Wednesday 24 December 2008
Sunday 26 October 2008
into ink
The release in purging my subconscious onto a page;
the stifled spilling, stumbling out and into ink,
and somehow landing in somekind of sense,
of beauty even, or a tripped heartbeat.
Wednesday 22 October 2008
All the mavericks in the house put your hands up!
one two three
my name is sarah palin you all know me
vice president nominee of the gop
gonna need your vote in the next election
can i get a ‘what what’ from the senior section
mccain got experience, mccain got style
but don’t let him freak you out when he tries to smile
cause that smile be creepy
but when i be vp
all the leaders in the world gonna finally meet me
how’s it go eskimo
(eskimos)
tell me what you know eskimo
(eskimos)
how you feel eskimo
(ice cold)
tell me tell me what you feel eskimo
(super cold)
i’m jeremiah wright cause tonight i’m the preacha
i got a bookish look and you’re all hot for teacha
todd lookin fine on his snow machine
so hot boy gonna need a go between
in wasilla we just chill baby chilla
but when i see oil lets drill baby drill
my country tis a thee
from my porch i can see
russia and such
all the mavericks in the house put your hands up
all the mavericks in the house put your hands up
all the plumbers in the house pull your pants up
all the plumbers in the house pull your pants up
when i say ‘obama’ you say ‘ayers’
obama. (ayers) obama (ayers)
i built me a bridge - it ain’t goin’ nowhere.
(ohhh)
mccain, palin, gonna put the nail in the coffin
of the media elite
(she likes red meat)
shoot a mother-humpin moose, eight days of the week
[three gunshots]
now ya dead, now ya dead,
cause i’m an animal, and i’m bigger than you
holdin a shotgun walk in the pub
everybody party, we’re goin on a hunt
la la la la la la la la
[six gunshots]
yo i’m palin, i’m out!
Wednesday 15 October 2008
KT Tunstall writes...
"Friday, September 26th
Plane landing at Kangerlussuaq
We could see the east coast of Greenland, indifferent, majestic, and there they were – icebergs from above!! Aaaarrr!! We were suddenly all toddlers, looking down on the little minty sailboats being shoved out of the nest of the shore, forced to take off on voyages from which they would never return. Ever diminishing, ever more alone. Gliding off into the vastness.
5 hours sailing down the gargantuan straight of Sondre Stromfjord, the light starts to get soaked up by the time. Like a waking dream. Milky green sea that looks alive. A beautifully perfected valley scraped out of the landscape as our guide, singing us out of its mouth. The weirdness. The spook. That half-light that makes you feel like the whites of your eyes are glowing. A low-lying cloud that turns a scottish landscape into a science fiction set. The boat is full and buzzing like a hive. The Belgian-Danish bar and restaurant manager Jan (Yan? Xian?!) has the best and weirdest burr on his r’s I’ve ever heard. Want to teach him the Ragged Rascal Ran toungue twister.
Sunday, October 5th
Our last day
You know that Apple Mac screen saver with the cosmic tracer thing swirling around? About 10 of us were stood on deck late night and looked up at the same time that it escaped out of someone’s laptop, gained gargantuan proprtions and launched itself out of the sky above our heads in neon green; spinning, speeding, an incredible Catherine Wheel firework that made us all scream. I stayed out there for an hour and a half in minus ten, making myself laugh as my frozen face was about 5 seconds behind any words I tried to say. The best light show in the world.
Stayed up in the bar pretending we didn’t have to leave at 5am, gabbing away to my rad new sister Vanessa Carlton and dancing to Bill Withers.
Grabbed a couple of hours sleep and woke up to my last bowl of porridge and rumours that Graham Treehugger was going to enjoy a morning dip in the sea/liquid nitrogen. We all ran out reminiscent of a fight at school, and there he was in his swimmers, barefoot and perched on the railings 15 feet above the water. We thought he was going to die. He didn’t die, he splashed around delighted, whooped, climbed up to the 4th level at 30 feet and jumped in again. The thermometer was reading -15 outside.
Now, I remember going in the ladies pond on Hampstead Heath one scorching weekend in late April and was instantly paralysed and unable to remember my name. Who was this man?! Impressive.
My lasting memory was the tide line back on land. In the virgin dawn light I saw that the only flotsam left by the sea on the beach was a thin line of ice; pure white, in the shape of a wave.
Ryuichi had told us when he played his recording of an underground glacial stream that it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. The sound of water that was frozen solid before human beings even existed, heard for the first time, unspoilt, no particles of plastic. Baby water. Old as the earth.
As we waited to board our plane, a Greenlandic choir sat at a table in the golden morning sun, absent-mindedly eating sandwiches and practising one of the same songs we had heard at the children’s home.
Beautiful, mournful, comforting, ancient, innocent.
Posted by KT on the 9th October, 2008"
Plane landing at Kangerlussuaq
We could see the east coast of Greenland, indifferent, majestic, and there they were – icebergs from above!! Aaaarrr!! We were suddenly all toddlers, looking down on the little minty sailboats being shoved out of the nest of the shore, forced to take off on voyages from which they would never return. Ever diminishing, ever more alone. Gliding off into the vastness.
5 hours sailing down the gargantuan straight of Sondre Stromfjord, the light starts to get soaked up by the time. Like a waking dream. Milky green sea that looks alive. A beautifully perfected valley scraped out of the landscape as our guide, singing us out of its mouth. The weirdness. The spook. That half-light that makes you feel like the whites of your eyes are glowing. A low-lying cloud that turns a scottish landscape into a science fiction set. The boat is full and buzzing like a hive. The Belgian-Danish bar and restaurant manager Jan (Yan? Xian?!) has the best and weirdest burr on his r’s I’ve ever heard. Want to teach him the Ragged Rascal Ran toungue twister.
Sunday, October 5th
Our last day
You know that Apple Mac screen saver with the cosmic tracer thing swirling around? About 10 of us were stood on deck late night and looked up at the same time that it escaped out of someone’s laptop, gained gargantuan proprtions and launched itself out of the sky above our heads in neon green; spinning, speeding, an incredible Catherine Wheel firework that made us all scream. I stayed out there for an hour and a half in minus ten, making myself laugh as my frozen face was about 5 seconds behind any words I tried to say. The best light show in the world.
Stayed up in the bar pretending we didn’t have to leave at 5am, gabbing away to my rad new sister Vanessa Carlton and dancing to Bill Withers.
Grabbed a couple of hours sleep and woke up to my last bowl of porridge and rumours that Graham Treehugger was going to enjoy a morning dip in the sea/liquid nitrogen. We all ran out reminiscent of a fight at school, and there he was in his swimmers, barefoot and perched on the railings 15 feet above the water. We thought he was going to die. He didn’t die, he splashed around delighted, whooped, climbed up to the 4th level at 30 feet and jumped in again. The thermometer was reading -15 outside.
Now, I remember going in the ladies pond on Hampstead Heath one scorching weekend in late April and was instantly paralysed and unable to remember my name. Who was this man?! Impressive.
My lasting memory was the tide line back on land. In the virgin dawn light I saw that the only flotsam left by the sea on the beach was a thin line of ice; pure white, in the shape of a wave.
Ryuichi had told us when he played his recording of an underground glacial stream that it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. The sound of water that was frozen solid before human beings even existed, heard for the first time, unspoilt, no particles of plastic. Baby water. Old as the earth.
As we waited to board our plane, a Greenlandic choir sat at a table in the golden morning sun, absent-mindedly eating sandwiches and practising one of the same songs we had heard at the children’s home.
Beautiful, mournful, comforting, ancient, innocent.
Posted by KT on the 9th October, 2008"
Wednesday 1 October 2008
from Al Seckel's preface to "Bertrand Russell on God and Religion"
In conclusion, there is a marvelous anecdote from the occasion of Russell's ninetieth birthday that best serves to summarize his attitude toward God and religion. A London lady sat next to him at this party, and over the soup she suggested to him that he was not only the world's most famous atheist but, by this time, very probably the world's oldest atheist. "What will you do, Bertie, if it turns out you're wrong?" she asked. "I mean, what if -- uh -- when the time comes, you should meet Him? What will you say?" Russell was delighted with the question. His bright, birdlike eyes grew even brighter as he contemplated this possible future dialogue, and then he pointed a finger upward and cried, "Why, I should say, 'God, you gave us insufficient evidence.'"
Thursday 25 September 2008
Krish
Krish - piwrite.blogspot.com, inertialcartwheel.blogspot.com, goldpondfish.blogspot.com
(the always mindblowing, whose new works we excitedly check for every time we're online).
(the always mindblowing, whose new works we excitedly check for every time we're online).
FEBRUARY 16th, 2008
When I stare at streetlights passing fast,
This city is crowded with lost glass slippers,
And five feet boxes of lives ajar.
You wore orange on your lips when I worked my hands by,
Like a liquid pool of sunrise that burst upon my skin,
Time is but a pawn of hope, she whispered as we parted,
I watched as love quietly suffered your cost.
They hum prayers under muted breaths,
Some chant through their friday night journeys,
When I watch the sea run by these rusted carriage railings,
My heart wells at the thought of where you might be.
These days are filled with fragile dusks and dawns,
How many have I seen in passing with you?
How many have we broken through promises you made,
I'll map them on the sky and hope you find me some day.
Thursday 18 September 2008
Monday 15 September 2008
Saturday 30 August 2008
Fleetwood Mac, Rhiannon (Live '81)
Seeing as Jo can't stop watching this, it really does need to be posted. Stevie at her most mesmerizing.
Friday 29 August 2008
Tuesday 26 August 2008
Renascence, Edna St. Vincent Millay
The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!
The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!
The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by
Thursday 21 August 2008
Home
Now, I've always thought home was a feeling
...but what if I was wrong,
and it turns out that home is a person,
when I thought that home was a song?
What of the home that you've felt like
since the fourteen-year-old us was dawning,
and the home of waking up beside you,
your hand slipped into mine with 'good morning'?
Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.
See, I thought that love was a feeling,
but what if it turns out I'm wrong,
and love is a cocktail of chemicals,
when I thought that love was a song?
What if my love is a downpour,
to become sad sharp pain at your hands,
and what if the ocean's a puddle,
and beached by debris, not golden sands?
Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.
Tell me when,
tell me true,
tell me how you feel
about living towards face to face goodnights.
...but what if I was wrong,
and it turns out that home is a person,
when I thought that home was a song?
What of the home that you've felt like
since the fourteen-year-old us was dawning,
and the home of waking up beside you,
your hand slipped into mine with 'good morning'?
Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.
See, I thought that love was a feeling,
but what if it turns out I'm wrong,
and love is a cocktail of chemicals,
when I thought that love was a song?
What if my love is a downpour,
to become sad sharp pain at your hands,
and what if the ocean's a puddle,
and beached by debris, not golden sands?
Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.
Tell me when,
tell me true,
tell me how you feel
about living towards face to face goodnights.
Words This World
Don't you see it baby, laid out like the blueprint of a city,
shines pure platinum in the rain.
How can you say maybe
to the charm of avenues I see so plain?
I could've sworn my sanity,
this mutuality I held so sure;
I would've signed my life away
on certainty I didn't love you more.
You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?
Don't you hold this promise, somewhere deeper
than the palm of your right hand?
Doesn't every premise in your spirit tell you
not to leave this land?
I think I see promises hide behind the
ambivalence of your words
sometimes, but then I never could ignore
the lawful weight of what I've heard.
You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?
My spirit aches with needing you,
I cannot take this silence,
tell me home.
shines pure platinum in the rain.
How can you say maybe
to the charm of avenues I see so plain?
I could've sworn my sanity,
this mutuality I held so sure;
I would've signed my life away
on certainty I didn't love you more.
You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?
Don't you hold this promise, somewhere deeper
than the palm of your right hand?
Doesn't every premise in your spirit tell you
not to leave this land?
I think I see promises hide behind the
ambivalence of your words
sometimes, but then I never could ignore
the lawful weight of what I've heard.
You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?
My spirit aches with needing you,
I cannot take this silence,
tell me home.
Tuesday 19 August 2008
Smiling Underneath, Ani DiFranco
I don't mind waiting in line no no
I don't mind if the bills pile up and the work is slow
I don't mind the gas or the groceries or the grind
as long as I'm with you I'm having a good time
I don't mind the stoner waiter or the poorly cooked food
I don't mind little miss kitty or her knuckle-head dude
I don't mind if every last person here is ugly and rude
as long as I'm with you I got a good attitude
as long as I'm with you
We could be stuck in traffic for over a week
with a car full of quintuplets who are cutting teeth
around my neck could be a flaming christmas wreath
and I'd be smiling under smiling underneath
I don't mind waking up early for a flight that's delayed
I don't mind our week's vacation was chilly and grey
I don't mind the traffic cops or the TSA
as long as I'm with you I'm having a good day
as long as I'm with you
I don't mind spilling my hot-sauce onto my white shirt
I don't mind the twinge in my leg in that knee that I hurt
I don't mind my gums peeling back or my hair getting thin
as long as I'm with you I win
as long as I'm with you
we could be stuck in traffic for over a week
with a car full of quintuplets who are all cutting teeth
and around my neck could be a flaming christmas wreath
and I'd be smiling under smiling under
smiling underneath.
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