prophets, apostles, hierarchy of the church down to ward bishops and leadership are volunteer positions. NO ONE GETS A PAYCHECK. (Unless you work for BYU, don’t get me started)

Third: So What, Who Cares? Here’s the Horrible Truth

So… tithing isn’t that bad, right? I mean it is a lot of money, but it is charitable and beyond that you are blessed--or cursed. There’s always that possibility when it comes to God.

Because as the Old Testament bible says in Malachi 3:8–10, you should never rob God!

8 ¶ Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.

9 Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.

10 Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.

You pay God and you are blessed.

You don’t pay God and you are cursed.

What I’m trying to establish here is the law, and doctrine, and religious cultural philosophy that surrounds tithing.

You learn and do it from the time you are very young.

You survive both financially AND spiritually by doing it.

Moving beyond blessings and curses, the difference between the Mormon church and other eccesiastical churches is that the donation plate is not optional.

Here’s where it gets sticky and fits into this concept of Pay to Play.

If you want to be able to participate in the ‘saving’ ordinances of the Mormon church: baptism, confirmation, holding the priesthood, and attending and participating in the temple ordinances it is MANDATORY that you pay a full tithing for an extended period of time (preferably your entire life). If you don’t pay, you don’t get to participate. It becomes one of those ‘worthiness’ questions/issues. It is a part of the worthiness interviews conducted by male priesthood authority as I have previously talked about with Chastity.

But this time your value is measurable--it’s ten percent of your income.

I have personally paid my church in my 46 years of membership upwards of $40,000(me)-$250,000(with my husband) if you count the checks I wrote when I managed the household finances when I was a stay-at-home mom for 15 years.

This fact staggers me.

When I think of the $250 a month household budget (6 people) I was trying to stick to when I had 4 small children (diapers, food, and other domestic items) I get sick to my stomach.

That extra $200 a month we paid to God would have kept us from having to eat Ramen and Mac and Cheese for every meal.

We could have made a car payment instead of always driving a piece of shit.

I could have gone back to school earlier and without taking on the job of caretaker for 3 other children besides my own.

We could have gone to dinner and a fucking movie instead of just a picnic of PB&J sandwiches at the public park.

I have lived poor and felt poor because of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

I wasn’t allowed to work--as a mother my job was done for free and performed at home.

My husband worked three jobs sometimes. When I went back to work when my kids were all in school, there were times I worked three jobs as well. The state of America and the dysfunction of Capitalism aside, we had to give ten percent of our money to the corporation of God or we weren’t worthy and couldn’t participate in the ordinances of which our earthly and eternal salvation depended.

The question is, did it work?

Nope. Not that I can clearly see, now that I’m out.

When I was in, I would construct blessings out of the very poor circumstances I was in to help justify and alleviate the giving away of so much of our income.

Once, a sweet widow lady left a bag of apples on my doorstep she had picked from her apple tree. I remember gathering my children around me and praying with them, thanking God for the blessing of fruit that we couldn’t afford otherwise and telling my kids it was because their parents had paid their tithing. I TOLD THEM GOD GAVE US THOSE APPLES BECAUSE WE WERE FAITHFUL!

I could have bought better apples at the grocery store myself if I hadn’t given the money to ‘god’ in the first place.

Misdirected funds=misdirected fictional blessings.

So… no, I am more mortified by this personal historical reality than blessed.

And as I said, this version of Pay to Play is warped. It doesn’t come with justice and a safe space to learn from my mistakes and experience.

If I don’t pay, I don’t play and am lost for all of eternity.

I am worthless and thrown as scraps to the Dogs of Hell.

Here is my bottom line:

It seems that I have been voluntarily robbed by the Mormon church.

I have had no say in what that money has been used for and have seen no real returns.

And if that weren’t bad enough, I have no avenue of recourse.

I cannot get a single penny of that money back.

Beyond all the oppressive paradigms illuminated in the posts of this blog,

I have stupidly stood by

with a pen and my checkbook in my hand

as my life was literally looted for the expansion of a corporation

that is not God,

but rather a bunch of uptight do-gooders who

really don’t give any fucks about me and my family!

Well, would you look at that,

there’s plenty of emotion in me after all.

I am angry!

I am pissed!

I am enraged, in fact!!!!

And the price of my fury is ten percent.

-Angela

[keneerike]

Control Your Emotions and Control Your Reality: 5 Keys To Getting It Done

I haven't posted since June. Plenty of life updates afoot since then; might share those on the site at a later date.

I'm back with a piece that should hit home for everyone.

Our minds control our reality. Everything we do is a result of how we think.

It's the reason we have so many bad drivers: A moving car is just an extension of the mind operating it. 

The guy that tailgates, weaves in-and-out of lanes in heavy traffic, slams on the brakes when he had ample time to slow down; same dude that's quick to anger, focused on immediate gratification instead of long-term wins, and treats discipline like a four-letter word.

Those choices are all born of the same short-term, lack-of-self-control-fueled thinking.

With experience, you (hopefully) gain wisdom and realize that the risk of an accident or moving violation isn't worth the chance to shave a few seconds of your trip. Run-ins with the law, days wasted in court, spikes in insurance premiums....those get old, fast.

It's why young men draw the highest insurance premiums. Actuaries know that segment of society is most likely to engage in risky behaviors that cost money. Pressure to fit in with peers, uncertainty about identity, brains not-yet-fully-formed, few entanglements and responsibilities; recipes for volatility.

That 18-34-Year-Old demographic is the most prized target market in advertising for similar reason. Those are the folks most likely to fall for the "What-You-Buy-Determines-Who-You-Are" Myth.  A lack of life experience and a large portion of one's day spent buried in media create ideal consumers.

Yes, the brand of deodorant you buy defines who you are. More than what you actually produce for yourself and others.

Searching for something to instill meaning in life, we pull out our wallets or latch on to theater around us. Companies know they'll never go broke providing easy answers for difficult questions, even if those purported solutions fall flat in the long run.

We see that in civic debate, where Identity politics have taken over American governance.

We see it in sports, with die-hard fans. People who wrap themselves in sports fandom, often to drown out the deafening silence in their lives. Their team's divisional record is a direct reflection of their worth as a person, so any perceived attack on their team is met with indignation; One cross word from a rival fan is all it takes to get that ball rolling.

The post-game scene outside your favorite stadium.

Which brings us back to the theme of this post: managing your emotions so you can maintain peace of mind.

Five Tips for Controlling Your Thoughts (and emotions):

1) Visualize the steps you need to reach your ideal outcome.

2) Abstain from thoughts and images that conflict with your goals.

3) Take physical action to bring your goals to pass.

4) Put events in proper context.

5) Decide ahead of time how you'll respond when life takes a turn.

1) Visualize the steps you need to reach your ideal outcome.

Your thoughts dictate your emotions; your emotions dictate your actions.

Paint a picture of the ideal outcome and work backwards. What kind of work do you need to put in to get there? Visualize yourself going through the paces. Imagine yourself as a calm, level-headed decision-maker during times of uncertainty and you'll begin to act that way.

Use your cognitive abilities to support your desires, not thwart them. Visualize what it feels like and looks like to attain your ideal outcome. Your muscle memory will follow suit. You get out what you put in. Fill your (mental) tank with low-grade fuel and you'll sputter along, struggling to make full use of your abilities and enjoy your daily experience.

2) Abstain from thoughts and images that conflict with your goals.  

Tune in to Food Network and you get hungry: No surprise there. The sights and sounds of cakes and pastas evoke memories of past good times with a fork and spoon. You get to thinking about replicating that enjoyment and next thing you know, you're wrist-deep in that pie you were saving for Thanksgiving.

Most of us have enough sense to stay away from cooking shows when we're trying to slim down, yet we forget the persuasive impact of the sights and sounds we subject ourselves to every minute of the day.

When you focus on what you don't want, your mind brings that to pass. God designed our brains to manifest the images and thoughts we meditate on.

The surest way to miss a shot or drop a pass when you're in a big game is to continue imagining what it will be like to miss a shot or drop a pass when you're in a big game.

3) Take physical action to bring your goals to pass.

Talk is cheap. You know that.

Itching to start a business? Want to drop a few pounds? Reading day-after-day of motivational articles will only take you so far. At some point, you've got to throw on some sneakers and get to work.

Train your brain to handle inevitable challenges by exposing yourself to them ahead of time. Dedicated practice of the skills you need in trying times arms your mind with evidence that you can handle what comes your way. You get accustomed to the difficulties of certain activities and fear and worry fade away.

4) Put events in proper context.

Restaurant got your pizza order wrong? Cut off in traffic? Friend offered an opinion you disagree with?

Reasons to be angry? Sure. But your level of outrage and subsequent response should be appropriate.

Running the other guy off the road or ending a friendship because you have divergent political views? Too extreme.

Life goes on, even when people around you don't hold up their end of the bargain.  

5) Decide ahead of time how you'll respond when life takes a turn.

You choose your level of outrage. You choose your internal and external response to what crosses your path. When things don't go according to plan, you can take it in stride, minimizing the emotional damage, or fly off the handle.

Like any skill, it takes practice.

To be clear, I'm not pushing the passive-aggressive, conflict-avoidance approach for problem solving.

That line of thinking is rooted in insecurity and a fear that one doesn't deserve---or lacks the ability to obtain---what one desires. Confident people who know what they want should go after it and not kid themselves about resolving problems that bother them.

Being comfortable with the uncomfortable is an underrated asset. If your first inclination when faced with conflict is to flee, put the work in and change that. 

The best things in life are free, but the brave get first crack at the pickings.

When others screw up, seek recompense where appropriate. Just don't let it torpedo your entire day.

Resentment, harboring grudges, plotting revenge: these all tie up cognitive resources that could be employed elsewhere. Not only do you keep replaying the offending event in your head, subjecting yourself to repeated emotional trauma, you waste time that could have been spent bettering your life. It's like re-watching a movie you found torturous the first time around. Give it the proper attention and move on. Odds are the offending party isn't thinking about it, so the only one significantly-impacted by the event is you. You're better off getting it out of your mind as quickly as possible.

Avoid counterfactual thinking as well. Imagining what could have been had everything gone according to plan will drive you insane.

Ever played fantasy sports or gambled? You know the pain of the choice (not) taken. 

Managing your expectations of others helps here, too. Like a good defensive driver, assume others will drop the ball and disappointment is less likely to sneak up on you. And definitely don't hold others to higher standards than you hold yourself;that just makes you a hypocrite. 

Great leaders understand that intuitively.

You've got more control over what transpires in your life than you give yourself credit for. 

I'll give you a personal example to drive the point of emotion control home:

I spent some time in the hospital earlier this year. Shared some details here: 

https://soundcloud.com/user-31492767/kene-tells-clot-story-testimony-to-church-feb-2018

When I got out of the hospital, everyone had an opinion on what I needed to do next and how worried I should be about my prognosis.

Any talk about how unstable my condition was or the physical dangers looming in recovery---I shut it down. Started that while I was in the hospital, with visitors who wanted to talk about other people they knew who succumbed to the episode or anxieties about my vulnerability. I only wanted to hear words that facilitated healing, not breathed life into fears.

I wasn't listening to anything that allowed doubt to creep into my mind; I was only planting seeds that would push me towards a full recovery.

In addition to maintaining a running dialogue with medical specialists, I searched for---and found---present time and biblical examples of people who experienced healing. Case studies are useful for establishing precedent and demonstrating value. Great for inspiration and instructional knowledge, too.

As if this whole ordeal was preordained, I found a number of passages tackling the exact same infirmity I was contending with:

Matthew 9:20-22:

"And, behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of blood twelve years, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment:

For she said within herself, “If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole.”

But Jesus turned him about, and when he saw her, he said, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole.” And the woman was made whole from that hour."

Part of my recovery protocol entailed months of daily cold showers: Every day, without compromise.

Each time I headed for the shower, a skirmish erupted in my mind: How was I going to handle today's ice bath? I could choose to think about the discomfort of ice-cold water hitting my skin, which would inspire dread every time I headed for the shower, or focus on the regenerative effects to be had through consistent participation.

Ice baths are great for pain relief and muscle management.

And really, after a initial five-second jolt of "cold", your body adjusts quickly to the temperature. Cold baths aren't nearly as traumatic as you've been led to believe and they get easier the more you do them.

The decision was made from the get-go, so I wouldn't waffle when the time arrived.

I knew these ice showers needed to be done and never allowed myself to consider skipping them. When you accept that something needs to be done and focus on the benefits of completing the task, you realize that focusing on the not-so-enjoyable parts is counter-productive. You've got to do it anyway, so why not place yourself in a state of mind most conducive to getting it done and not dreading the action going forward?

That's the formula for beating procrastination in all its forms, whether its getting your homework done or doing the dishes.

Winners learn how to hurdle obstacles that losers shy away from. Controlling your thoughts is the first step for accomplishing that.

Your weekly internment camp or the road to a fulfilling marriage and a shape others will envy: It's all about how you look at it.

Visualizing worst case scenarios is a poor way to navigate life. That line of negative thinking is the same thought process behind the white-hot fear of public speaking.

Remember that next time you're in a jam.

Too many Christians respond to uncertainty like unbelievers, letting their emotions run wild when trouble rears. Only after self-inducing complete despair do they ask God---in a passive way, no less---to restore peace and solve their problems..

"Stress" wasn't a team member I needed for my recovery journey, so reining in my thoughts and emotions was paramount. If you stop imagining panic-inducing outcomes, you stop panicking. I refused to let my heart be troubled, kept cool, acted in faith, and got every result I was looking for---and then some.

God is great.

When the unexpected happens, your first response dictates the outcome. You dwell on all that could go wrong and that self-fulfilling prophecy comes to pass.

You can throw up your hands and bemoan the world around you or get to work sculpting your environment to your tastes; it's all in your hands.

A steady hand---and mind--- at the wheel will carry you far.

All of this sound crazy? You think the vagaries of life mean your mental state needs to fluctuate to mirror anything that comes your way?

That's because we're so accustomed to taking our normative cues from the people around us---many of whom base their actions on the whims of what's popular at the moment---instead of a more grounded authority.

Even the tallest tree needs solid roots---the base we cannot see---to withstand the elements.

[cmknopps]

10SOTY2017

Hi, this is my personal 10 Songs Of The Year 2017 playlist. It's based on my own emotional connection to this music but perhaps you can gain something from it as well since the selection was made with sincerity and I tried to arrange everything in an order that works. I wrote down some words for each song: 00:00 Big Thief – Shark Smile [Capacity] This was the first track that stood out to me this year. It immediately caught my attention and carried me on the smooth melancholic wave it creates. I wanted to ride that wave throughout the whole year and for the few times I managed to do so it felt pretty sweet. 03:54 Davy Kehoe – Storm Desmond [Short Passing Game] Put this on and trance out. I’ve always been a sucker for long driving tracks. Great to have on repeat whilst working on things. Reminds me of jazz (the music genre). 14:09 Animal Collective – Kinda Bonkers [The Painters] What a good year for the AC: The Painters, Meeting Of The Waters, Avey’s Eucalyptus and Sung Tongs live This song is pure fun and always makes me wanna get up and dance no matter how depressed and deprived of energy I am. That’s worth a lot. 17:23 Kevin Morby – Dry Your Eyes [City Music] Such intimacy. Music has always been a physical experience for me and this song, especially the way it’s mixed, illustrates that well. 21:36 Deradoorian – Return-Transcend [Eternal Recurrence] Another long one. Beautiful drone by Angel. Her music isn’t far out there but her unique sound almost makes it seem that way. Listening to this is a cleansing experience. 29:53 Oh Sees – Animated Violence [Orc] Those drums take me back to blasting Black Sabbath on my car stereo at 7AM. Orc introduced me to Thee Oh Sees and I’ve been diving into their discography quite a bit since then. So much good stuff. This song psyches me right up. I love the vocals. 34:56 Blue Hawaii – No One Like You [Tenderness] So sad and dancey w/ a decent portion of hopefulness towards the end. Raphaelle’s singing has a somewhat therapeutic effect on me. It just seems so honest and revealing which I find to be healing. 39:27 Little Dragon – Don’t Cry [Season High] Even though I don’t connect to the LP as much as I do with the others, I still keep coming back to this track. It creates a spacious and somber atmosphere in which you find Yukimi’s singing as guidance. I always enjoy the few minutes lost in the fog of this song. 43:42 Folamour – Ya Just Need 2 Believe in Yaself [4MYPPL#1] I’ve been on a house binge this year and Folamour released a ton of good stuff. This track is the epitome of that. 50:45 Ariel Pink – Acting (feat. DãM-Funk) [Dedicated To Bobby Jameson] My most played record this year. This song is the closer on it so I think it should have the same spot on this list. Walking you out with lush funk pop ahead of its time (even though this is actually an old song). Happy ending~ — I find describing music with words is kind of pointless but the mix itself wouldn’t suffice. All I can say is that these songs (and the albums they are on) have accompanied me this year and gave me power when there was none which is a good basis for recommending music. Listen to them yourself and see what you dig and what you don’t. Thank you for your time.

[frankiefellinlove]

Jon Landau review of Bruce where he writes "...I've seen Rick n a Roll's future

The last few paragraphs gave me happy chills!

05.09.1974: Cambridge,MA

Opening for headliner Bonnie Raitt

Critic Jon Landau’s much-quoted “I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen” line emanates from this night:

From The Real Paper,May 22 1974 GROWING YOUNG WITH ROCK AND ROLL

By Jon Landau

It’s four in the morning and raining. I’m 27 today, feeling old, listening to my records, and remembering that things were different a decade ago. In 1964, I was a freshman at Brandeis University, playing guitar and banjo five hours a day, listening to records most of the rest of the time, jamming with friends during the late-night hours, working out the harmonies to Beach Boys’ and Beatles’ songs.

Real Paper soul writer Russell Gersten was my best friend and we would run through the 45s everyday: Dionne Warwick’s “Walk On By” and “Anyone Who Had A Heart,” the Drifters’ “Up On the Roof,” Jackie Ross’ “Selfish One,” the Marvellettes’ “Too Many Fish in the Sea,” and the one that no one ever forgets, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas’ “Heat Wave.” Later that year a special woman named Tamar turned me onto Wilson Pickett’s “Midnight Hour” and Otis Redding’s “Respect,” and then came the soul. Meanwhile, I still went to bed to the sounds of the Byrds’ “Mr. Tambourine Man” and later “Younger than Yesterday,” still one of my favorite good-night albums. I woke up to Having a Rave-Up with the Yardbirds instead of coffee. And for a change of pace, there was always bluegrass: The Stanley Brothers, Bill Monroe, and Jimmy Martin.

Through college, I consumed sound as if it were the staff of life. Others enjoyed drugs, school, travel, adventure. I just liked music: listening to it, playing it, talking about it. If some followed the inspiration of acid, or Zen, or dropping out, I followed the spirit of rock'n'roll. Individual songs often achieved the status of sacraments. One September, I was driving through Waltham looking for a new apartment when the sound on the car radio stunned me. I pulled over to the side of the road, turned it up, demanded silence of my friends and two minutes and fifty-six second later knew that God had spoken to me through the Four Tops’ “Reach Out, I’ll Be There,” a record that I will cherish for as long as [I] live. During those often lonely years, music was my constant companion and the search for the new record was like a search for a new friend and new revelation. “Mystic Eyes” open mine to whole new vistas in white rock and roll and there were days when I couldn’t go to sleep without hearing it a dozen times.

Whether it was a neurotic and manic approach to music, or just a religious one, or both, I don’t really care. I only know that, then, as now, I’m grateful to the artists who gave the experience to me and hope that I can always respond to them. The records were, of course, only part of it. In ‘65 and '66 I played in a band, the Jellyroll, that never made it. At the time I concluded that I was too much of a perfectionist to work with the other band members; in the end I realized I was too much of an autocrat, unable to relate to other people enough to share music with them. Realizing that I wasn’t destined to play in a band, I gravitated to rock criticism. Starting with a few wretched pieces in Broadside and then some amateurish but convincing reviews in the earliest Crawdaddy, I at least found a substitute outlet for my desire to express myself about rock: If I couldn’t cope with playing, I may have done better writing about it.

But in those days, I didn’t see myself as a critic – the writing was just another extension of an all-encompassing obsession. It carried over to my love for live music, which I cared for even more than the records. I went to the Club 47 three times a week and then hunted down the rock shows – which weren’t so easy to find because they weren’t all conveniently located at downtown theatres. I flipped for the Animals’ two-hour show at Rindge Tech; the Rolling Stones, not just at Boston Garden, where they did the best half hour rock'n'roll set I had ever seen, but at Lynn Football Stadium, where they started a riot; Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels overcoming the worst of performing conditions at Watpole Skating Rink; and the Beatles at Suffolk Down, plainly audible, beautiful to look at, and confirmation that we – and I – existed as a special body of people who understood the power and the glory of rock'n'roll.

I lived those days with a sense of anticipation. I worked in Briggs & Briggs a few summers and would know when the next albums were coming. The disappointment when the new Stones was a day late, the exhilaration when Another Side of Bob Dylan showed up a week early. The thrill of turning on WBZ and hearing some strange sound, both beautiful and horrible, but that demanded to be heard again; it turned out to be “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” a record that stands just behind “Reach Out I’ll Be There” as means of musical catharsis. My temperament being what it is, I often enjoyed hating as much as loving. That San Francisco shit corrupted the purity of the rock that I lvoed and I could have led a crusade against it. The Moby Grape moved me, but those songs about White Rabbits and hippie love made me laugh when they didn’t make me sick. I found more rock'n'roll in the dubbed-in hysteria on the Rolling Stones Got Live if You Want It than on most San Francisco albums combined.

For every moment I remember there are a dozen I’ve forgotten, but I feel like they are with me on a night like this, a permanent part of my consciousness, a feeling lost on my mind but never on my soul. And then there are those individual experiences so transcendent that I can remember them as if they happened yesterday: Sam and Dave at the Soul Together at Madison Square Garden in 1967: every gesture, every movement, the order of the songs. I would give anything to hear them sing “When Something’s Wrong with My Baby” just the way they did it that night. The obsessions with Otis Redding, Jerry Butler, and B.B. King came a little bit later; each occupied six months of my time, while I digested every nuance of every album. Like the Byrds, I turn to them today and still find, when I least expect it, something new, something deeply flet, something that speaks to me.

As I left college in 1969 and went into record production I started exhausting my seemingly insatiable appetite. I felt no less intensely than before about certain artists; I just felt that way about fewer of them. I not only became more discriminating but more indifferent. I found it especially hard to listen to new faces. I had accumulated enough musical experience to fall back on when I needed its companionship but during this period in my life I found I needed music less and people, whom I spend too much of my life ignoring, much more.

Today I listen to music with a certain measure of detachment. I’m a professional and I make my living commenting on it. There are months when I hate it, going through the routine just as a shoe salesman goes through his. I follow films with the passion that music once held for me. But in my own moments of greatest need, I never give up the search for sounds that can answer every impulse, consume all emotion, cleanse and purify – all things that we have no right to expect from even the greatest works of art but which we can occasionally derive from them.

Still, today, if I hear a record I like it is no longer a signal for me to seek out every other that the artist has made. I take them as they come, love them, and leave them. Some have stuck – a few that come quickly to mind are Neil Young’s After the Goldrush, Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions, Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey, James Taylor’s records, Valerie Simpson’s Exposed, Randy Newman’s Sail Away, Exile on Main Street, Ry Cooder’s records, and, very specially, the last three albums of Joni Mitchell – but many more slip through the mind, making much fainter impressions than their counterparts of a decade ago.

But tonight there is someone I can write of the way I used to write, without reservations of any kind. Last Thursday, at the Harvard Square theatre, I saw my rock'n'roll past flash before my eyes. And I saw something else: I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen. And on a night when I needed to feel young, he made me feel like I was hearing music for the very first time.

When his two-hour set ended I could only think, can anyone really be this good; can anyone say this much to me, can rock'n'roll still speak with this kind of power and glory? And then I felt the sores on my thighs where I had been pounding my hands in time for the entire concert and knew that the answer was yes.

Springsteen does it all. He is a rock'n'roll punk, a Latin street poet, a ballet dancer, an actor, a joker, bar band leader, hot-shit rhythm guitar player, extraordinary singer, and a truly great rock'n'roll composer. He leads a band like he has been doing it forever. I racked my brains but simply can’t think of a white artist who does so many things so superbly. There is no one I would rather watch on a stage today. He opened with his fabulous party record “The E Street Shuffle” – but he slowed it down so graphically that it seemed a new song and it worked as well as the old. He took his overpowering story of a suicide, “For You,” and sang it with just piano accompaniment and a voice that rang out to the very last row of the Harvard Square theatre. He did three new songs, all of them street trash rockers, one even with a “Telstar” guitar introduction and an Eddie Cochran rhythm pattern. We missed hearing his “Four Winds Blow,” done to a fare-thee-well at his sensational week-long gig at Charley’s but “Rosalita” never sounded better and “Kitty’s Back,” one of the great contemporary shuffles, rocked me out of my chair, as I personally led the crowd to its feet and kept them there.

Bruce Springsteen is a wonder to look at. Skinny, dressed like a reject from Sha Na Na, he parades in front of his all-star rhythm band like a cross between Chuck Berry, early Bob Dylan, and Marlon Brando. Every gesture, every syllable adds something to his ultimate goal – to liberate our spirit while he liberates his by baring his soul through his music. Many try, few succeed, none more than he today.

It’s five o'clock now – I write columns like this as fast as I can for fear I’ll chicken out – and I’m listening to “Kitty’s Back.” I do feel old but the record and my memory of the concert has made me feel a little younger. I still feel the spirit and it still moves me. I bought a new home this week and upstairs in the bedroom is a sleeping beauty who understands only too well what I try to do with my records and typewriter. About rock'n'roll, the Lovin’ Spoonful once sang, “I’ll tell you about the magic that will free your soul/But it’s like trying to tell a stranger about rock'n'roll.” Last Thursday, I remembered that the magic still exists and as long as I write about rock, my mission is to tell a stranger about it – just as long as I remember that I’m the stranger I’m writing for.