It's not quite summer yet, but I keep yearning for it. And that got me thinking of one of my summer songs. This melody smells of summer to me. Of warm asphalt and sweat. And they words taste like summer in my mouth.
~
summer in the city means cleavage, cleavage, cleavage and I start to miss you, baby, sometimes I've been staying up and drinking in the late night establishments tellin' strangers personal things
summer in the city I'm so lonely, lonely, lonely so I went to a protest just to rub up against strangers and I did feel like coming but I also felt like crying doesn't seem so worth it right now
and the castrated ones stand on the corner, smoking they want to feel the bulges in their pants start to rise at the sight of a beautiful woman, they feel nothing but anger, her skin makes them sick in the night and nauseous, nauseous, nauseous
summer in the city I'm so lonely, lonely, lonely I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women and I tap them on the shoulder and they turn around smiling but there's no recognition in their eyes
oh, summer in the city means cleavage, cleavage, cleavage but don't get me wrong, dear in general, I think I'm doing quite fine it's just when it's summer in the city and you're long gone from the city I start to miss you, baby, sometimes
when there's summer in the city and you're so long gone from the city I start to miss you, baby, sometimes I start to miss you, baby, sometimes I start to miss you, baby, sometimes
well, my time went so quickly I went lickety-splitly out to my ol' 55 as I pulled away slowly, feeling so holy god knows I was feeling alive
and now the sun's coming up I'm riding with lady luck freeway cars and trucks stars beginning to fade and I lead the parade just a'wishing I'd stayed a little longer oh lord, let me tell you that the feeling's getting stronger
and it's six in the morning you gave me no warning I had to be on my way well, there's trucks all a'passing me and the lights all a'flashing I'm on my way home from your place
and now the sun's coming up I'm riding with lady luck freeway cars and trucks stars beginning to fade and I lead the parade just a'wishing I'd stayed a little longer oh lord, let me tell you that the feeling's getting stronger
well, my time went so quickly I went lickety-splitly out to my ol' 55 as I pulled away slowly, feeling so holy god knows I was feeling alive
and now the sun's coming up I'm riding with lady luck freeway cars and trucks freeway cars and trucks freeway cars and trucks
I dag, Gnom. Gnom er/var egentlig et band, men jeg finner ingen av sangene deres på youtube. Så. Jeg får presentere de nydelige tekstene deres som dikt.
~
spør deg sjølv hundre gonger koffor månen står på håvve
ikkje ta for gitt at sola lyser når hu på andre sia kaster skygge
når du teller stjerner nede ved sjøen og trur du har telt alle - har du telt deg sjølv?
takk som byr så mangt ei gåta, men ved neste fyrtårn går eg av båten takk som byr
~
det er lenge te sola står opp frå bak havet der hu bur drikker vann frå en mørkeblå kopp mens blikket møter mur
eg deler vatnet mitt kun med meg sjølv men eg er ikkje særlig tyste eg trur ikkje nogen he gjort dette før eg er vel blant de fyste
tenk om du kunne komt på besøk opp trappå gjønå mørket eg sko ikkje sagt noge om du lukta løk eller om du gjekk i dørken
for me trenger ikkje gjer nogen ting kan sjå på månen når han skinner en masse skygger som danse omkring til de plutselig forsvinner
ingen trenger være redde ingen trenger være redde nå ingenting er på ferde kjenner en som passer på
men koss kan du veta at eg he lyst te å få besøk av deg nå? oppi trappå der er det heilt tyst og på dørå banke ingen på
~
du stryker håret feil vei på en siamesisk katt og eg vett så godt på forhånd ka du vil sei om litt så er det sagt
ja, denne bokå har eg lest før det er som å følga ferske spor i ny snø det er kanskje på tide å slå plenen igjen eller fylla opp i kummen og ta oppvasken
men eg tenke bare "hysj"
i parken er det ikkje én mann ingen som går tur eg går forbi en fontene av en mann som står og pisser vann
og solå var så god og varm då meg og Kris og Geggen gjekk på epleslang nå er det ikkje sånn som det var før kor tid blir det som det bør?
eg tenke bare "hysj"
me satt på gjerdet og sang me satte huset i brann og det var aldri éi sky det begynner å bli ganske lenge si satt og fletta ein løvetannkrans hadde eget bål på sankthans me fortalte historiar og lo eg lurte på ka eg sko bli når eg ble stor åra gjekk og te slutt så blei me russ husker godt ka du skreiv på meg med tusj
du skreiv bare "hysj"
~
kom og skå ut av vinduet på alle som går forbi så mange eg aldri har sett før tru, kor hen skal de?
de har sikkert mange viktige ting å ta seg av me må ikkje forstyrra de la de gå i fred
kanskje me óg sko gått en tur det er en sjeldent fine dag sjølv om me ikkje er så viktige me har det kjekt i lag
me kan gå ner te parken her mate ender og duer der etterpå kan me gå i ste'en kanskje finna en fin kafé
men me treng ikkje tenka på ting me gjer te vanlig bare ta også vær oss sjølv heile dagen
skjer så møje nå om dagane det mesta går meg hus forbi eg lige best å gå i gatene og plystra på en melodi
~
eg sitter under et tak som har gått lekk eg har såte her i nesten fira dager allikevel så kan eg ikkje klaga i mårå tar eg skuta og er vekk
og skutå, hu hete Rocha Gil det finns ingenting som hu ikkje klarer me seiler tvers over havet heilt te me kommer fram til København
og når me legger til land så ska me visa di at me ikkje er redde for et mytteri sånt er bare småtteri
i København ska me treffa han Louis og med han ska me snusa litt i brisen og kanskje blir me jagde av polisen for noge som me gjorde for lenge si
for en gong arresterte di Louis han hadde ikkje reint mel oppi påsen Louis bare dirka litt i låsen og så var han atter en gong fri
så inviterte me te fest nere på akterdekk Louis tok trekkspelet og me sang nattå vekk me synge na na na na na na nah
og om det sku blåse opp til storm då smile eg for då merke eg at eg lever eg står ved roret som en greve og er konge over de sju hav
du spør meg når eg slår meg til ro då svare eg at eg kjenne ikkje den tanken den er for lengst gått planken ligger sikkert trygt på havets bunn
det som vil merke på sjømenn når du treffer di er at di bærer på en form for melankoli en ubeskrivelige lengt itte havstrømmar og te et liv der det er lov te å dagdrømma og synge na na na na na na nah
~
når solå aldri skinner og det regne på deg og klærå dine når du går rundt inne og du leite etter ting du ikkje finner
står og ser i speilet og du lurer på ka det nå du feiler og att og fram og tilbake ingen hører deg når du teller dage
når du slepp ut blir du ny igjen når du slepp ut kan du fly igjen desse såra kan me sy igjen med en tråd, eg er heime
når elvå ikkje renner og stemmen din skjelver og håvet brenner med armane i lenke vil ikkje sei te de andre ka du tenker
så lenge si eg så dagslys ikkje bare tankar kan fly klatre te himmelen
Disse nydelige ordene er skrevet av Ronja Svenning Berge.
~
når alt i verden er så mye... større enn en selv og alle ting er fremmede og rare og byen aldri sover, ikke selv om det blir kveld så er vel ikke tingene helt klare...
med natten kommer ting som dagen leker ikke finns tar tak i henne, slipper først med lyset og byen, den er også det når hun er mørk til sinns i støyen, der bor stillheten og gyset
og det kan være trygt å være ensom i blant folk man er, men ingen ser om en forsvinner og byen snakker samme språk, hun trenger ingen tolk for overalt så dukker det opp minner
men ingen kjenner noen her, og alle er alene og ingenting er noenting og allting er det ene og så - om litt - forsvinner jeg ...jeg håper noen finner meg -
~
I kveld så jeg en katt drepe en fugl i Kuba-parken under den siste konserten på solidaritetsfestivalen.
Det er ikke ment som et bilde på noe altså. Jeg bare så det. Det er fjerde gang jeg har sett en fugl dø. Den første gangen var jeg fire år eller noe sånt, og en spurv kræsjet i stuevinduet vårt på Bildøy. Den andre gangen var jeg sju, og vi fant en liten fuglekonge utenfor huset i Os. Den bodde i en kurv på kjøkkenet i to dager og så døde den. Den tredje måtte jeg drepe fordi den var skadet. Jeg var elleve eller tolv. Fuglen lå og var varm i handa mi.
Jeg vet at det finnes mye fint.
Jordbær og hunder og blindeskrift og Amnesty International og Tom Waits og sånne ting. Alt mulig. Jeg vet det.
Men jeg ender som regel opp med å tenke på alt det andre.
Jeg liker ikke at alt skal være så vanskelig.
Jeg vet at det finnes nok midler til at alle i verden skal kunne ha det bra, i alle fall materielt. Og nok mat og vann, om ressursene forvaltes på riktig måte. Det, for eksempel, kan man bli helt kokko av å tenke på.
Jeg vet en del om politikk, men ikke nok.
Og så skjønner jeg ikke samfunnsøkonomi, ikke så godt i alle fall. Men jeg vet at det meste i den store sammenhengen avhenger av... Ting som har med penger å gjøre.
Jeg vil at man skal hjelpe alle flyktningene helt til de ikke har noe å flykte fra lenger.
Jeg vil at ingen, ingen, ingen skal eie tre tennisbaner og fem sommerhus i Spania.
Egentlig vil jeg vel bare at alle skal være snille mot hverandre. Det holder jo ikke mål som argument. Men jeg vil at det skal holde mål.
Jeg leste VG en dag.
Der var det et dobbelside-oppslag med to svære bilder, et av en ung mann som fikk den ene armen revet av, og et av en gråtende kvinne med en pistol mot tinningen. Og over stod det: "Dette kan barna se på internett." Ja, og i VG, liksom...
Og selvsagt ikke et ord om disse to menneskene, som finnes på ordentlig. Eller, fantes.
Hallo, hallo. Det bråker for mye. Jeg blir sliten i hodet.
I dag var det faktisk bare det jeg ville si. Men jeg skal ut og plukke jordbær i morgen. Man kan jo ikke slutte å prøve...
~
du vandrer milevis bort fra din egen perihél på motsatt side, der det kun finns skygge og den du renger mest er i en annen verdensdel og ingen steder finner du det trygge
vil ikke se på nyheter, kan ikke skru dem av du leser mer, men skjønner stadig mindre og tusen stemmer roper fra hver bidige bokstav om tusen ting som ingen kan forhindre
du takler ikke væren, helt alene med deg selv en prøvelse, selv det å leve over skjønt, dagen kan du makte, men hver dag blir tidsnok kveld og stillheten når alle andre sover...
man vil helst drømme litt når verden blir for stor og platt så akkompagnementet blir deretter og mye skjelnes bedre, kanskje, nå, når det er natt mot lyset kan man kun se silhuetter...
du lengter etter noe, men vet ikke riktig hva i tomrommet når kveldene blir sene men om man først er ensom, er det kanskje like bra å være det et sted man er alene
~
Det er en av disse fine kveldene...
...og så er magen og kanskje hjertet de eneste som nekter å gå med på at man er heldig. For det er man jo. Verden er egentlig ganske morsom til tider, og man er midt inni alt, men det kjennes ut som... ingenting.
Dammit to hell if someone doesn't go around youtube, deleting all sorts of stuff so that I can't include the actual sound of my beloved music here when I want to. "I feel it all" is a song by Feist. The album version is the one I am in love with.
Wet earth. Chocolate milk. The colour orange. Green tea. Decaying, beautiful leaves. September and October and November, of 2008. Black and white stripes. Fireworks. My pulse. Big, old, empty houses. The crisp smell of autumn air. Lipstick. Rythm. Wooly gloves. Adrenaline. Trying really hard. Independance. Acceptance. Emotional strength. Emotional growth. Experience. Wisdom. Love. Life.
~
I feel it all, I feel it all I feel it all, I feel it all the wings are white, the wings are white wild card inside, wild card inside
oh, I'll be the one who'll break my heart I'll be the one to hold the gun
I know more than I knew before I know more than I knew before I didn't rest, I didn't stop did we fight or did we talk?
oh, I'll be the one who'll break my heart I'll be the one to hold the gun
I love you more I love you more I don't know what I knew before but now I know I wanna win the war
no one likes to take a test sometimes you know more is less put your weight against the door kick-drum on the basement floor stranded in a fog of words loved him like a winter bird on my head, the water pours gulf stream through the open door fly away, fly away to what you wanna make I feel it all, I feel it all I feel it all, I feel it all the wings are white, the wings are white wild card inside, wild card inside
oh, I'll be the one who'll break my heart I'll be the one who'll break my heart I'll be the one who'll break my heart I'll end it, though you started it
the truth lies the truth lies and lies divide and lies divide
Today, I'd like to present an article written by a man named Johann Hari. According to his website, he's an award winning, british journalist, and after reading a couple of his articles, I have to say that I'm very impressed, both with his opinions, how he presents them, and the way he uses the american language(I could say "english", but "the way he uses english" sounds really dumb and doesn't explain what I mean). I suppose I'm breaking some sort of copyright rule thing when including this piece of work in my blog, but I'm not sure. So, if you are some sort of authority person capable of making me pay you lots of money because of this blog entry, then please; ask me to remove it, and I will. Don't... Kill me. Or anything like that. Because I am in no way taking credit for Mr. Hari's brilliant writing skills.
Well, here goes.
~
Why I hate 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy' And how camp became outdated
You can catch a great TV double-bill this Saturday night. First up there's Black Eye for the White Guy, in which a gang of black people teach a hapless white guy how to acquire a sense of rhythm and greater sexual proficiency. It's followed by How Jewish Are You?, in which viewers will be quizzed about how cunning, persuasive and good with money they are.
Wait, there's something wrong here. Those shows would - quite rightly - be howled off the screen as peddling obnoxious stereotypes. Yet both Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and How Gay Are You? have been lauded as examples of how laid-back and accepting our society has become towards gay people.
In Queer Eye, a group of five gay men enter the lives of a badly-dressed straight guy. They gasp and tut their way around his flat and wardrobe, gaping at the ways of the mysterious heterosexual. He is then taken in hand: they ensure he is plucked, deodorised, and re-dressed, before being presented to a cheering girlfriend and mother. The show is a cult hit in the US, and a British version launched last week on UK Living.
The show is the straightforward peddling of prejudice. It is all the more aggravating that the producers no doubt consider themselves terribly radical and right-on, rather than manufacturers of a latter-day Black and White Minstrel Show. Queer Eye is based on a myth: the idea that gay men are somehow more stylish.
I am tragic and irrefutable proof that this is untrue. I realised something was wrong with the way I dress when my friends started buying clothes and throwing them into my washing basket, in the hope I would unwittingly wear something decent. Even my own grandmother looked at me in horror when I visited her last week in an ancient "Free Nelson Mandela" T-shirt and Marks and Spencer jeans. "Oh Johann, why can't you dress like those nice gay boys on television?" she asked with tears in her eyes.
Yet the Queer Eye caricature seems like a flattering myth at first. Isn't it nice to be considered stylish and fun? Perhaps; but is this lie any more positive than the belief that black men are well-endowed? Both contain a fetid underside - black men are big below but not very bright up here, it implies, while gay men are good at clothes but when it comes to politics, the Army or sport, leave it to the real men.
I know this sounds churlish. Isn't it better to have openly gay men on television - and being cuddled by straight guys! - than to go back to the dark ages of underground clubs and gay people trapped in heterosexual marriages? Sure. It was progress to have real black people in 1940s movies playing the a-whoopin'-and-a-hollerin' slaves rather than blacked-up actors too. But isn't it better to have neither?
Some people might imagine that camp behaviour is an inherent part of being a gay man. Aren't we somehow - perhaps genetically - more feminine? Aren't camp and gay basically the same thing? It's only if you look at the history of camp that you understand how flawed this belief is. Camp behaviour evolved among gay men during the 18th and 19th centuries for a good reason. Gay men couldn't be open about their sexuality, so they developed a shared way of behaving. Only by acting and dressing in a certain way could they send signals to each other and find sexual partners.
So camp behaviour represents the values of the 19th-century closet. To survive and to retain any sense of self-esteem, the gay men of that generation developed a camp outlook on life. Its main features were irony, theatrical frivolity, an aristocratic detachment from the worries of straight people, parody, and an emphasis on style over substance. It made sense then. But I've got news for you: the closet is broken, and we're never going back - yet too many gay people are still trapped on an outmoded camp-site.
The persistence of campery long after it has fulfilled its historical function seems, initially, quite harmless. The Queer Eye team seem to be likeable, happy men, after all. For every miserable, self-hating camp man - Kenneth Williams or the characters from the famous 1970s movie The Boys in the Band - there is a jolly Mr Humphries or a manic Graham Norton. But camp presents two big problems.
At university, I got to know a very butch, very male, very hairy rugby player. I'll call him Mark. He was the least camp person I have ever known. He drank a pint of real ale over breakfast and burped, it seemed, at 15-minute intervals. The closest he got to elegance and style was when he vomited in the bin instead of on the carpet. Yet I discovered, gradually, that he was gay.
The dominance of camp behaviour in the gay world massively increased his confusion. "How can I be gay," he asked one day, "when I can't stand Abba, I hated Muriel's Wedding, and I'd rather be shot than wear a wig?" On How Gay Are You? - the new Sky One quiz show - Mark would be judged to be heterosexual, because he does not conform to any of their "gay" characteristics. There's just one snag: he's attracted to men.
Camp has become an inaccurate and misleading label. By preserving and re-enacting the rituals of 19th century gay men, we make it harder for masculine 21st century gay men to understand their sexuality. Mark dreaded being seen as camp; he is still closeted, in part because he does not want to be seen as a Queer Eye queen
But the persistence of camp has also led to a dysfunctional gay culture. Susan Sontag wrote a famous essay defining camp in 1964, where she explained, "It is a way of seeing the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. It goes without saying this is disengaged, depoliticised - or at least apolitical."
In a camp world, it doesn't matter what you do so long as you do it with style. This explains the camp man's admiration (and staggering willingness to vote for) Margaret Thatcher. Sure, she introduced the most explicitly homophobic piece of legislation in decades with Section 28, but, darling, did you see her boots?
The moral emptiness of the Queer Eye mentality is summarised in Oscar Wilde's play Lady Windemere's Fan, when a character says, "It's absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." This way of thinking is a key factor in the current gay scene, drained of solidarity with the gay people who are viciously oppressed across the world. That's all terribly earnest, dear; we'd rather talk about Kylie's latest frock. Irony and narcissism have captured and crippled gay politics.
Beyond Queer Eye, the truth about gay people - as we finally shuffle past the twitching, ball-gowned corpse of camp - must be dull, dull, dull. In reality, we are not gifted stylists and geniuses with eye-liner. We are just as likely to be mediocre - or brilliant - as our straight brothers.
Being welcomed as performing chimps for the straight folks does not mean we've won the battle for cultural acceptance. No, it will come when we are (rightly) seen to be as boring and lacking in style as everybody else.
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister. Varför skulle annars våren tveka? Varför skulle all vår heta längtan bindas i det frusna bitterbleka? Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern. Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger? Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister, ont för det som växer och det som stänger.
Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller. Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger, klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider - tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger. Svårt at vara oviss, rädd och delad. svårt at känna djupet dra och kalla, ändå sitta kvar och bara darra - svårt at vilja stanna och vilja falla.
Då, när det är värst och inget hjälper, brister som i jubel trädets knoppar. Då, när ingen rädsla längre håller, faller i et glitter kvistens droppar, glömmer at de skrämdes av det nya, glömmer att de ängslades för färden - känner en sekund sin största trygghet, vilar i den tillit som skapar världen.
Done a slight change in the lyrics. It's supposed to be "oh" instead of "all", but the lyrics are... Better that way. And they mean more to me that way. It fits better. That lyrical change and the entire song is dedicated to someone. But shhh. Don't ask. I can't tell you who it is.
I don't like being a stranger in my own body. In my own mind. What happened?
~
all my life is changing every day in every possible way and all my dreams it's never quite as it seems never quite as it seems
I know I've felt like this before but now I'm feeling it even more because it came from you and then I open up and see the person falling here is me a different way to be
I want more impossible to ignore impossible to ignore and they'll come true impossible not do do impossible not to do
and now I tell you, openly you have my heart, so don't hurt me you're what I couldn't find a totally amazing mind so understanding and so kind you're everything to me
all my life is changing every day in every possible way and all my dreams it's never quite as it seems 'cause you are a dream to me
now that she's back in the atmosphere with drops of Jupiter in her hair she acts like summer and walks like rain reminds me that there's a time to change since the return of her stay on the moon she listens like spring and she talks like June
but tell me, did you sail across the sun? did you make it to the Milkey Way to see the light all faded, and that heaven is overrated?
and tell me, did you fall from a shooting star, one without a permanent scar? and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
now that she's back from that soul vacation tracing her way through the constellations she checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo reminds me that there's a time to grow now that she's back in the atmosphere I'm afraid that she might take me as plain ol' Jane told a story 'bout a man who was too afraid to fly, so he never did land
but tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day and head back to the Milkey Way?
and tell me, did Venus blow your mind? was it everything you wanted to find? and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
can you imagine no love, pride, deep fried chicken? your best friend always sticking up for you, even when I know you're wrong? can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance? five hour phone conversation? the best soy latte that you never had and me?
but tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day and head back to the Milkey Way?
but tell me, did you sail across the sun? did you make it to the Milkey Way to see the light all faded, and that heaven is overrated?
and tell me, did you fall from a shooting star, one without a permanent scar? and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
This song gives me goosebumps. It's such an amazing piece of work. Especially the last verse. And the lyrics are just... Perfection. Now, take a deep breath. This is going to be a long one.
~
a long, long time ago I can still remember how that music used to make me smile and I knew, if I had my chance that I could make those people dance and maybe they'd be happy for a while
but february made me shiver with every paper I'd deliver bad news on the doorstep I couldn't take one more step
I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride but something touched me deep inside the day the music died
so bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
did you write the book of love and do you have faith in god above if the bible tells you so? now, do you believe in rock and roll? can music save your mortal soul? and can you teach me how to dance real slow?
well, I know that you're in love with him 'cause I saw you dancing in the gym you both kicked off your shoes man, I dig those rythm and blues I was a lonely teenage broncin buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck but I knew I was out of luck the day the music died
I started singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
now, for ten years, we've been on our own and moss grows fat on a rolling stone but that's not how it used to be when the jester sang for the king and queen in a coat he borrowed from James Dean and a voice that came from you and me
oh, and while the king was looking down the jester stole his thorny crown the courtroom was adjourned no verdict was returned and while Lennon read a book on Marx the quartet practiced in the park and we sang dirges in the dark the day the music died
we were singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
helter skelter in a summer swelter the birds flew off with a fallout shelter eight miles high and falling fast it landed foul on the grass the players tried for a forward pass with the jester on the sidelines in a cast
now, the half time air was sweet perfume while the sergeants played a marching tune we all got up to dance oh, but we never got the chance 'cause the players tried to take the field the marching band refused to yield do you recall what was revealed the day the music died?
we started singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
oh, and there we were, all in one place a generation lost in space with no time left to start again so come on, Jack, be nimble, Jack, be quick Jack flash sat on a candlestick 'cause fire is the devil's only friend
oh, and as I watched him on the stage my hands were clenched in fists of rage no angel born in hell could break that satan's spell and as the flames climbed high into the night to light the sacrificial rite I saw satan laughing with delight the day the music died
he was singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
I met a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news but she just smiled and turned away I went down to the sacred store where I'd heard the music years before but the man there said the music wouldn't play
and in the streets, the children screamed the lovers cried and the poets dreamed but not a word was spoken the church bells all were broken and the three men I admire most; the father, son, and the holy ghost they caught the last train for the coast the day the music died
and they were singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
they were singing bye bye, miss american pie drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "this'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die,"
It's my 20th birthday, so I've chosen a song that goes wayyy back for me. Memories, you know. To me, it makes sense to choose something that's been with me for a long time, on a day that has to do with getting older and celebrating your own life and, if you like, your past. This is a part of me. I like picking up things I haven't held for a long time. Everything's slightly out of proportion and it feels smaller in your arms and it smells different (but still oh so sweet), and although you've changed, what you're holding hasn't. That's what it's like with me and this song. The song is just as it used to be, but holding it feels so different, yet exactly the same... Ah, I'm no good at using metaphors, and I'm not doing it to seem clever, but it's not really a metaphor for me. It's how it really feels. Well. I think I was about twelve when I fell for this. And I still adore the melody. The lyrics aren't very special, not to an outsider anyway, but I used to love them so I can't help but love them still. Once, they meant everything to me. But more than anything, I love the last part, after the bridge... There's a harp and a flute... Ah, I used to play that part over and over and over and over, mostly in bed, at night, thinking about the world and the dark and adventures and mysteries and treasure and love. I miss doing that.
~
run through the cold of the night as passion burns in your heart ready to fight a knife held close by your side like the proud wolf alone in the dark with eyes that watch the world and my name, like a shadow on the face of the moon
broken mirror, a million shades of light the old echo fades away but just you and I can find the answer, and then we can run to the end of the world we can run to the end of the world
cold fire clenched to my heart in the blue of night torn by this pain I paint your name in sound and the girl of the dawn with eyes of blue and angel wings the songs of the seasons are her only crown
broken mirror, a million shades of light the old echo fades away but just you and I can find the answer, and then we can run to the end of the world we can run to the end of the world
we met in the mist of morning and parted deep in the night broken sword and shield and tears that never fall but run through the heart washed away by the darkest water the world is peaceful and still
broken mirror, a million shades of light the old echo fades away but just you and I can find the answer, and then we can run to the end of the world we can run to the end of the world
