I LOVE old songs, especially old funky ballads.
And it's repetitive I know, but again I have to sit and marvel and the people in my life who love me. I'm so very fortunate.
And I rarely use names here, it's always a little guessing game I suppose. And I recently read a post entitled 'love is' and I'm going to follow suit, because I'm sleep deprived and incredibly contentedly happy. So here goes.
Love Is:
- phone calls at the start, and the end of my day
- random text messages from miles away
- uncontrollable laughter
- not seeing much in anyone else
- warmth
- cupcakes, fondue and funny stories
- Frogs
- Music
- fooood
- small, inconsequential details
- comfortable
- anticipating what I'm going to say next
- having far-fetched hope
- having a place to rest your head
- learning to see the bigger picture
- a shoulder to cry on, when things seem worse than they've ever been
- a stamping set
- vulnerability
- falling asleep, smiling.
And that is what I am going to do :)
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Word Collector
She kept, in a blue shoe-box, thousands of small things. Words. Written for her, about her, in spite of her over the few years she had traversed the small world in which she lived.
She collected phrases, thoughts, exclamations, the perfectly punctuated works of nimble fingers, and the slow, lazy, beautiful sloping curves of the artists. The sentiments of friends, lovers, foes and nothings, who over time, had taken on new roles. Lovers had gone from beloved, to hated, to nothing, but their words remained frozen in time. A written pause in a sheet of music that had to be acknowledged and played. With some strange capacity, she memorised things. In a way she never could when it came to textbooks. Each crumpled, ordinary piece of paper took seat in her being, drawing a picture of her life. But it wasn't drawn in straight lines, but letters. Swirls and abysses made of endless, individual letters. Smears where tears had hit the pages, cuts where unfolding and refolding and worn them so thin, they broke.
The world expanded suddenly, and different notes were separated by distance. New memories, new paper, new writing and new thirst. 'A thirst you'd have to drown to ever satiate.' New melodies and new pauses. Jammed chords creating dissonance, snarls across a page, silence. Extended pause, sheets of nothing by new nothings. New colours overtook the old. In a flurry of paper she almost lost it all. Boom boom boom her heart beated. Where were the words? Hidden carefully, but where?
The evidence of her life lay in those sheets of paper. In melodies and 3 or 4 bars that perhaps nobody knew of. She read and extracted melancholy phrases, falling asleep in cold buses to decipher them in her dreams. She walked alone, and then the words were the lyrics in song. But somehow, the greatest beauties lay in the things she found indescribable. In love. In the way her mother held her. In the way her lover held her. In things that were so different and yet.. In the colour of the sky, the rapture of sunset. 'They died punctually, at dusk.' In the evocation of her senses. In the exquisite simplicity of loneliness, and togetherness, deleting all the muddle in between the two.
Once, the words were too much. With shaking hands and a heavy heart she lit fire to the most meaningful note. Knowing, she might regret it later. Years later, a vague sense of the poem etched in her mind, begging to be consolidated. And so she learnt. No matter the reality, words were important. They were more important than fleeting moments of passion. Memories were all you had afterall. Who knew if the same phrasing could ever be conjured up again? And so, she kept the words, like memories, like evidence, that things really happened, and weren't just dreams. Perhaps she was documenting her life, so that when the day came that she no longer remembered anything, they would remain.
She collected phrases, thoughts, exclamations, the perfectly punctuated works of nimble fingers, and the slow, lazy, beautiful sloping curves of the artists. The sentiments of friends, lovers, foes and nothings, who over time, had taken on new roles. Lovers had gone from beloved, to hated, to nothing, but their words remained frozen in time. A written pause in a sheet of music that had to be acknowledged and played. With some strange capacity, she memorised things. In a way she never could when it came to textbooks. Each crumpled, ordinary piece of paper took seat in her being, drawing a picture of her life. But it wasn't drawn in straight lines, but letters. Swirls and abysses made of endless, individual letters. Smears where tears had hit the pages, cuts where unfolding and refolding and worn them so thin, they broke.
The world expanded suddenly, and different notes were separated by distance. New memories, new paper, new writing and new thirst. 'A thirst you'd have to drown to ever satiate.' New melodies and new pauses. Jammed chords creating dissonance, snarls across a page, silence. Extended pause, sheets of nothing by new nothings. New colours overtook the old. In a flurry of paper she almost lost it all. Boom boom boom her heart beated. Where were the words? Hidden carefully, but where?
The evidence of her life lay in those sheets of paper. In melodies and 3 or 4 bars that perhaps nobody knew of. She read and extracted melancholy phrases, falling asleep in cold buses to decipher them in her dreams. She walked alone, and then the words were the lyrics in song. But somehow, the greatest beauties lay in the things she found indescribable. In love. In the way her mother held her. In the way her lover held her. In things that were so different and yet.. In the colour of the sky, the rapture of sunset. 'They died punctually, at dusk.' In the evocation of her senses. In the exquisite simplicity of loneliness, and togetherness, deleting all the muddle in between the two.
Once, the words were too much. With shaking hands and a heavy heart she lit fire to the most meaningful note. Knowing, she might regret it later. Years later, a vague sense of the poem etched in her mind, begging to be consolidated. And so she learnt. No matter the reality, words were important. They were more important than fleeting moments of passion. Memories were all you had afterall. Who knew if the same phrasing could ever be conjured up again? And so, she kept the words, like memories, like evidence, that things really happened, and weren't just dreams. Perhaps she was documenting her life, so that when the day came that she no longer remembered anything, they would remain.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Teddy
I've been posting a lot lately. I've had a lot of thoughts, but productive and inspiring and driven ones. I haven't done anything particularly creative, but I feel like I could. It's just a matter of finding time to do it without feeling guilt. But the words from this song meant something to me today.
I'm going to muster every ounce of confidence I have
and cannonball into the water.
I'm going to muster every ounce of confidence I have
for You I will.
You always want what you can't have, but I've got to try.
Do I seem familiar? I've crossed you in hallways a thousand times
No more camouflage, I want to be exposed and not be afraid to fall.
Interestingly, the 'you' is just me. I think I'm the only person I can truly give it my best for. The world has a million ways to break you, if you can't be strong for yourself when you have every chance to, then you can't depend on anyone else.
I'm going to muster every ounce of confidence I have
and cannonball into the water.
I'm going to muster every ounce of confidence I have
for You I will.
You always want what you can't have, but I've got to try.
Do I seem familiar? I've crossed you in hallways a thousand times
No more camouflage, I want to be exposed and not be afraid to fall.
Interestingly, the 'you' is just me. I think I'm the only person I can truly give it my best for. The world has a million ways to break you, if you can't be strong for yourself when you have every chance to, then you can't depend on anyone else.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Leo Buscaglia
Two things this man has said that strike very true to me:
1. Only the weak are cruel. Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.
2.I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate-it's apathy. It's not giving a damn.
1. Only the weak are cruel. Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.
2.I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate-it's apathy. It's not giving a damn.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Mishmash
Yowzers.... It has been a long time since I've blogged about music. Oh dear.
So today I went into the little grocery store near my apartment block to by some milk, and started talking to the guy behind the counter about an interesting remix of 'I'm blue' that he was listening to.
Anyway, ended up going a second time with a friend and watching a little 9 year old kid called 'Moonboy' shuffling. Amazing.
But this all got me to listen to some new music (for me), and lately I've been thinking of songs for Medshow this year, and some hopefully cool mashups are formulating. Until then, here's a little something that I LOVE in some places. It's curious what goes well together. So here it is- The Gorillaz and The Killers- Somebody told me to Feel Good.
Sweeeet.
So today I went into the little grocery store near my apartment block to by some milk, and started talking to the guy behind the counter about an interesting remix of 'I'm blue' that he was listening to.
Anyway, ended up going a second time with a friend and watching a little 9 year old kid called 'Moonboy' shuffling. Amazing.
But this all got me to listen to some new music (for me), and lately I've been thinking of songs for Medshow this year, and some hopefully cool mashups are formulating. Until then, here's a little something that I LOVE in some places. It's curious what goes well together. So here it is- The Gorillaz and The Killers- Somebody told me to Feel Good.
Sweeeet.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Friday the 13th
Who said it was inauspicious?
One of the nicest Fridays I've ever spent :) Don't believe the old myths or superstitions. Horoscopes, cards, predictions. At the end of the day, life is what you make it. Your future is in your own hands.
One of the nicest Fridays I've ever spent :) Don't believe the old myths or superstitions. Horoscopes, cards, predictions. At the end of the day, life is what you make it. Your future is in your own hands.
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