Both Hands

~

I am walking out in the rain

and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again

and I am getting nowhere with you

and I can't let it go and I can't get through

the old woman behind the pink curtains

and the closed door on the first floor

she's listening through the air shaft

to see how long our swan song can last

and both hands, now use both hands

oh, no, don't close your eyes

I am writing grafitti on your body

I am drawing the story of

how hard we tried

how hard we tried

and I am watching your chest rise and fall

like the tides of my life and the rest of it all

and your bones have been my bedframe and your flesh has been my pillow

I am waiting for sleep to offer up the deep with both hands
oh, with both hands

but in each other's shadow we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theory's gonna explain it all
and I'm recording our history on the bedroom wall
and when we leave the landlord will come and paint over it all

I am walking out in the rain

and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again

and I am getting nowhere with you

and I can't let it go and I can't get through

and both hands, now use both hands

oh, no, don't close your eyes

I am writing grafitti on your body

I am drawing the story of

how hard we tried

how hard we tried

You had time

I'm not sure about this one. What kind of story it tells. And it doesn't feel like one of my stories, except maybe... It reminds me of... The feeling I get when I tell people that I'm sad or scared or tired and their only reaction is to say, "why?".

The melody and her voice sounds like rain and it's all so very beautiful and calm and melancholic. And I don't really need anything else on a gray and rainy day, when the world is full of wooshing noises and nothingness. Except maybe a warm hand. That would be nice.

~

how can I go home with nothing to say?
I know you're going to look at me that way
and say, "what did you do out there?
what did you decide?
you said you needed time and you had time"

you are a china shop and I am a bull
you are really good food and I am full
I guess everything is timing
I guess everything's been said
so I am coming home with an empty head

you'll say, "did they love you or what?"
I'll say, "they love what I do.
the only one who really loves me is you..."
and you'll say, "girl did you kick some butt."
and I'll say, "I don't really remember,
but my fingers are sore
and my voice is too."

you'll say, "it's really good to see you"
you'll say, "I missed you horribly"
you'll say "let me carry that, give that to me"
and you will take the heavy stuff
and you will drive the car
and I'll look out the window making jokes
about the way things are



how can I go home with nothing to say?
I know you're going to look at me that way
and say, "what did you do out there?
what did you decide?
you said you needed time and you had time"

Will you still love me tomorrow?

Her voice. It haunts me.

~

tonight you're mine completely
you give your love so sweetly
tonight the light of love is in your eyes
but will you love me tomorrow?

is this a lasting treasure
or just a moment's pleasure?
can I believe the magic of your sighs?
will you still love me tomorrow?

tonight with words unspoken
you say that I'm the only one
but will my heart be broken
when the night meets the morning sun?

I'd like to know that your love
is love I can be sure of
so tell me now, and I won't ask again
will you still love me tomorrow?

so tell me now, and I won't ask again
will you still love me tomorrow?
will you still love me tomorrow?
will you still love me tomorrow?

'Til Kingdom Come

Songs are never really easy to figure out, and they can mean so many things at once, soothe or riot emotions in so many situations. Me, I find that a beloved song or melody or tune is a place to return to.I make homes in the songs that I hold dear. And I always come back. Always.

This one is a bit of a mystery to me, but it sort of makes perfect sense, too. All the best mysteries do. There's something comforting about the steady piano and the gentle guitar. The subtle melody carries me away to open skies and closed off rooms, to secrets and confessions, to promises and changes of heart. A song, for me, about letting go. Of death, perhaps, or of heading in a new direction and leaving things you once loved behind - or taking them with you, never really letting go, while picking up new things to love along the way. Of how life doesn't pause for anyone. How everything always keeps moving.

Stories about letting go have always fascinated me, because I've never been good at it. I'm terrible at it, actually. I'm the kind of person who'll begin sobbing because of the way a particular sunset looks on the TV screen - because that I'll never get to see that exact sight ever again. I've lost so many things and I never could stop missing them. I just don't know how to. And accepting death? Leaving this world without feeling anything but resignation and love for the things that were once mine? I don't think I will ever be able to feel that way. I love this strange little planet far too much to even imagine letting go some day. It's nice to dream that I might, though. To hope.

I took in the beauty of this (I haven't listened to it in months, and it was like coming home, it always is) on the way home from the subway, wearing my new flowery dress with pride, looking at the stars and thinking about all the mysteries still ahead of me and the pear soda I had yet to drink up. It was one of the best walks home I have ever had.

~

still my heart and hold my tongue

I feel my time, my time has come

let me in, unlock the door

I've never felt this way before

and the wheels just keep on turning

the drummer begins to drum

I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know which way I've come

hold my head inside your hands

I need someone who understands

I need someone, someone who hears

for you I've waited all these years

for you I'd wait 'til kingdom come

until my day, my day is done

and say you'll come and set me free

just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me

in your tears and in your blood

in your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh, I heard you sing

I wouldn't change a single thing

and the wheels just keep on turning

the drummers begin to drum

I don't know which way I'm going

I don't know what I've become

for you I'd wait 'til kingdom come

until my days, my days are done

and say you'll come and set me free

just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me

just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me

just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me

the perks of being a wallflower #2

a very, very sad poem that I found in this lovely book about an hour ago.

~

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
valentine signed with a row of Xs
and he had to ask his father what the Xs meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A. M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly


That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

The perks of being a wallflower #1

right now I'm reading a book that's both strange and beautiful, and painful too. it's called "the perks of being a wallflower" and it's written in letter form. the main character is a boy (I think he's fifteen) named charlie. I like him very much. I want to stroke his hair and make everything ok for him, but I don't think he exists so doing that would be hard. at times his mind makes complete sense to me, and at other times I don't get him at all. I suppose humans are like that a lot.
below are a few of the beautiful things that charlie writes, my favourite words and sentences so far.
<3 <3 <3


~
So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm till trying to figure out how that could be.
~
Anyway, Patrick started driving really fast, and just before we got to the tunnel, Sam stood up, and the wind turned her dress into ocean waves. When we hit the tunnel, all the sound got scooped up into a vacuum and it was replaced by a song on the tape player. A beautiful song called "Landslide". When we got out of the tunnel, Sam screamed this really fun scream, and there it was. Downtown. Lights on buildings and everything that makes you wonder. Sam sat down and started laughing. Patrick started laughing. I started laughing. And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.
~
It was one of those days that I didn't mind going to school because the weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don't think I've ever felt that clean before. When I got home, I had to mow the lawn for my allowance, and I didn't mind one bit. I just listened to the music, and breathed in the day, and remembered things. Things like walking around the neighborhood and looking at the houses and the lawns and the colorful trees and having that be enough.
~
Patrick says Craig is "cut and hunky". I do not know where Patrick finds his expressions.
~
It's like he would take a photograph of Sam, and the photograph would be beautiful. And he would think that the reason the photograph was beautiful was because of how he took it. If I took it, I would know that the only reason it's beautiful is because of Sam.

~

She really didn't say any more other than that, although she kept talking.

~

Old pictures look very rugged and young, and the people in the photographs always seem a lot happier than you are.

~

Incidentally, I have thought of my second gift for Patrick. It is magnetic poetry. (...) Gift number three was a set of watercolor paints and some paper. I thought he might like to get them even if he never uses them. Gift number four was a harmonica and a book about playing it. I guess it's probably the same gift as the water colors, but I really think that everyone should have watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica.

Hotel song

I am, for once, too tired to say anything other than the fact that I love Regina's voice and that I get pictures in my head of black dresses, yellow light, pictures on walls and staircases when I listen to this.

~

come in
come in
come into my world
I've got to show, show, show you
come into my bed
I've got to know, know, know you
I have dreams of orca wales and owls
but I wake up and I fear
you will never be my
you will never be my fool
will never be my fool

floaters in my eyes
wake up in a hotel room
cigarettes and lies
I am a child, it's too soon
I have dreams of orca wales and owls
but I wake up and I fear
you will never be my
you will never be my fool
will never be my fool

a little bag of cocaine
a little bag of cocaine
so who's the girl wearing my dress?
I figured out her number
inside a paper napkin
but I don't know her adress

I wait downstairs
the porter smiles to me
a smile I've bought
with a couple of gold coins
a sign that I've been caught
I have dreams of orca wales and owls
but I wake up and I fear
you will never be my
you will never be my dear
will never be my dear, dear friend

a little bag of cocaine
a little bag of cocaine
so who's the girl wearing my dress?
I figured out her number
inside a paper napkin
but I don't know her adress

come into my world
I've got to show, show, show you
come into my bed
I've got to know, know, know you
I have dreams of orca wales and owls
but I wake up and I fear
you will never be my
you will never be my dear
will never be my dear, dear friend

The houses of healing (Arwen's song)

Words that capture me. I wish I could hold you closer. Not close. Closer. Reflect on that. Close your eyes. Dream.

~

with a sigh you turn away
with a deepening heart
no more words to say
you will find
that the world has changed forever

and the trees are now turning
from green to gold
and the sun is now fading
I wish I could hold you closer

Wind

this song means everything, in a way. sometimes I'm able to hold on to what it says. to the beautiful piano and the drums, and the thought of dreaming and dreaming and then dreaming some more. at other times it just... hurts. but it will stay with me. always. and even though the title is wind as in("winding road"), it will always be wind(as in "the wind feels nice") to me.

~

cultivate your hunger before you idealize
motivate your anger to make them all realize
climbing the mountain, never coming down
break into the contents, never falling down

my knee is still shaking, like when I was twelve
sneaking out of the classroom by the back door
a man railed at me twice, though, but I didn't care
waiting is wasting for people like me

don't try to live so wise
don't cry, cause you're so right
don't dry with fakes or fears
cause you will hate yourself in the end

you say, "dreams, sir, dream
I ain't gonna play the fool anymore"
you say, "cause I still got my soul"

take your time, baby
your blood needs slowing down
breach your soul to reach yourself before you gloom
reflection of fear makes shadows of nothing
shadows of nothing

you still are blind if you see a winding road
cause there's always a straight way to the point you see

don't try to live so wise
don't cry, cause you're so right
don't dry with fakes or fears
cause you will hate yourself in the end

Emergency trap

Mogwai <3 <3 <3

Auto rock

Mogwai <3 <3

Friend of the night

Mogwai <3

Stephen King

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.

- The Body

~

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure. 

- Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption

~

 

Maybe, he thought, there aren't any such things as good or bad friends - maybe there are just friends, people who stand by you when you're hurt and who help you feel not so lonely. Maybe they're always worth being scared for, and hoping for, and living for. Maybe worth dying for, too, if that's what has to be. No good friends. No bad friends. Only people you want, need to be with; people who build their houses in your heart.

- IT

~

So you leave, and there is an urge to look back, to look back just once as the sunset fades, to see that severe New England skyline one final time...Best not to look back. Best to believe that there will be happily ever afters all the way around - and so there may be; who is to say there will not be such endings? Not all boats which sail away into darkness never find the sun again, or the hand of another child; if life teaches anything at all, it teaches that there are so many happy endings that the man who believes there is no God needs his rationality called into serious question...So drive away quick, drive away while the last of the light slips away...drive away from Derry, from memory...but not from desire. That stays, the bright cameo of all we were and all we believed as children, all that shone in our eyes even when we were lost and the wind blew in the night. Drive away and try to keep smiling. Get a little rock and roll on the radio and go toward all the life there is with all the courage you can find and all the belief you can muster. Be true, be brave, stand. All the rest is darkness.

- IT

~

When I was a kid I believed everything I was told, everything I read, and every dispatch sent out by my own overheated imagination. This made for more than a few sleepless nights, but it also filled the world I lived in with colors and textures I would not have traded for a lifetime of restful nights.

- Nightmares and Dreamscapes

~

"I'm rightly tired of the pain I hear and feel, boss. I'm tired of bein on the road, lonely as a robin in the rain. Not never havin no buddy to go on with or tell me where we's comin from or goin' to or why. I'm tired of people bein ugly to each other. It feels like pieces of glass in my head. I'm tired of all the times I've wanted to help and couldn't." I'm tired of bein in the dark. Mostly it's the pain. There's too much. If I could end it, I would. But I cain't.

- The Green Mile

~

Do you know how cruel your God can be, David. How fantastically cruel? ...Sometimes he makes us live. 

- Desperation

~

Show me a man or a woman alone and I'll show you a saint. Give me two and they'll fall in love. Give me three and they'll invent the charming thing we call 'society'. Give me four and they'll build a pyramid. Give me five and they'll make one an outcast. Give me six and they'll reinvent prejudice. Give me seven and in seven years they'll reinvent warfare. Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home. 

- The Stand

~

Hearts can break. Yes. Hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don't

-  Hearts in Atlantis

~

Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

- On Writing

Clean white love

Lisa Mitchell <3

I like/love/adore/covet/treasure this song so very much, and the video captures the feeling of the music and the words and Lisa's voice and the way she shapes and forms the words in her mouth completely. Soft, dewy grass, friends, skin against skin, blankets and berries and early mornings/late, late, late nights, red lipstick, the way your hair ends up smelling after you've been in the sun for a while (it's almost the way babies smell, honest), soft, secret kisses, laughter, laughter, laughter. This song inspired me to purchase red rubber boots. I can't really afford them yet, though, so technically they're just in my wishlist at www.ellos.no - but I will get them, and I'll get red lipstick and gloves too, and then I'll be ready for the beautiful summer storms yet to come. 

I have someone to call my clean white love. And I love saying that, I love the way those words taste: clean white love. Thank you thank you thank you, Lisa Mitchell.

~

I left the keys in the car, I left the door ajar

I didn't want to be alone

these are the days and the nights

of these sweet, humbling hights

and I know it used to be home

whisk me away, I'll be yours for a day

in heavenly fields which we roam

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

what are you doing?

what are you doing?

what are you doing to me?

what are you doing to my head?

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

I gave my heart on the morning of November sixth

oh, everybody's looking for a fix

sell me a sign, I'll cut the telephone line
just to keep expectations alive
oh, you're bleeding me dry
but the feeling is blind
so I climbed up your looking device
sell me it straight, oh it might be too late
to keep on breaking the rules

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

what are you doing?

what are you doing?

what are you doing to me?

what are you doing to my head?

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

I gave my heart on the morning of November sixth

oh, everybody's looking for a fix

in this nervous disease there's a cure I need

let the medicine get to the bone

remember this place, leave it up to fate

is it true that it's kind to be cruel?

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

what are you doing?

what are you doing?

what are you doing to me?

what are you doing to my head?

woah, oh, oh, you're my clean white love

woah, oh, oh, you're too clean, white love

gave my heart on the morning of November sixth

oh, everybody's looking for a fix

China Roses

China Roses was my first ever Enya-song. I remember hearing it for the first time - where I was, what it felt like... I was alone with my dad at our summer place, our cabin. It was a southern-Norway-type-summer, blue nights and seagulls and lots of dew in the grass every night and every morning, and most of all, dreams. Dad was in his room, and though I don't remember it I am sure I could hear him turning pages in his book. I don't remember if I found the casette or if it was in the casette player thingie already or if dad put it on for me before going to bed, but... This lovely, streaming melody flowed towards me and I remember spooling all the way back and listening to it, again and again and again.

~

who can tell me if we have heaven?

who can say the way it should be?

moonlight, holly, the Sappho comet

angel tears below a tree

you talk of the break of morning

as you view the new aurora

cloud in crimson, the key of heaven

one love carved in acajou

one told me of china roses

one, a thousand nights and one night

earth's last picture, the end of evening

hue of indigo and blue

a new moon leads me to
woods of dreams, and I follow
a new world waits for me
my dream, my way

I know that if I have heaven
there is nothing to desire
rain and river, a world of wonder
may be paradise to me

Freckles

Freckles

I both curse and love this book, and I haven't even read it yet. It's just so me, so me I feel like I'm the one who wrote those words, they sound like they came from my heart and my mouth and my way of writing. I'm envious. I think this beautiful person might have written my book. It scares me a little. What if whatever I end up writing one day will be some sort of copy of this? What if the world doesn't want any fragile, confused, observant words anymore once I'm actually ready to create something worth reading? 

Anyway. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. The person who wrote the book called "Freckles" also wrote this. His words are mine now. I don't own them, but they're mine. I'm in love, you see, and when I fall in love with words, I keep them and care for them and taste them and write them out everywhere and anywhere that I can. That's one of the reasons why I made this blog to begin with; as a storage place for all the words that belong to me (they belong to anyone else who want them too, I love sharing)but weren't written by me. 

I highlighted the words I love the best.

~

There are so many failures and agendas and victories to tell you all about or to hide from you. There are clouds and Tuesday and the color yellow. There is the tea that I am drinking and there has got to be a way to get this right.

Where do we begin? Where did we leave off?
Footprints in the snow, the taste of fresh blood in the winter, are we predators or prey or does it change with the seasons and let me clear my throat and you go make yourself some tea because this is going to take a minute.

Sometimes rainbow, sometimes cotton candy piss yellow brown black, in between life with your seat belt on. Stopping for some coffee while kissing your face and forgetting everything but making appointments. Shameless self promotion, spending problem, drug habit, beautiful life. Soft sleep in the afternoon, you're sweet and I'm lies and ghost ships. Oyster, sand in between the toes, pop music, you fucker. I set sail, I wish I would.

Love Letter

My heart melted at this and I had to rebuilt it out of salty air and dusty floors and tenderness. It's very fragile now, and it still quivers every time I listen to the beauty of it - which I've done about fiftysix times now. I don't really know what to say. The words cling together like droplets of water cling to hair. It's all just so spectacularly, carefully, softly beautiful. And so, so sad.

~

I'd like a flat white, a day of pale skies
and a real kiss
inside an old house by the seaside
you can take off my blouse
but take it from me, I'm a disorderly
and you'd be off better
writing someone else your love letter
'cause I'm always on the road

and of course I wanna know you better
but you know the way it goes
a telegram is no substitute
when it comes to living proof
oh, go ahead and write somebody else
somebody else, oh, anybody
your love letter

and I need a flight home, there's no day to argue
no, I need my pillow
oh, inside an old house by the seaside
you can take off my blouse
but take it from me, I'm a disorderly
and you'd be off better
writing someone else your love letter
'cause I'm always on the road

and of course I wanna know you better
but you know the way it goes
a telegram is no substitute
when it comes to living proof
go on and write somebody else, somebody else
somebody else a love letter

oh, living in that chest there's a big, big heart
one I've known from the very start
oh, living in that chest there's a big, big heart
one I've known from the very start
oh, living in that chest there's a big, big heart
one I've known from the very start
oh, living in that chest there's a big, big heart
one I've known from the very start

go on and write somebody else a love letter
'cause I'm always on the road
and of course, of course I wanna know you better
but you know the way it goes

Letters

I found this here. 

<3

~

I say that I like certain things but I don't really like them.

Everything is screaming for something else.

I could tell you that I like swimming.
I go swimming every day. But I only go swimming because I don't know how to exercise and in my head the next time I meet some girl I can say "This is the pool where I swim every day."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

And she will fall in love with me for at least three weeks. We will wake up early to eat banana pancakes smothered in maple syrup. And we'll blow a little into our coffee if it's too hot.

Precious Things

Pieces that have broken along the way from where you came from to where you are... Running through open, white spaces, cutting your feet on glass flying through the air, twisting limbs and cold fingertips digging at the earth. Children laughing and pointing fingers. Being so desperate for attention that you'll take anything that can be interpreted as a compliment to heart. That's what I see when I listen to this, anyway.

"Precious Things" is a perfect song for heated anger or passionate pain, for regret and confusion. I'm not really sure. But earlier today I listened to this, the original version, with the drums and the effects that make the "I..." dig deep into my chest as the soundwaves crash against me... And I was curled up on the bed with a hard, blazing look in my eyes - well, I didn't see my eyes, but they felt hard and blazing - anger at the world and at my past and present welling up inside. This song shakes the very ground I stand of every time I allow it to slip inside of me. I haven't in a long time, because it hurts. It's a song made out of four years ago and pictures inside of my head that I can't seem to get a hold of, now. Everything slips away. 

~

so I ran faster

but it caught me here

yes, my loyalties turned

like my ankle

in the seventh grade

running after Billy

running after the rain

these precious things

let them bleed

let them wash away

these precious things

let them break

their hold on me

I...

he said, "you're really an ugly girl,

but I like the way you play."

and I died

but I thanked him

can you believe that?

sick, sick

holding on to his picture

dressing up every day

I wanna smash the faces

of those beautiful boys

those christian boys

so you can make me come

that doesn't make you Jesus

these precious things

let them bleed

let them wash away

these precious things

let them break

their hold on me

I...

...I remember, yes

in my peach party dress

no one dared

no one cared to tell me

where the pretty girls are

those demigods

with their nine inch nails

and little fascist panties tucked inside the heart of every nice girl

these precious things

let them bleed

let them wash away

these precious things

let them bleed

let them wash away

these, these precious things

let them bleed, now

let them wash away

these, these precious things

let them break

their hold on me

I...

Red right hand

When I first took in the lyrics of this rather scary tune I immediately thought of Randal Flagg, the bad guy from Stephen King's "The Stand". A fascinating, deeply disturbing character with exceptional manipulative abilities and a heckload of twisted charm mixed with some magical powers, arrogance, and the biggest pinch of evil I've seen in a long time. I've looked and looked for a proper description of him, or a quote or something that will fit these fantastic lyrics written by Nick Cave, but the internetz has failed me yet again, so I'll just have to add a quote later when I come home from my little easter holiday and can look through my copy of "The Stand" (marvellous book, by the way). I did find something, though, but it doesn't really describe his dark charisma - only his evil intentions.  

"He looks like anybody you see on the street. But when he grins, birds fall dead off telephone lines...the grass yellows up and dies where he spits. He's always outside. He came out of time...He has the name of a thousand demons. Jesus knocked him into a herd of pigs once. His name is Legion. He's afraid of us...He knows magic. He can call the wolves and live in the crows...He's the king of nowhere." 

Oh, damn, I found another one: 

Randal Flagg: Oh! I never even introduced myself, did I? Pleased to meet you, Lloyd. Hope you guessed my name.

Lloyd Henried: Huh?

Randal Flagg: Oh, uh... Nothing. Just a little classical reference.

~


take a little walk to the edge of town
go across the tracks
where the viaduct looms like a bird of doom
as it shifts and cracks
where the secrets lie in the border fires
in humming wires
hey man, you know you're never coming back
past the square, past the bridge
past the mills, past the stack
on a gathering storm comes a tall, handsome man

in a dusty, black coat with a red right hand

he'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been

a good boy
he'll rekindle all the dreams it took you
a lifetime to destroy
he'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul
but there won't be a single thing that you can do
he's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru
they're whispering his name through this disappearing land
but hidden in his coat is a red right hand

you ain't got no money?
he'll get you some
you ain't got no car?
he'll get you one
you ain't got no self respect, you feel like an insect?
well, don't you worry, buddy, 'cause here he comes
through the ghettos and the barrio and he bowery and the slum
a shadow is cast wherever he stands
stacks of green paper in his red right hand

you'll see him in your nightmares
you'll see him in your dreams
he'll appear out of nowhere, but
he ain't what he seems
you'll see him in your head, on the TV screen
and hey buddy, I'm warning you to turn it off
he's a ghost, he's a man, he's a god, he's a guru
you're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan
designed and directed by his red right hand

Cornflake Girl

Man, I haven't listened to this in ages. I wanted to show it to a friend last night, including the fantastic super-feministic video, and I realized that I was in a Cornflake Girl-mood, so now I'm in the process of mega-listening to it. I love this kind of music; the kind that just seem to make love to your ears and it's just bliss to listen, there's a streaming sensation, something that stirs your chest and your heart and all of you, pulls at you, tugs your sleeve, tucks you in, envelopes you, fills you up. I ache to learn how to play it on my piano so that I'll be able to really be inside of this spectacular song. The piano solo at the end especially. Simply gorgeous.

"The inspiration for "Cornflake Girl" came from Alice Walker's novel "Possessing the Secret of Joy", about a young African woman going through the ritual of female genital mutilation. Amos was angered by the idea that a mother could subject her daughter to such a brutal act, and the song arose as an exploration of the idea of betrayal between women. In the song two factions of women are referred to: The "Raisin Girls" are "multicultural" and open-minded, while the "Cornflake Girls" of the title are "narrowminded and full of prejudice". The reference to cornflakes and raisins comes from their distribution in a box of breakfast cereal, implying that "raisin girls" are much harder to find than "cornflake girls". Amos has spoken in interviews about being referred to glibly as "the Cornflake Girl" due to the song's title being applied to her, when she considers herself a "Raisin Girl". The confusion is likely related to her 1987 commercial for Kellogg's Just Right made before her widespread fame. Just Right includes both raisins and corn flakes, so the song and the cereal are related either through coincidence or intent."

Where'd you put the keys, girl?

~

never was a cornflake girl
thought that was a good solution
hanging with the raisin girls
she's gone to the other side
given us a "yo, heave ho"
things are getting kind of gross
and I go at sleepytime
this is not really
this, this, this is not really happening
you bet your life it is
you bet your life it is
uh huh, you bet your life

it's a - peel out the watchword, just peel
out the watchword

she knows what's going on
seems we got a cheaper feel now
all the sweeteaze are gone
gone to the other side
with my encyclopedia
they must've paid her a nice price
she's putting on her string bean, love
this is not really
this, this, this is not really happening
you bet your life it is
you bet your life it is
uh huh, you bet your life

it's a - peel out the watchword, just peel
out the watchword

and the man with the golden gun
thinks he knows so much
thinks he knows so much, yes
and the man with the golden gun
thinks he knows so much
thinks he knows so much, yes

rabbit
where'd you put the keys, girl?
rabbit
where'd you put the keys, girl?
rabbit
where'd you put the keys?
rabbit
where'd you put the keys, girl?

André Bjerke

Det kimer en klokke i kvelden et sted.
Et menneske døde i natt.
Det kimer en klokke, - en tone av fred.
Hva var det han elsket?
Hva var det han led?
Hva er det for drøm han har hatt?

Du kjente ham ikke? Kan hende han var
en venn som du skulde ha møtt?
Hans liv var et spørsmål,
en bønn om et svar,
og du kunne lettet den byrde han bar
Men nu er det hele forødt.

Kan hende han stanset en kveld ved din port,
du hørte hans famlende ord -,
En stemme i mørket.
Hva skulle du gjort?
Du kjente ham ikke.
Du jaget ham bort.
Hvem våger å kjenne sin bror?

En vandrer har kastet sin ensomme stav,
- hans fot og hans hjerte gikk trett.
Det synker en kiste i nattens grav;
en seiler glir ut på det ukjente hav
mot kyster som ingen har sett.

Og presten, den mørke, alvorlige mann
strør sand over kistens lokk
Flyktig var leken på livets strand,
og selv er du flyktig som rinnende sand
og sommerens flyvende fnokk.

Men dypt gjennom rosenes røde kapell
der går et forunderlig sus,
en tone av jorden, en tone av fjell;
det er som en salme av livet selv
går inn gjennom dødens hus:

Hva gav du av glede? Hva gav du og fikk
før natten ble evig og sort?
Hva gav du av sol før din sommer forgikk?
Gå langsomt, menneske.
Senk dine blikk.
Din bror, din bror er gått bort...

~

Tider er gått over jorden
Slekter er sunket i kne
Men enda steiler i mørket
korsets gustne tre

Hvem skjønte hva mesteren mente?
Hvem er det som enda forstår
Ropet over en avgrunn
På nitten hundre år?

Gikk hans ensomme stemme
Menneskets øre forbi?
Kunne han tale til oss,
ville han kanskje si:

"Det går to veier på jorden,
gledens og smertens vei.
Dere skal velge den første
Den andre valgte jeg.

Mange har gått den før meg.
Mange har segnet i stønn.
Jeg ville være den SISTE lidende menneskesønn.

Skapningens tidløse jammer
Skulle forløses i MEG.
Jeg ville rope til verden:
Gå ikke denne vei!

Følg ikke lidelsens linje
gjennom din levende dag.
Lær av min tornekrone!
Lær av mitt nederlag!

Enhver som går i mitt fotspor
skal pinselens torner stikke.
Sandelig sier jeg eder:
Mennesker, følg meg ikke!

Slik som jeg levde livet,
skal det ikke leves.
Det er mitt eneste budskap,
Og alle har hørt det forgjeves!"

~

Bebreider du meg at jeg vier mitt dikt
"til tilværelsens lysere sider"?
Det er vel en lyrikers blåsure plikt
å meddele folk at han lider?

"Desverre er gleden fortvilet banal.
Om smerten bør dikterne skrive!
Poeten som underslår menneskets kval,
har underslått menneskelivet."

"At skalden forfalsker sitt liv til en fest,
er overfladiske nykker.
I livet er gleden en badegjest,
mens smerten er dyphavsdykker!"

---

Min venn, jeg har diktet om gleden - av savn.
Og tilgi den glade skribenten
at smerten, den nevnte han aldri ved navn,
fordi han bestandig har kjent den.

For smerten, den lever på alles munn
i lyset, så alle kan se den.
Men først på tilværelsens Stillehavsbunn
vil sinnet bli dypt nok for gleden.

Jeg vil at vi klynkende menneskekryp
skal ane en sannhet sporadisk:
at gleden -- og gleden alene -- er dyp,
mens smerten er overfladisk.