Close your eyes; clear your heart

There is a feeling that certain music gives me when it gathers around me and engulfs me and fills me with an uncontrollable effervescing of sheer arousal.  There are not enough words in this language or any other to describe it for I believe that any word could describe it and all words could describe and no words could describe it.  "Microwave" can describe it, for what does a microwave do but create a deep warming sensation from the center of a dish of pure delectability. And "sunglasses" can describe it, for what do sunglasses do but shield your gaze from that which is too powerful, only to deliver the world in a manner that is more beautiful than without the hazy shade of sepia caressing it.  And "conditioned" can describe it, for what does something conditioned do but perform better in its circumstances, attracting admiration and dissonance from like-minded individuals that cannot seem to have minds alike.  So how does one describe it?  Well, when I heard a song that gave me this feeling earlier this morning via the jukebox in Waffle House as I sipped on weak coffee and enjoyed the company of two brilliant friends, I commented, unwittingly speaking my pure mind and soul, that the music "held my heart." Now do you get it?

Decisions to decisions are made and not fought and I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot; I guess not

Brittney, my dear follower, has asked me to post to my blog again, so here goes.

This is a blog of my hipster encounters, so today must be discounted; it has been less than hipster in content, form, and style, for it has been full of lazy clothes, lots of sleep, a teeny bit of reading, and, of course, nicotine.  

Yet, I have not left my hipster course! Fear not! Only but two days ago was I atop the Vulcan in Birmingham - a spot left not only for the hipsters, but definitely one that could be considered hipster in nature, considering it's subject - with the girl of my present dreams - not literally, though, because another girl inhabits most of my sleepy nights - dressed in a full hipster getup - Chucks and skinny jeans, black shirt and contrasting shrug, scarf and bracelet; I will not let my advocates down! Leah, the aforementioned rapturing girl, kept commenting on my hipster-tude, and I, in true hipster fashion, as I later realized, denied her accusations with full force. I fear that only hipster deny indictment so ruthlessly.  (Can you be ruthful? And doesn't "ruthful" ring true of being ruthless?)

It appears that I have not lost my touch in blog post construction. The style of my language has not faltered over the past several months, as I afeared it would. Thank goodness.

I suppose now is time for the picture that I dare take with every entry; this picture is less than hipster, I must admit. (I'm wearing

Abercrombie, but, in my defense, it is an ex-girlfriend's shirt.)