Very happy.

So happy I think I might just have to bring this son-of-a-bitch back to life. (since…yanno, Key brought hers back, too.)

So far summer feels like winter break. What I mean by that is that it just..doesn’t feel like it’s over. There’s no closure whatsoever. Now, combine that with the rainy weather and the dark skies and it just all around feels like a Florida winter (which makes sense, since our winter was essentially blazing hot).

I don’t mind it, per say, I like winter. I don’t mind feeling like Christmas is coming up.

In…less than a month i’m flying out to Seattle to bum off of a friend of mine for a few weeks. I’m ridiculously excited. Like. Ridiculously. I’m all a jitter just thinking about it.

JITTERJITTERJITTER.

My outreach of music hasn’t stopped. At all. Just so you know.

This summer I’d like to make a doll, finally. Nothing too fancy, just a puppet doll to  practice stop motion animation techniques with. I think it’d be quite fun.

It’s just..incredibly soothing, I think. The concept of holding fire and then having the ability to snuff it out with just a flick of the wrist.

You know. A miniature reminder of the control we have in our lives. To be anyone we want to be, this time around.

Alright. I’m no Timmy Leary.

But I still like my match hobby. And my writing hobby. They both work for the better. The bits of writing I don’t like I toss to the side and maybe use as kindling.

And then with a minifurnace I melt some candies and make a nice strawberry fondue.

And then I just remember that I have some strawberry incense.

And then I notice my Aliester Crowley book sitting underneath the box of incense.

The world is magic, like that. [No magik pun intended on Mr. Crowley's part.]

However, it’s not an entire bust. I am writing, still. Always writing.

Speaking of which, I have now received my SAT scores. 1230 in Reading and Math, 1900 overall with a 12/12 on my essay. For the first time taking the test, I’m quite pleased, especially since that was possibly the hardest essay I ever had to write.

The prompt was, in layman’s terms, to take a stand – is it better to conform and ‘fit in’, or creature your own individual. Ironically, I was conforming to a standardized test that I believe will be null and void in the near future due to the complete idiocy of its concept.

As far as college goes, my prospects look bright. I’ve visited schools, the one that I favour holds me in favour.

However. Scholarships. I’m forty SAT points away from a full scholarship, apparently, which could more than likely be remedied next testing in the fall.

My parents, however, remain less than thrilled. Or rather, my mother.

And all the while I find mysef amsued by this ridiculous excuse of a documentary.

By the by, if you would like to know, I chose to stand against conformity in my essay, hence, why it was so difficult to write in that enviroment.

 And that’s not a good thing for me.

Who ‘me’ exactly is will be revealed in between posts, through whatever blurbs I write, and whatever else you find out or already know about me.

Maybe you’ll like it, and maybe you wont.  I can’t say I don’t care because I honesly do, just not…in a conventional sense, I suppose.

Now, this is not how I normally rant. But, it’s 1:21 AM and I feel like a roadkill pancake, so take it or leave it.

I’ve listened to Floyd’s Wall & Piper album and watched the film more times in the past six weeks than I’d ever imagine I would in six years, particularly because the Floyd are not my favourite band, but Roger Waters & Syd Barrett are becomming a pair of my favourie people, although maybe not the same way as Jim or Keef, more on them, later.

Syd is a strange case to describe.

He could be merely written off as an ‘acid casualty’, or, he could be examined a bit closer. He was surely a casualty, but was it necessarily just an iconic loss of the era, or was it a bit of insight into modern psychosis?

Since the man was born Roger Barrett, Syd didn’t really..come into existance until a ways down the road. But. When he was ninteen-years-old, and Syd Barrett merely a child, he was thrust into a world of great expectations, sharks, and complete unrest. The life of a popstar, a British popstar at that.

More or less it was like throwing a baby into a den of bears, just from that bit of info.

Now, may we add in that he was..mentally at unrest? Perhaps a dorman schizophrenic?

Oooh, dear.

Syd Barrett did not go insane, thus leading to his dismissal from the band he helped to found – hell, even name.

Syd Barrett died.

Syd Barrett’s spirit, mind, every essence of him was torn to peices under the stress and pressure of an unhealhy and unstable start to what would be an amazing career after for the Floyd. Syd Barrett was killed and Roger Barrett was left holding he tattered remains and the title of ‘his band’.

Poor thing was left with the mess. In and out of institutions. Living as a sheltered creature because, hell, who could refill the shoes of Syd but Syd himself?

I could continue on and on.

Like.

Acid casualty would suggest that Barrett’s demise was acid. No. Not exactly. Surely a catalyst for the events leading up to said demise.

For me to explain exactly why would be another rant altogether, and there will be such a rant, more or less after I compare-contrast this case with another equal-but-opposite case.

What I can say is this: Hallucinogens work in fun ways. Not funny. Hallucinogens are what tear into your sleeping subconscious and throw them into your waking hours.

Guess what the depths of Barrett’s mind had in store for him?

An early demise, of course.

But that demise wasn’t the end of the early Floyd. No. There were two solo albums, three, actually, and then a live-cut session. A change of scenery. A venure into an institution.

Oh, another rant for another time. Another time, because time is absolutely killing me, right now.

But not in the sense of what time and pressure and heat did to kill Mr. Syd.

What am I getting at?

Not a glorification of Syd’s work – although it is his contributions to the Floyd I’m most pleased by, nor his personality, although he was sweet, perhaps a bit too sweet, but rather, a lazy midnight insight into why Barrett was not an acid casualty like, say, Brian Jones – if you remember Jones, at all.

So if Syd was not an acid casualty, then what sort of casualty was he? Why should it mater? He came and went as we all come and go. He just happened to leave something of a mystery and a mervel in his wake.

Now, this is the part where I praise Mr. Syd and his contributions to 60′s pop.

This is where I add the tired cliche – “Shine on, you crazy diamond” – and pray that his contributions get the same Goddamn love in appreciating them that he put into producing him.

Hello, wordpress. My name is Katz.