Lyrics

Well you started off, you were flying in the air
Drunk without a care, on the love of somebody out there
And your heart did pound, every time you’d hear the sound
Of your true love queened and crowned, and the flowers were smelling like heaven
There were walks in the park, there were kisses in the dark
And proverbial sparks, that always precede failure
And your heart did fly, and your soul was telling lies
And you never asked why, this couldn’t all last, forever

And there were, granted wishes and heartbreaking bitches
And a world too inanimate to grab you by your britches and say
That you don’t ever want to be in love, again

There were days in the sand, we just kissed and held hands
Dreamt utopic foreign lands, where we’d live together, forever
And time was a blur, punctuated with a stir
It was always cause of her, and always was never enough
You start thinking about, all the times you’ve spent without
It begets a seed of doubt, in the clockwork peach in your soul
And your memories bleed, and your pulse is gaining speed
All these thoughts are a disease, and poetry’s one of the flesh

And there were, granted wishes and heartbreaking bitches
And a world too inanimate to grab you by your britches and say
That you don’t ever want to be in love, again

Now the world seems strange, all your thoughts are rearranged
And you’re feeling quite estranged, oh I hate remembering vacation
Now you’re distorting pictures and dislodging fixtures
And creating mixtures of truth and reality
And your heart’s palpitating, as your world’s disintegrating
You begin to start hating, the things that make life life

And every time you dream of better
All you end up getting is worse
And the ability to truly see the changes in your life
Could be the ultimate encompassing curse
But intrinsically humanity cannot end on such tragedy
So here it is the silvery verse, oh I must sing

That there are prom night dresses and fairytale princesses
And a world too inanimate to openly confess all its sins
Love’s the...

*speechwritersLLC*

#$()@* red shells..

Chance

She believes she is in love with him. No, she knows she is in love with him. The dim morning light filters through the curtains and illuminates the dust particles swirling about his face. Oh, his face. Soft lips, sturdy jaw, eyes closed in determined sleep. Hands so powerful but now curled softly in relaxation. She slides a finger into his palm, relishing his warmth. Such intimacy in one's hands!

They met by chance. It was a lonely, stark night along a rural road. She was driving fast, too fast. Sobbing, swiping at her eyes, unsure of her direction and swerving in the road. A menacing patch of ice looms up in the distance. Did she head for it? The next moment, the car is spinning, and spinning. With terrifying slowness, the car turns over. Moments pass in darkness. She is alive, but so scared and hurt. Opening her eyes, she sees a pair of tennis shoes. A man's voice is calling out. The next moment, warm, strong hands are gently pulling her from the ruin of her vehicle. She is on the pavement, head cradled in the stranger's lap. She looks up to a smiling face. Well now, that was a bad tumble but you'll be just fine. She closes her eyes and breathes.

Inseparable since their....meeting, their's has been a physical love. The need to touch one another, to reassure of each other's presence is palpable. He holds her face in bed, she is shivery with the intimacy and eroticism of such a simple act. In public, he takes her hand and kisses it, pulls her close to him in a sudden desire to touch her fragile mouth. She is filled, filled, filled with love.

He likes to go running. Hours on end, the slapping of his shoes against pavement and dirt a comforting sound. Watching the morning sun spill its endless rays over the horizon. He rounds the bend of a desolate, rural road. Loons are soaring over the lake and the sight is beautiful to behold. He stops. Who is that there? Light hair, small frame. For a breathless moment, he believes it to be her. The woman turns and it is not her. He walks closer and sees tears are streaking her face in a heartbreaking symmetry. He is drawn. Miss? The woman turns away. She steps into the lake. Alarmed, he reaches to grab her wrist. It is cold, but he feels the pulse, thready but fast beneath the skin. She shudders and stops, one foot in the water. An eternity passes. He steps closer, puts his hands around her face.

--short story--

Sustain

I really need a sustain pedal for my keyboard. Without a sustain pedal, songs that are otherwise flowing and graceful sound dinky and chopsticks-y. Point in fact, Ingrid Michaelson's "Breakable." Gorgeous, gorgeous song but on my keyboard it's like I'm just plonking on the keys without any real fluidity.

On that note (haa pun intended) a mute pedal would be handy too. Damien Rice's "9 Crimes" has a heartbreaking piano intro where almost every other note is muted. It makes that intro so subtle and quiet and tender.

To Guitar Center I go!

DCFC

"Your New Twin Sized Bed"

You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
With a single pillow underneath your single head.
I guess you decided that that old queen holds more space than you would need.
Now it's in the alley behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free.

And I hope you have more luck with this than me.

You used to think that someone would come along.
And lay beside you in a space that they belong.
But the other side of the mattress and box springs stayed like new.
What's the point of holding onto what never gets used?

Other than to sit and desire for something new.

And I try not to worry, but you've got me terrified.
It's like your some kind of hurry to say goodbye, say goodbye, say goodbye.

You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed.

Unaccustomed Earth

I am now officially hooked on short story anthologies. Jhumpa Lahiri's new book is a collection of 8 of her short stories, all of which feature an Indian family or individual. Each of the stories is an elegy to love, life and loss.

The story that...more I am now officially hooked on short story anthologies. Jhumpa Lahiri's new book is a collection of 8 of her short stories, all of which feature an Indian family or individual. Each of the stories is an elegy to love, life and loss.

The story that was most poignant for me was the title story. The relationship that Ruma and her father share so perfectly mirrors my own, it was almost frightening. Ruma unconsciously draws strength and comfort from her naturally reserved father. The father, a quiet and independent individual loves his daughter but is burdened with a secret he couldn't possibly share with her. What is left unspoken starts to drive a wedge between father and daughter. However, the unobtrusive strength of their love prevents any true unraveling of the relationship. Beautiful, heartfelt story..

What I enjoyed most out of Lahiri's stories was her ability to portray life as a 1st generation child. You love and respect your parents and your culture however you're faced with the disparate demands of an American lifestyle...something your parents will never truly understand no matter how much time they spend in this country. You feel as if you're trapped in a cultural middle ground, never truly belonging anywhere. Lahiri was able to capture these tumultuous emotions with such poignant precision.

Escape

I can't mature. Wherever I am, I always end up thinking there's somewhere else that's so much better for me. When I was growing up in California, I yearned for Boston. When I was in Boston, I yearned for London, now that I'm in new york...I'm yearning for...well, ANYWHERE but here. Why can't I just be content where I am? Why do I always have to romanticize somewhere I'm physically not??

Maybe I read too much...my escapist tendencies get the better of me. But damn, there's really just nothing better than a good book that takes me far, far away.