Tuesday, December 16, 2014

In This Horror Show

Jonesing to dance with a beautifully tall elegantly coiffed person to some wickedly dark and maudlin tune under blurry twinkly lights.  Natasha has it figured out.  Who says anti-depressants have to be teeny tiny little rounds pills?

Put your glad rags on and let's sing along
To that lonely song

You're the train that crashed my heart
You're the glitter in the dark

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Well, Your Hair's Still Red

No one ever tells you.  Maybe they don't even know.  The hard part is this... as you age, as you experience this place of never-ending happiness, as the wheel turns its relentless revolutions... it never gets easier.  The wheel may age and be replaced with new thoughts, but it never ceases to turn agonizingly routine cycles.  Round and round.. round and round.   

I am Henry the 8th, I am.  Henry the 8th I am, I am.  87th verse, same as the first.

What we once thought was exciting and opening becomes something we've seen and been hurt by or worse seen and been unimpressed by because it's something we saw ages ago and were either hurt or unimpressed by then.  It's the tragic irony of age. Another break-up, another apartment, another job, another album, another shitty album.  Blah... plans are for the young.

Sooooo... let's just go crazy.

When I feel disconnected, when I want to remember who I am... this song reminds me.  Grounds me into a place of rain wet streets, sideways glances, a heart of fearless steel, dancing feet of gold.

And it never gets old. 

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Not To Be Trusted

The Untrustworthy Speaker
Louise Gluck

Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
that's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life, I've been praised
for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight.
In the end, they're wasted - 

I never see myself,
standing on the front steps, holding my sister's hand.
That's why I can't account
for the bruises on her arm, where the sleeve ends.

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless,
we're the cripples, the liars;
we're the ones who should be factored out
in the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house, the azaleas
red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
to the older daughter, block her out:
when a living thing is hurt like that,
in its deepest workings,
all function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind. 

photo: Manesse, 1930s

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

I Wanna Spend My Life With You

The breath releases and catches in me.  A rush and thrill deep in my solar plexus with the push of keys against my fingertips.  The words come haltingly, frustratingly slow.  It's been too long, I'll need to coax them out.  And you too.  I've been gone a long time, intermittently popping in with some cavalier comment here and there.  But, it's here, finally.  My new laptop...after more than a year... I'm ensconced in laptop/internet/music lagoon bubble bliss. 

Music... my one true love.  This prodigal daughter has returned.

My latest repeat obsession for the last several months, Sebastien Tellier... can we just swoon over those string overtures and sweeping hook of La Ritournelle?  Then in typical drippy froggy fashion at the 4:37 mark, he launches into his poetic coup de grĂ¢ce and as I listen I morph into a chalk outlined corpse on the floor hankering for more. 

Oh nothing's gonna change my love for you
I wanna spend my life with you
So we make love in the grass under the moon
No one can tell, damned if I do
Forever journeys on golden avenues
I drift in your eyes since I love you
I got that beat in my veins for only rule
Love is to share, mine is for you

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