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My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged music:

Public Relations
The rain started about halfway down South Bank, when the stalls (currently it was an attempt to showcase London’s gardens with a series of open plan greenhouses) started to thin out, to shift from artistic to culinary, before petering away entirely, leaving the pair with nothing but concrete and paving slabs. 
Being next to the Thames when it was raining was an odd cousin of being snowblind. Everything became drained from colour, until it was grey water next to grey riverbanks, grey walkways and grey buildings. Perhaps, if you were lucky, there were a few trees the green of oxidised copper, but even that seemed just a trick of the light. They weren’t holding hands, but he pulled her a little closer all the same, taking advantage of the necessity of the umbrella.
Two hours ago, before the date had begun, she’d made resolutions. Touching permitted, but any kissing awarded only if the proper criteria were met. He would have to be charming, decent, and show a flair for the right kind of cruelty before her lips went anywhere near his. Anything more than that would have to wait for another day, if one was warranted. 
For the first thirty minutes or so, she’d been pretty happy with her forethought. He was a psychiatrist, and he had that air about him. Aloof, interested, but ever so slightly detached; his hands would never quite stop moving, always adjusting his glasses, or correcting the orientation of his cufflinks. In a way it was endearing, like he was grooming himself so that he remained at his best throughout the evening. But it also gave her something to fixate on, and kept her on track. 
But he had to go and spoil things, didn’t he. Had to stand up after dinner, smile, pay the cheque and then abuse her stride so that he could step into her, his hand brushing against her hip, lips grazing her earlobe. It hadn’t been a kiss, but it was a close enough contact to send thrills through her, make her pause and squirm on the spot. He hadn’t even said anything, the fuck. 
And then they’d gone for the walk, in comfortable silence, along the bank of the river that cleaved through London with a complete lack of urgency. At the beginning of the evening she’d laughed at him bringing the umbrella, made some quip about him being a latent pessimist, but when they’d started to get peppered with drizzle she had only blushed, thanking him with a look at she slipped underneath the canopy. 
"You think a lot." She almost didn’t hear him, a mixture of wind and rain taking away his words so that they drifted towards her from the wrong direction. Disorienting. 
"Hmm?" 
He turned to look at her, dipped down a little, a delightfully patronising little movement. He was smiling. 
"I said. ‘You think a lot’. I was commenting on the fact that you’ve been staring off into nothing for about five minutes, and you keep fussing over the hem of your skirt." 
"Alright Sherlock." 
"Oh, I wasn’t meaning it negatively. I just wanted to offer you the chance to divorce yourself from dwelling, if you were interested."
What the fuck was he on about. She looked up at him, the energetic movement of his eyes, and the way he, almost imperceptibly, licked his lips as she caught his gaze. 
"Ok, I’ll bite. What’s your cure for dwelling?"
His smile grew at that. He looked like he’d won, as if her just asking him what he had in mind meant that she’d consented. Her resolutions flashed up in her mind, but she shooed them away in the name of curiosity. 
"Come along then." The hand at her hip moved around to become the hand in her hand, and he half jogged forwards, towards the looming mass of Blackfriars, a dark smudge among the grey. 
It didn’t take them long to reach, and it didn’t take long before her curiosity spiked again. He wasn’t taking her indoors, or through the bridge, but under it, away from the path and into the shade. 
"What’s down here?" She asked, the uncertainty in her voice making him laugh.
"Privacy." He stated with a smile, before finally stopping, turning to face her. She bit her lip. She couldn’t help it. 
"You know, you drag a girl under a bridge she can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a mind to introduce her to a troll." He laughed again.
"No, not today. No trolls, just me." He waved a hand in her direction. "And you, of course." 
There was suddenly a tension between them. An expectation of… something. A kiss, maybe. Or some sort of contact. She could feel it start to slip, go from tension into something more slack, an awkward silence. She took half a step towards him.
"Have you ever.." He managed to get out before she grabbed his face with her hands and planted the kiss on his lips, soft at first before he took the initiative and pulled her to him, displaying an aggression she’d been worried he didn’t have. Where she’d taken two steps towards him he pushed her two steps back, until her back was hard up against the foundations of the bridge. Her hand fell away from his face and started to fuss over the hem of her skirt again. 
"Either lift that skirt or stop messing with it." He growled from inside their kiss, and her eyes flashed. She bit his lip, hard, and he just laughed again, grabbing her bum with a rough possessiveness. Fuck, he knew what he was doing. Fuck again, she wasn’t exactly sure she did. Well fuck. 
He broke the kiss for half a second.
"I was going to say.." He was slightly out of breath. "Have you ever had sex in public?" There was this cocksure grin on his face, and she was halfway between wanting to wipe it off and make it wider. 
"I.. don’t know.. what to say." She managed, before he kissed her again. 

Public Relations

The rain started about halfway down South Bank, when the stalls (currently it was an attempt to showcase London’s gardens with a series of open plan greenhouses) started to thin out, to shift from artistic to culinary, before petering away entirely, leaving the pair with nothing but concrete and paving slabs. 

Being next to the Thames when it was raining was an odd cousin of being snowblind. Everything became drained from colour, until it was grey water next to grey riverbanks, grey walkways and grey buildings. Perhaps, if you were lucky, there were a few trees the green of oxidised copper, but even that seemed just a trick of the light. They weren’t holding hands, but he pulled her a little closer all the same, taking advantage of the necessity of the umbrella.

Two hours ago, before the date had begun, she’d made resolutions. Touching permitted, but any kissing awarded only if the proper criteria were met. He would have to be charming, decent, and show a flair for the right kind of cruelty before her lips went anywhere near his. Anything more than that would have to wait for another day, if one was warranted. 

For the first thirty minutes or so, she’d been pretty happy with her forethought. He was a psychiatrist, and he had that air about him. Aloof, interested, but ever so slightly detached; his hands would never quite stop moving, always adjusting his glasses, or correcting the orientation of his cufflinks. In a way it was endearing, like he was grooming himself so that he remained at his best throughout the evening. But it also gave her something to fixate on, and kept her on track. 

But he had to go and spoil things, didn’t he. Had to stand up after dinner, smile, pay the cheque and then abuse her stride so that he could step into her, his hand brushing against her hip, lips grazing her earlobe. It hadn’t been a kiss, but it was a close enough contact to send thrills through her, make her pause and squirm on the spot. He hadn’t even said anything, the fuck. 

And then they’d gone for the walk, in comfortable silence, along the bank of the river that cleaved through London with a complete lack of urgency. At the beginning of the evening she’d laughed at him bringing the umbrella, made some quip about him being a latent pessimist, but when they’d started to get peppered with drizzle she had only blushed, thanking him with a look at she slipped underneath the canopy. 

"You think a lot." She almost didn’t hear him, a mixture of wind and rain taking away his words so that they drifted towards her from the wrong direction. Disorienting. 

"Hmm?" 

He turned to look at her, dipped down a little, a delightfully patronising little movement. He was smiling. 

"I said. ‘You think a lot’. I was commenting on the fact that you’ve been staring off into nothing for about five minutes, and you keep fussing over the hem of your skirt." 

"Alright Sherlock." 

"Oh, I wasn’t meaning it negatively. I just wanted to offer you the chance to divorce yourself from dwelling, if you were interested."

What the fuck was he on about. She looked up at him, the energetic movement of his eyes, and the way he, almost imperceptibly, licked his lips as she caught his gaze. 

"Ok, I’ll bite. What’s your cure for dwelling?"

His smile grew at that. He looked like he’d won, as if her just asking him what he had in mind meant that she’d consented. Her resolutions flashed up in her mind, but she shooed them away in the name of curiosity. 

"Come along then." The hand at her hip moved around to become the hand in her hand, and he half jogged forwards, towards the looming mass of Blackfriars, a dark smudge among the grey. 

It didn’t take them long to reach, and it didn’t take long before her curiosity spiked again. He wasn’t taking her indoors, or through the bridge, but under it, away from the path and into the shade. 

"What’s down here?" She asked, the uncertainty in her voice making him laugh.

"Privacy." He stated with a smile, before finally stopping, turning to face her. She bit her lip. She couldn’t help it. 

"You know, you drag a girl under a bridge she can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a mind to introduce her to a troll." He laughed again.

"No, not today. No trolls, just me." He waved a hand in her direction. "And you, of course." 

There was suddenly a tension between them. An expectation of… something. A kiss, maybe. Or some sort of contact. She could feel it start to slip, go from tension into something more slack, an awkward silence. She took half a step towards him.

"Have you ever.." He managed to get out before she grabbed his face with her hands and planted the kiss on his lips, soft at first before he took the initiative and pulled her to him, displaying an aggression she’d been worried he didn’t have. Where she’d taken two steps towards him he pushed her two steps back, until her back was hard up against the foundations of the bridge. Her hand fell away from his face and started to fuss over the hem of her skirt again. 

"Either lift that skirt or stop messing with it." He growled from inside their kiss, and her eyes flashed. She bit his lip, hard, and he just laughed again, grabbing her bum with a rough possessiveness. Fuck, he knew what he was doing. Fuck again, she wasn’t exactly sure she did. Well fuck. 

He broke the kiss for half a second.

"I was going to say.." He was slightly out of breath. "Have you ever had sex in public?" There was this cocksure grin on his face, and she was halfway between wanting to wipe it off and make it wider. 

"I.. don’t know.. what to say." She managed, before he kissed her again. 

(Source: circunspecta, via prettyfollies)

A sound like a trigger word, throwing you off the cliff into a trance, tumbling through memories. Once Upon a Time in the West seeping out of the television, alone with a just a pizza for company at fourteen. Desaturated desert and Ennio Morricone blasting out at you like a gunshot. Nothing ever so eerie, not then, not now. 

My life has always been soundtracked, but never has a soundtrack ever grabbed me in such a way. The trumpets, frivolous and mournful, the guitar like a ghost, the echo of a melody. I fall into melodrama, but then Morricone was always about melodrama. 

And then there’s this. 

Because some songs are so infectious you just have to spread the disease.

Some songs are just lazy sexy. They are the songs that recline in the bed, with the duvet somewhere, just, not, y’know, here right now. They’ve got the body of an Irish hobo, all wire and sinew, and yet somehow they’ve pulled off sexy nonchalance. Some songs just don’t give a fuck, and that’s why I love them. 

Some songs have a bit of Vangelis’ Blade Runner about them. Some songs remind you of Portishead’s Third. Some songs are just so fucking good

A Winged Victory for the Sullen - Steep Hills of Vicodin Tears

Because sometimes the music is more than me. 

It’s not the words themselves, but the tone, that really gets me. It’s the way that the meaning is conveyed through a sort of aural osmosis, my proximity to them, and the fact they’re there, letting whatever sentiment seep in through my earlobes, missing the aural canal entirely. It twists and turns its way up to my brain, and somehow the garbled mess can be turned back into its original form, distilled and made pure. 

I don’t care about what he’s saying, only that he’s saying it. His larynx is just another instrument, as far as I’m concerned, but then music always was a form of communication. And when my lips are down close to your ear, and the words spill from my lips like tar, each one fixing you in place, you don’t give a fuck about the meaning behind them, even though each one sends a trill of pleasure coursing through your body. It’s the harshness of the consonants and the lewd, perverted elongation of the vowels. It’s the music of it, as depraved and dirty a tune as it plays. 

The words don’t mean jack shit, on their own. They need a voice to speak them. 

Hot Chip - Flutes

This is just about the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a good long while. It’s not often that a song will have me spontaneously dancing down a street, but the street was quite secluded and this song is just really fucking good and so what if that old lady stared at me for a while I was enjoying myself ok?

Anyway, it’s good. It’s got me back into Hot Chip.

Right, then

It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve got the house empty but for me and the cat. I’ve had an chocolate egg, a few real ones, and I’ve decided that, as my work backlog has (miraculously) cleared, I’m going to spend the whole night writing for you. 

The stars have formed a wonky approximation of a line, I’ve got Mr.Gnome on the speakers, a dwindling supply of pictures to use, and a store of ideas that I’ve been too busy to write about. Let’s hope I don’t run out of steam. 

Wish me luck, boys and girls,

C

P.S. Tonight’s mantra is such.

RXRY - Vntilr

Often, with the sporadic music that I pick to put on here, I’ll try to think of some way to tie it into D/s, and the things I write about underneath the captions. And, to an extent, I try to pick something that I know has a certain degree of accessibility, because, after all, I don’t want to alienate anyone. 

With all due respect, this is my music taste saying Fuck You to that idea. I like some weird, instrumental stuff, and this is at the safe end of the woods. I’m not going to try and tie the slow crash of distortion that is so very like waves lapping at the shore to the role of the subconscious within submission, or the way the beat fades in and out, just clatters on the edge of the drumset, to the way that the fetish in our lives ebbs and flows, coming to the fore before retreating back into the darkness of our minds. 

I’m just going to say I think this is absolutely beautiful, and it’d be just grand if you thought the same. But it’s fine by me if you bounce off it. No, really. 

And, if you do like it, RXRY has put the whole album up for free here. The lovely man. 

Daughter - Landfill

I normally avoid lyrics. Not the sounds, or the words, but the meanings. I don’t pay attention to them, just letting phrases and syllables jump out at me to enhance the feel of a piece. Frankly, I’m of the opinion that if you can’t say what you’re trying to say with the sound of the music, why should I bother trying to hear the words?

Some of the words in this stuck out at me. The kind of lyrical slap in the face that I enjoy all the more for how rare it is. I’m sure you can spot it.

If there’s anything that holds me in its thrall in this world, it’s music. If you cut me, a treble clef is just as likely to come spilling out as anything red and viscous. And, as the vampire feeds off that life giving blood, so I drain my speakers until they’re dry, and then try to sleep in the silence. I continue only because the bars and melodies, the cadences and beats, the keys and crescendos, allow me to. 
I’ve mentioned before that you need to love music nearly as much as I do for me to ever approach interest, but sometimes I wonder whether mere love is enough. I depend on it. I can’t work in silence, and I can’t travel without a soundtrack. Conversation is interesting to me not only because of the content, but also because of the rhythm of the words, the melodies of the syllables. 
I’ve been trying to come up with a way to properly frame D/s within that kind of context, where the strike of the hand analogises the slap of a drumstick against a high hat, but it’s grown too torturous, contrived and strained. But there is music in Dominance. It’s just not so trite as to be easily contained within the highs and lows of a single scene. It’s more subtle than that, and it’s stretched across the entire relationship. It has to, to make my heart sing so. 

If there’s anything that holds me in its thrall in this world, it’s music. If you cut me, a treble clef is just as likely to come spilling out as anything red and viscous. And, as the vampire feeds off that life giving blood, so I drain my speakers until they’re dry, and then try to sleep in the silence. I continue only because the bars and melodies, the cadences and beats, the keys and crescendos, allow me to. 

I’ve mentioned before that you need to love music nearly as much as I do for me to ever approach interest, but sometimes I wonder whether mere love is enough. I depend on it. I can’t work in silence, and I can’t travel without a soundtrack. Conversation is interesting to me not only because of the content, but also because of the rhythm of the words, the melodies of the syllables. 

I’ve been trying to come up with a way to properly frame D/s within that kind of context, where the strike of the hand analogises the slap of a drumstick against a high hat, but it’s grown too torturous, contrived and strained. But there is music in Dominance. It’s just not so trite as to be easily contained within the highs and lows of a single scene. It’s more subtle than that, and it’s stretched across the entire relationship. It has to, to make my heart sing so. 

(via blackleatherbelt)

Kishi Bashi - Bright Whites

Because I’d have to be a very cruel, very heartless man not to share this one with you all. 

She’d never seen him play, but the piano didn’t seem unused. There was no dust on the cover, no sombre neglect hanging over it like a shroud, the months of disuse making the instrument sit a little lower on the floor, retreat a little further into the darkness of the room. 
Instead it occupied its space comfortable, assured in its relevance to the room, and to the house. It was a part of his life, but a part that she hadn’t been privy to. She imagined him as a Machiavellian villain, hunched over the keys in a tophat and tails, hammering at the keys with claw-like hands while the moon hung pregnant in the sky. It might explain the delicate plink of the strings being absent from their relationship. 
Once, after he was half asleep in post coital bliss, she’d wandered over to it, lifted the guard and pressed the middle C. The note had rung out true, impeccably tuned, and an illicit thrill ran down her spine. She felt as though she had cracked open a diary, was reading inner thoughts that had always meant to be secret. F sharp sauntered out of the body of the piano, and she wandered her fingers up the scale. He stirred in the bed. 
"Leave it alone, love. It’s not for you." His voice was obscured by the pillow, but his tone was clear enough.
"Why?" She didn’t seem angry, or upset. Just curious.
"How would you feel if your toaster started making coffee? I don’t want my instruments playing one another." His voice started to break into laughter at the end of that, and she was already running to the bed to slam her fists against his back in playful anger.
"You bastard!" She bit down into his shoulder, before he pressed a large hand against her forehead, pushing her away. 
"But love, I play you so very, very well." His smirk threatened to spread the circumference of his head, the upper half toppling off.
She just huffed and pouted, and smiled just a little.

She’d never seen him play, but the piano didn’t seem unused. There was no dust on the cover, no sombre neglect hanging over it like a shroud, the months of disuse making the instrument sit a little lower on the floor, retreat a little further into the darkness of the room.

Instead it occupied its space comfortable, assured in its relevance to the room, and to the house. It was a part of his life, but a part that she hadn’t been privy to. She imagined him as a Machiavellian villain, hunched over the keys in a tophat and tails, hammering at the keys with claw-like hands while the moon hung pregnant in the sky. It might explain the delicate plink of the strings being absent from their relationship.

Once, after he was half asleep in post coital bliss, she’d wandered over to it, lifted the guard and pressed the middle C. The note had rung out true, impeccably tuned, and an illicit thrill ran down her spine. She felt as though she had cracked open a diary, was reading inner thoughts that had always meant to be secret. F sharp sauntered out of the body of the piano, and she wandered her fingers up the scale. He stirred in the bed.

"Leave it alone, love. It’s not for you." His voice was obscured by the pillow, but his tone was clear enough.

"Why?" She didn’t seem angry, or upset. Just curious.

"How would you feel if your toaster started making coffee? I don’t want my instruments playing one another." His voice started to break into laughter at the end of that, and she was already running to the bed to slam her fists against his back in playful anger.

"You bastard!" She bit down into his shoulder, before he pressed a large hand against her forehead, pushing her away. 

"But love, I play you so very, very well." His smirk threatened to spread the circumference of his head, the upper half toppling off.

She just huffed and pouted, and smiled just a little.

(via seeksthenight)

I don’t want someone who likes every little thing that I like. It’s through diversity of opinion that interest emerges, and if we share the same opinion on everything, what’s there to talk about? Besides, I like a challenge, I like needing to argue my case, why I like something, and slowly bringing you around, showing you the merits of what before you thought was stupid or pointless before. 
But the thing I demand, no, require, is that you love music. Not the music that I love (lord knows that would be difficult as all hell), but just music as it is. The genre, the medium, the form. That you find melodies and chord progressions to be as emotionally powerful as the best film, or the most eloquent novel. That you care about music, and have invested yourself in it. That you don’t just listen to it when you go to the clubs, but instead find yourself packing your headphones the very first thing when you’re taking a trip. 
That when someone asks that old ‘blind or deaf?’ chestnut, you actually have to think about it, more than almost anyone else, because the thought of being denied those beautiful sounds is almost worth being deprived of all those beautiful sights. That’s the level of music love I need, because that’s how much I care, and I don’t think I can understand someone who doesn’t have a treble clef etched onto their heart. 
Is that so much to ask?

I don’t want someone who likes every little thing that I like. It’s through diversity of opinion that interest emerges, and if we share the same opinion on everything, what’s there to talk about? Besides, I like a challenge, I like needing to argue my case, why I like something, and slowly bringing you around, showing you the merits of what before you thought was stupid or pointless before. 

But the thing I demand, no, require, is that you love music. Not the music that I love (lord knows that would be difficult as all hell), but just music as it is. The genre, the medium, the form. That you find melodies and chord progressions to be as emotionally powerful as the best film, or the most eloquent novel. That you care about music, and have invested yourself in it. That you don’t just listen to it when you go to the clubs, but instead find yourself packing your headphones the very first thing when you’re taking a trip. 

That when someone asks that old ‘blind or deaf?’ chestnut, you actually have to think about it, more than almost anyone else, because the thought of being denied those beautiful sounds is almost worth being deprived of all those beautiful sights. That’s the level of music love I need, because that’s how much I care, and I don’t think I can understand someone who doesn’t have a treble clef etched onto their heart. 

Is that so much to ask?

(Source: couchpotatoeuros, via desiderioardente-deactivated201)

Perfume Genius - 17

Sad. Just a little. But sad can be beautiful, and this song, and this album, are just about as close to proof of that as you can get. 

If you’ve got Spotify, you can listen to it here. 

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