Flaming soul she had it bad. Fiery eyes, sweetly sarcastic, she could burn you with one word, one touch, one look. Pouty lips, shiny hair clips, her superfluity was always overlooked as girlish meticulousness. Click of the tongue, swaying hair, she knew her sensual details could drive even the most stoic man insane. She didn’t need a reason to seduce, her shallow slight would always reduce. Intelligent and terse, she had the harsh shield of sarcastic eloquence on her side. Girl on fire was on a rampage for revenge. Burnt and bitter, she was alone, and hated the world because they knew it. She couldn’t even order from the cheap Chinese shack around the corner because the delivery man felt the comfort of familiarity to voice his opinion about her sad state of solitude. Every time he would click his tongue she wanted to gauge his eyes out with the insulting wooden chopstick that seemingly dared to enjoy partnership in the face of her misery. She felt that everyone and everything had lost all sense of propriety. It was like one of those seventies porn movies when even the robots could enjoy carnal pleasures, while here she sat, alone, alien and in the spotlight.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A new tune?
hi!!! eeee first post!!!! not sure what to write, so I'll leave you with a quote from Rushdie's Ground Beneath Her Feet. In case you're not a U2 fan, you should know, its also an incredibly sexy song.
'Why do we care about singers? Wherin lies the power of songs? Maybe it derives from the sheer strangeness of there being singing in the world. The notes, the scale, the chord; melodies, harmonies, arragements; symphonies, ragas, chinese operas, jazz, the blues: that such things should exist, that we shoulve have discovered the magical intervals and distances that yeild the poor cluster of notes, all within the span of a human hand, from which we can build our cathedrals of sound, is as alchemical a mystery as mathemtics, or wine, or love. Maybe the birds taught us. Maybe not. Maybe we are just creatues in search of exaltation. We dont have much of it. Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in many painful ways deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world that is worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were worthy of the world.Five mysteries hold he keys to the unseen: the act of love, and the birth of a baby, and the contemplation of great art, and being in the presence of death or disaster, and hearing the human voice liften in song. these are the occasions when the bolts of the universe fly open and we are given a glimpse of what is hidden; an eff of the ineffable.'
'Why do we care about singers? Wherin lies the power of songs? Maybe it derives from the sheer strangeness of there being singing in the world. The notes, the scale, the chord; melodies, harmonies, arragements; symphonies, ragas, chinese operas, jazz, the blues: that such things should exist, that we shoulve have discovered the magical intervals and distances that yeild the poor cluster of notes, all within the span of a human hand, from which we can build our cathedrals of sound, is as alchemical a mystery as mathemtics, or wine, or love. Maybe the birds taught us. Maybe not. Maybe we are just creatues in search of exaltation. We dont have much of it. Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in many painful ways deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world that is worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were worthy of the world.Five mysteries hold he keys to the unseen: the act of love, and the birth of a baby, and the contemplation of great art, and being in the presence of death or disaster, and hearing the human voice liften in song. these are the occasions when the bolts of the universe fly open and we are given a glimpse of what is hidden; an eff of the ineffable.'
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