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.