Lookin’ back in front of me, in the mirror’s grin
Through eyes of love I see, I’m really lookin at a friend
We’ve all had our problems, that’s the way life is
My heart goes out to others, who are there to make amends
Tag Archives: music
Music Monday (On a Tuesday): Waiting on the World to Change
And when you trust your television
What you get is what you got
Cause when they own the information, oh
They can bend it all they want
It’s hard to beat the system
When we’re standing at a distance
Music Monday: I Want it All
I’m a man with a one track mind,
So much to do in one life time,
Not a man for compromise and where’s and why’s and living lies
So much to do in one life time,
Not a man for compromise and where’s and why’s and living lies
Everything’s Gonna Be All Right
When night is blinding, and far fuller than I’d ever imagined;
When silence is so deafening I fear I’ll never hear again;
When fear creeps up and threatens to drown me in its embrace;
I push my way through to Koko.
If Koko Taylor said it, it must be true.
I Told You I Was Trouble
So I’m three acts deep in the Tempest, and I am digging it. I am digging it, digging it. For the first time in a long time, I’m not feeling like some voyeuristic pervert giggling in class every time a pun is used. Apparently, the Tempest is really dirty. Well, I was, at least until Mike reassured me that it wasn’t just me.
I really thought I was losing my mind. That this influx of hormones, of interest, of, yes, I’ll admit it, of The Filthy Shakespeare which I just purchased was at fault.
I’m rather relieved that it was the bard himself.
Having decided to do the legal music thing (and listening to a bit of her on YouTube), I also ordered Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. I had been off-put by her rep, I suppose, not having heard her until very recently.
Oh. My. God.
Go Me
I have an MP3 player. I think I’ve officially landed in the 21st century.
Now to try to figure out how to use it before I pass out.
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Now playing: Ella Fitzgerald – Cry Me a River
via FoxyTunes
Waterboy
(From Live’s Mental Jewelry)
Just because it seems so apropos.
| Waterboy | |
 |
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| What do you say to the child Whose god is in the T.V. And what do you say to the man who blames the world on T.V. They don’t even know how to sing my song Who is standing over playing like Free my son What do you say to the man “Come and see my heart, come inside and learn”? Who is making over Free my son |
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A Brand New Year (Or Close Enough)
This time is normally a time of reflection and writing for me. I accomplish more non-school related writing between the middle of December and the middle of January than any other time of the year.
I haven’t done my normal end of semester activities: devoured movies, gone to the country, or driven all over hell and back. I’ve mostly slept and sneezed.
I looked at the blog entries: inconsequential things, really, and not at all reflective of what’s been going on.
I thought when I’d finally get around to doing a New Year’s blog entry, I’d be full of optimism or, possibly, pessimism. I’d cry “I’ve taken stock and this is what I want, where I am, yoohoo!”
Instead, I’ve found myself thoroughly lost within a song.
Three AM
I feel like a Matchbox 20 song right now.
Only I’m brain dead. And can’t move. And can’t write. And can’t sleep.
I just have this song going through my head.
And two unfinished papers.
New Orleans
The French Quarter, beautiful and resplendent, perfect. St Louis Cathedral and an informal historical tour of New Orleans. There is something so amazingly lovely about that cathedral, the big sprawling lawn before it, the heresy of tarot readers and street performers framing its boundaries. The street musicians and the caricature artists.They are the ones that hold the secrets of New Orleans, these people around the boundaries of St. Louis’ Cathedral. Their gift to the city is not their art, although that would be gift enough. Their gift is that they release the secrets.
The secrets spill into the French Market, pause in the gaping hole where the Famer’s Market used to be. No more alligator-on-a-stick or raw sugar cane. These secrets, both glorious and gory, continue on, hungry, spreading through the Market, around the corner, past Elysian Fields and ’round to Bourbon Street.
They cross themselves like good Catholics, bending and swirling and genuflecting all over the city.
Lyrical Fool 