It's been a few days, and there's so much going on, I wanted to say how much I cared. I will miss Delores O'riordan, one of us, a survivor. I'll miss the Cranberries. She became a deep part of what I listen too. This one always caught me, and I didn't exactly know why back then, but eventually things do become clearer. This will trigger fellow survivors seeing some of the images. It's not that they knew that at the time, but, to me now. I get why the images are triggering.
Please just listen without looking to much at the video. Be well.
It's like Chester is just settling, a brother survivor, and now Dolores, again, whom I only learned after, is one of us. It gets to me, it really gets to me, that I've listened for decades, and not known. What that means for me, is hearing songs' truths for the first time. Know what I mean? Use self care, maybe don't actually watch the video, just listen.
Loc: Los Angeles County, California
Bowie's a racist creep who wrote "China Girl" because a Vietnamese woman dared to not bow to his white power subjugation fetish against Asians. That same fetish is the bulk of ~25 years' abuse at multiple hands for me.
Here are some I like:
My Mandarin is garbage, but this works well for me, particularly because, again, most all of my abuse has been because of a particular brand of racism that society won't admit it has as it's taking it out on me (I seriously recommend the whole album. It is originally anti-Mao and one song became the unofficial Tienanmen Square Protests song):
This one, I suppose, is cliche:
This one's in my native language. It's probably cliche, too. Start the video at 4:33:
Music was my only real companion after my dad (one of the good guys!) died. I still make mixtapes and still take a Sanyo MGR-59 Walkman ("Personal stereo") with me wherever I go. If anyone wants any music suggestions, just hit me up.
...The lead singer of the Cranberries died? When?
Edited by chairdesklamp (01/20/1804:37 PM) Edit Reason: My links didn't work
Hi chairdesklamp, with the many parts of our lives to sort and manage. There's so much shit out there, in that damn world, finding the soft places of rest seem to take effort. The moss bed, along a trickling brook, deep in the woods. A small waterfall not far off, adds to various cadence of birds and creatures. The gentle breeze flicking bits of light, rays down among canopied shadows. Feel me?
So, this guy I saw at the Pride Fest last year, my first:
This isn’t my usual genre of music, but I hold a special place for it due to the fact that 1989 was a very good year for me—even if I was only four years removed from being raped at summer camp. In February 1989, I placed 3rd in the state in the 100 yard butterfly. In late May, I sailed two hundred miles up the US Atlantic coast solo in a 27 foot sloop. 1985 seemed like a distant memory. Things were good then. I was only 17 in 1989 with so many roads to follow, and so many trails to erase.
That summer, I found myself in Manchester, UK on a business trip with my dad. This song was popular in a club called the Haçienda:
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