Get back to the basics with the boys in the band...
Four friends playing music, singing songs,
sporting Chuck Converse, fur coats, and boyish grins;
rosy cheeked they jest, in spite of bobbies and uptight executives,
graciously gifting memories to shop-keeps, secretaries, young men suited black
assembled peacefully and adorned
by top hats and pipes, mini skirts, go go boots, and skinny ties
eyes and mouths agape,
whispers calm and movements absent;
four kings crowned infinitely, for posterity,
unknowingly,
refreshingly
chilly against the winds of change,
ignoring broken hearts and broken laws,
pushing harmony through electricity
again,
for the last time as one,
as four
Let it be...
Showing posts with label Beatles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beatles. Show all posts
5/3/12
8/23/10
a sorry apology
a crowd of people stood and stared...the Beatles are my inspiration this week, this morning, this life.
I love to turn you on.....................
I do
when I feel it
when you feel it
when we are we
so the apology is expected
which one should I use this time? the "I'm sorry" with meaning, or the "I won't do it again" with prayers that I won't, or the "I realize what I did was not the best choice, I'm sorry that I hurt you or made you feel__________, I will think about coming at this issue from a different way next time"...blah, blah, and I'm sick of this shit, blah!
words already spoken aren't accepted; been heard and precedent set.
new words aren't trusted or heard or believed or allowed to leave my mouth in one paragraph.
I think a few of those words are wandering around in my bedroom closet, lost and looking for their landing strip. My clothing, absorbed with spouts and shouts and tears and fears, clinging to the rod for dear life from season to season, without concrete evidence that they will hang in the same wardrobe in the morning. Just ask the broken wine glasses or the dusty turntable or the scratched box of old lady's spoons...memories of nothing but trouble. Purging the past from my memory via material fascination with image. The multiple boxes of amassed utility bills and old loan statements will see their demise later today. Shredding paper can be cathartic.
Do you know it's gonna' be alright? The Beatles told me so. And so do you. I've come here, to my semi-private sounding board, before going there, where the problem lingers and hovers and waves its arms at me in reminder to look up, face it, greet it, deal. Let me introduce you to the great procrastinator at her best. The scared puppy with tail between legs and ears pinned back crouching under the coffee table until the big bad wolf exits. the long and winding road...will never disappear...I've seen that road before...it always leads me here. Yup! why do you think I'm hiding? I know this ending. the story has written itself for years over years. the characters remain the same. the places may have changed, the circumstances tweaked, the provocation adjusted by change...and the hurt still hurts. bilaterally.
I love to turn you on.....................
I do
when I feel it
when you feel it
when we are we
so the apology is expected
which one should I use this time? the "I'm sorry" with meaning, or the "I won't do it again" with prayers that I won't, or the "I realize what I did was not the best choice, I'm sorry that I hurt you or made you feel__________, I will think about coming at this issue from a different way next time"...blah, blah, and I'm sick of this shit, blah!
words already spoken aren't accepted; been heard and precedent set.
new words aren't trusted or heard or believed or allowed to leave my mouth in one paragraph.
I think a few of those words are wandering around in my bedroom closet, lost and looking for their landing strip. My clothing, absorbed with spouts and shouts and tears and fears, clinging to the rod for dear life from season to season, without concrete evidence that they will hang in the same wardrobe in the morning. Just ask the broken wine glasses or the dusty turntable or the scratched box of old lady's spoons...memories of nothing but trouble. Purging the past from my memory via material fascination with image. The multiple boxes of amassed utility bills and old loan statements will see their demise later today. Shredding paper can be cathartic.
Do you know it's gonna' be alright? The Beatles told me so. And so do you. I've come here, to my semi-private sounding board, before going there, where the problem lingers and hovers and waves its arms at me in reminder to look up, face it, greet it, deal. Let me introduce you to the great procrastinator at her best. The scared puppy with tail between legs and ears pinned back crouching under the coffee table until the big bad wolf exits. the long and winding road...will never disappear...I've seen that road before...it always leads me here. Yup! why do you think I'm hiding? I know this ending. the story has written itself for years over years. the characters remain the same. the places may have changed, the circumstances tweaked, the provocation adjusted by change...and the hurt still hurts. bilaterally.
11/25/09
under the influence
I just swallowed a tablespoon of cherrytussin...with codeine. Mind you, the prescribed dose is one teaspoon, but that didn't touch me last night. So we play the waiting game until my throat decides to be relaxed and not gasp for air by the incessant tickle.
Ok, I just felt the tickle, twice. This drug isn't playing nice. There's a dry cough, loud, non productive, and uncomfortable. Ugh! This is going to be a looong night. Sleeping on the couch, sitting straight up, 45 degrees up. Sucking on throat drops and trying to avoid sleeping and sucking and choking. Didn't mom always say not to fall asleep with food in my mouth? Or was that no smoking in bed? I would like to announce that coughing while sleeping is not allowed either.
Going to work in 7 hours...on no sleep most likely. So how to spend my awakening is all I need to figure now. Reading "She's Come Undone" for the second time. Interesting novel about an obese young woman who experiences lots of death, sex, eating, drugs, looking for something. Sounds familiar, hmmm. I'm at the part where the whale awakens her... will she lose weight and feel positive about herself? Will she accept that her mother wasn't an angel, even though she's dead. How will seven years in and out of a sanatorium settle this woman's indigestion? Does she ever succeed at suicide, or anything? The most incredible part of this book is the gender of it's author...a guy wrote this and you'd never know it. Not a clue. After all, men can write, can't they? discuss amongst yourselves...
A friend of mine blogs too. He, yes a man writer, is new to the public blog scene. Kudos for your bravery man. Deep thoughts aren't easiest sorted out in front of everyone in the world and their brother! I'm a chicken. Bok Bok! Uh oh, I just updated fb to say I'm blogging. Maybe people will think I'm practicing a European sport or something...flogging? That's painful, isn't it? I'm thinking of stoning, like in the Bible at Mary Magdalene, the whore. Or the daily ritual of my former self from 1982-1989...stoning the days and nights away, listening to the Dead and Yes and trippy Genesis. Thank God for music.
I ordered tons of albums from the Columbia Music Club and everyone wanted to tape my selections. Trying to refill my stash now with cd's and itunes has proven a bit costly. Inflation and all, 30 years later. I spent hours with my albums and their covers and the liner notes and lyrics. The first obsession was the Elton John greatest hits that my babysitter listened to on our child-size record player while hand writing all the lyrics for me. I lay on the floor next to her as she reset the needle to stay in line with her pen. I kept those lined papers filled with Bernie Taupin's ideas until I knew each song and its meaning for me. I think I was 8 or 9 years old.
My dad actually gave me my first two albums. The aforementioned EJ and the Beatles...can't remember which title. I see the four faces, short hair, smiling. I hear the choppy, upbeat songs about dancing and loving and girls and boys. You know, the important stuff.
pause for more dry hacking, cursing of codeine, water refill, slippers and sweatshirt...and fb updating.
...a bit light headed now, must be my high tolerance lowering.
Cool observations and thoughts had on my break:
My Morning Jacket has a diverse style of sound. I hear traces of country, Prince, folk, and of course r & r. I love their lyrics about sexy librarians and peanut butter pudding, and screaming for human touch, twice. "Touch me or I'm going to scream!!" How they read my mind like that, I'll probably never know...
(Come on it's a big, big world now...you gotta' like what you see!) I do!
I see my hot water turning a pleasant shade of raspberry. Passion is my tea's flavor name, labeled as such on what I would call an "ad bag." Clearly spaced phrases, describing the infusion d'herbes, sans caffeine, 1 sachet (French for those of you who took german or spanish in hs). Sounds like I'm steeping a bag of pot pourri. Wait I am! the ingredients include hibiscus, lemongrass, and rose hips. Hot and smooth on my throat...works for me.
Switched to U2, on shuffle.
starting to feel my arms relaxing, my eyelids too. 2 and 1/2 hours to relax my limbs and the tickle lies patiently, waiting to attack. At least I'm not interrupting the rest of my family's sleep with my breathing battle.
Ok, I just felt the tickle, twice. This drug isn't playing nice. There's a dry cough, loud, non productive, and uncomfortable. Ugh! This is going to be a looong night. Sleeping on the couch, sitting straight up, 45 degrees up. Sucking on throat drops and trying to avoid sleeping and sucking and choking. Didn't mom always say not to fall asleep with food in my mouth? Or was that no smoking in bed? I would like to announce that coughing while sleeping is not allowed either.
Going to work in 7 hours...on no sleep most likely. So how to spend my awakening is all I need to figure now. Reading "She's Come Undone" for the second time. Interesting novel about an obese young woman who experiences lots of death, sex, eating, drugs, looking for something. Sounds familiar, hmmm. I'm at the part where the whale awakens her... will she lose weight and feel positive about herself? Will she accept that her mother wasn't an angel, even though she's dead. How will seven years in and out of a sanatorium settle this woman's indigestion? Does she ever succeed at suicide, or anything? The most incredible part of this book is the gender of it's author...a guy wrote this and you'd never know it. Not a clue. After all, men can write, can't they? discuss amongst yourselves...
A friend of mine blogs too. He, yes a man writer, is new to the public blog scene. Kudos for your bravery man. Deep thoughts aren't easiest sorted out in front of everyone in the world and their brother! I'm a chicken. Bok Bok! Uh oh, I just updated fb to say I'm blogging. Maybe people will think I'm practicing a European sport or something...flogging? That's painful, isn't it? I'm thinking of stoning, like in the Bible at Mary Magdalene, the whore. Or the daily ritual of my former self from 1982-1989...stoning the days and nights away, listening to the Dead and Yes and trippy Genesis. Thank God for music.
I ordered tons of albums from the Columbia Music Club and everyone wanted to tape my selections. Trying to refill my stash now with cd's and itunes has proven a bit costly. Inflation and all, 30 years later. I spent hours with my albums and their covers and the liner notes and lyrics. The first obsession was the Elton John greatest hits that my babysitter listened to on our child-size record player while hand writing all the lyrics for me. I lay on the floor next to her as she reset the needle to stay in line with her pen. I kept those lined papers filled with Bernie Taupin's ideas until I knew each song and its meaning for me. I think I was 8 or 9 years old.
My dad actually gave me my first two albums. The aforementioned EJ and the Beatles...can't remember which title. I see the four faces, short hair, smiling. I hear the choppy, upbeat songs about dancing and loving and girls and boys. You know, the important stuff.
pause for more dry hacking, cursing of codeine, water refill, slippers and sweatshirt...and fb updating.
...a bit light headed now, must be my high tolerance lowering.
Cool observations and thoughts had on my break:
My Morning Jacket has a diverse style of sound. I hear traces of country, Prince, folk, and of course r & r. I love their lyrics about sexy librarians and peanut butter pudding, and screaming for human touch, twice. "Touch me or I'm going to scream!!" How they read my mind like that, I'll probably never know...
(Come on it's a big, big world now...you gotta' like what you see!) I do!
I see my hot water turning a pleasant shade of raspberry. Passion is my tea's flavor name, labeled as such on what I would call an "ad bag." Clearly spaced phrases, describing the infusion d'herbes, sans caffeine, 1 sachet (French for those of you who took german or spanish in hs). Sounds like I'm steeping a bag of pot pourri. Wait I am! the ingredients include hibiscus, lemongrass, and rose hips. Hot and smooth on my throat...works for me.
Switched to U2, on shuffle.
starting to feel my arms relaxing, my eyelids too. 2 and 1/2 hours to relax my limbs and the tickle lies patiently, waiting to attack. At least I'm not interrupting the rest of my family's sleep with my breathing battle.
10/15/09
the pretender
Walked in the door, singing a Beatles tune, into an ambush of seriousness and frustration. My attention given to the speaker and my patience thinning, for a solid 15 minutes or more the statements ranted and the emotions steadily increased to a crescendo of demands. Demands to pick up shoes and put away laundry and write chore lists and get organized...or what? My voice is not invited to this diatribe. My opinion matters none. This is a venting of will and proof of self. Words demand to be listened to so the mind can feel clearer. I understand. I empathise. I walk this path with you...over and over and over. My approach keeps the blood pressure lower and the peace within reach. Hey, wait, can I tell you how I think this through? Can I explain how this works for me? Will you please take a breath and listen to someone other than yourself?
This team has two people on it and no rule book to follow. Like riding a rouge wave...you and the surfboard against the raging water and open sky. Like jumping out of the airplane with the chute into the silence of the wind. Take the path of least resistance, pray, enjoy the ride, savor every moment, and utilize the resources at hand...no matter how inconsequential you think I am.
Leaving was easy. I performed my duties and refused myself the rest of the song. I can't wait to get back in my car and hear that song again. First grit your teeth, nod your head, and breathe. Almost over, jeans on, beer downed, friend called, and out. Away. Refusal. Not going there again. Not hitting my head against that brick wall anymore. Better to keep singing. You can stay and sulk. You can stay and face your confrontation. You can do it just the way you always said it should be done. I choose not to stay for this act. Elvis has left the building...
and we'll fill in the missing colors in our paint by number dreams...
Friends are reliable and safe. Friends listen and steady and allow room. Pretending and pushing away from the inevitable just for an evening...well deserved today, and unwelcome elsewhere. Big sigh.
say a prayer for the pretender...who started out so young and strong, only to surrender...(jackson browne)
This team has two people on it and no rule book to follow. Like riding a rouge wave...you and the surfboard against the raging water and open sky. Like jumping out of the airplane with the chute into the silence of the wind. Take the path of least resistance, pray, enjoy the ride, savor every moment, and utilize the resources at hand...no matter how inconsequential you think I am.
Leaving was easy. I performed my duties and refused myself the rest of the song. I can't wait to get back in my car and hear that song again. First grit your teeth, nod your head, and breathe. Almost over, jeans on, beer downed, friend called, and out. Away. Refusal. Not going there again. Not hitting my head against that brick wall anymore. Better to keep singing. You can stay and sulk. You can stay and face your confrontation. You can do it just the way you always said it should be done. I choose not to stay for this act. Elvis has left the building...
and we'll fill in the missing colors in our paint by number dreams...
Friends are reliable and safe. Friends listen and steady and allow room. Pretending and pushing away from the inevitable just for an evening...well deserved today, and unwelcome elsewhere. Big sigh.
say a prayer for the pretender...who started out so young and strong, only to surrender...(jackson browne)
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