Scribble and Strum

I spent all of last night working on a pretty serious song I'm calling "Mom". It has to do with some recent revelations about my birth mother -- frankly, an exhausting subject to explore. This morning I made a little more progress with it, then put it down for later. "Mom" may take a while. I then fiddled around in a more playful and mood-positive manner, and what came out was "Beta-Blocker", a light look at medicating stage fright. Below are the lyrics. I, of course, would love to record it. Ha. It's interesting how creativity shifts, and how some songs need more emotional investment and time than others.

Beta-Blocker
I'm three quarters out and
Feeling hollow when I hit the stage
Now the fourth wall's a window
And I'm feeling like I'm in a cage
My fingertips are sweaty and I'm
The focus of a thousand ears
Now I'm kicking myself because
I didn't have that couple of beers

*I need a little something
To be the alpha that I know I am
I need a beta-blocker
And a doctor who don't give a damn

I paid my dues to the
Society for Timid Souls
Now I definitely regret it - I think
Their method has a couple of holes
Because it's not those around me
That make me shaky, make my knees grow weak
It's the inferior interior
In theory, it's my weary physique

*I need a little something
To calm my nerves and keep my focus tight
I need a beta-blocker
So I can rock this little room tonight

+A beta-blocker
It's gonna get me through this
(No worry, no more)
A beta-blocker
Is gonna let me do this...
(That's what they're for)

Had an insomniac night; spent it in and out of sleep. I haven't had a night like that in a while -- it reminded me of more stressful days. Here's a set of lyrics from those days, reflective of where I am now. Sigh. This song still needs to be recorded (they all do), and it may be for the next collection (which is nowhere near completion).

Aquarium

________________
Hmm. That phrase "let me out" recently popped out of me in a more recent (March) song. Here are its lyrics (why not?):

Let Me Out

________________
Hmm hmm. Here "buried" and "slept till summer" are direct references to another older song of mine -- "Sleep Till Summer" from a low, low point. Below are its lyrics. This one I do have a recording for, but...

Sleep Till Summer


________________
Oh, old feelings. Good to get them out. Good morning, good day, good riddance.

Spent the night inside, sick and crazy from the unseasonal heat. Got to doodlin' -- here's what came out:



Goooood night.

Sitting still at a time before night
When even the dimmest glow seems bright
Orange windows, a yellow streetlight
Compete with the glow of a sunset

Each skybus lumbers a dinosaur
Roaring and rolling 'til skyward they soar
Jewel water shifts as a tread made for war
Traced by the air's design

A frigid quilt for a tired sun
Seeps into the layer I have on
The skin is thin, but I'm not done
I gird with another green cloth

Behind me, on rise: springtime silhouettes
Of children's joy and the tinny breaths
Of a tin can train, dwarfed by these jets --
Dragons across the bay

And there sits Boston: cherry tipped-dominoes
Distant and silent, shapes in a puppet show,
A shade of permanence, a place from which to go
Nothing, just darkness and light

Stars emerge as grains of sand slung
Farther than archer has ever flung
Toward an indigo dome, pushed and then hung
Like tacks in a bulletin board

The sun now sleeps as the bay implies,
But life still looms in bold white eyes
Panwater, a roost for steel that flies
With wings, and skin, and fire

Woke up, wrote a song. That felt good.
I'm in a lucky empty house today, so maybe I'll be able to record it.

Spring Thing
Falling up from show to show
To party then parade
Spring has sprung and I'm a lung --
Let's sit and write about it

Expelling morning particles
From the tender bed of dust
I'll trust that's just a modern must --
I couldn't do without it

*I open every window
Delete my memories
The hardest part's to keep the heart
This warm in winter freeze

Starting up the motor
The directive and the dream
No ice? That's nice, it will suffice --
My life is up and running

The beauty and the blooming
The birds rebuilding trees
The role of solar-in-control --
Seems everyone is sunning

*So open every window
Retrain my memories
The easy part's about to start:
To tame the April tease

*Open every window
Mind and heart, at least one eye
Let's sing of spring and everything
As it goes growing by

I finished writing a song yesterday. I hope to record it soon.
I'm still in a sharing mood, so here are the lyrics.
I think they're better served with their music;
that's a big difference between music and poetry.
Some words are better sung than said, better heard than read:

You Are Not Me
So many people don't know where they are
Or where they're going to go
I'm one of these folks I know
(We're lost, lonely animals)
I hear your bloody fable
New from old, the vintage from the vine
Well, your advantages aren't mine

They're not mine -- how could they ever be?
We all have our own stories
And while I value allegory...

*Just don't tell me who to be
'Cause you are not me
Yeah, I see wisdom on your tree
Still, you are not me

Another problem rears its ugly head
And I'm thankful for the ear
It's not the same when you're not here
(Our time is so valuable)
These howls within me lack a
Harmony -- they echo there, alone
Till you provide the other tone

Another tone, another way to breathe
Your pounding rhythm heart
Can play the steady part, but...

*Just don't tell me who to be
'Cause you are not me
Yeah, yours is clever melody
Still, you are not me

+And while sometimes I wish
Another soul would carve me out of stone
This is my life to break!

Every mistake makes me an ancient plea:
"Make peace with what you've lost,
Count every mile you've crossed"...

*So don't tell me who to be
'Cause you are not me
We're nothing if we are not free
And you are not me

Just don't tell me...
You are not me...

Far corner of stone, as hard as a cyst
There, hands held open are curled into fists
Parties still gather to plead to the son
Who carries his father down the mountain
With distance some laugh, but I'm willing to bet
That laugh thins with trouble the closer you get
To no man's land and its cold facades,
Hollow houses and dwindling odds

It's been stalking me for years,
so I've made preparations --
a tower built
so high that
I've lost its foundations.

I've locked a lot of doors,
and sealed tight every window.
To sequester's best,
it protects the rest...
I had to let you in, though.

Hi, all. It's been a while. You're looking well. Did you lose weight?

I've been thinking that you should watch this: link

Right?
Thanks, Nina Paley. :)

That is all.

Good one by Bukowski, Charles.

your life is your life
don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Noise is for writing,
Not reading or thinking.
Her laughter is biting

And reverberating
Off a truck-filled window;
Mocking me, hating

The book I can't read.
I want her to leave,
Give the silence I need

To finish one chapter
Of Unbearable Lightness.
Do you think if I tapped her

Trundle teen shoulder
She'd stitch lip and whisper,
Or grow suddenly colder?

Either way there'd be quiet,
Maybe one chapter wide.
No, she'd likely defy it,

One reader's request.
It's no library, public--
There's no place to rest.

I'm sure a million of you already know this from Metafilter, but I thought I'd share for those of you who aren't among the blue-page elite: Artists' Books Online. Wow, is it ever a huge repository. Yep, a person sure could see a lot of art there. I've just started combing the archives, so I don't have much that's specific to share, except



Francois Deschamps's clever photo-tome Life in a Book: Edition 1, Object 1. Is Fun. If Deschamps's book is any indication of what can be discovered at the site, I foresee some oohs and aahs.

Enjoy. And please let me know if you find any interesting, er, finds. :)

Found this in the recent New Yorker.
I love poems like these.

Thread

I lack the rigor of a lightning bolt,
the weight of an anchor. I am
frayed where it would be highly useful—
and this I feel perpetually—to make a point.

I think if I can concentrate I might turn sharp.
Only, I don’t know how to concentrate—
I know only the look of someone concentrating,
indistinguishable from nearsightedness.

It is hard for you to be near me,
my silly intensity shuffling
all the insignia of interiority.
Knowing me never made anyone a needle.

Great piece. Mmm. The hidden monologues of unnoticed things.

Great poem, is all.

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Hey, all. I'm tired and am about to go to sleep to wake up early to vote before work. Thought I'd pass this email on, since sometimes others can, ahem, represent your feelings better than you can yourself (especially when your eyelids keep closing without your consent). I recently purchased a copy of David Byrne & Brian Eno's new album Everything That Happens Will Happen Today. In order to complete the purchase I had to give them my email address, which is fine and normal; I expect hollers about future music and art projects. Tonight I got this, though, and I thought I'd help spread a word:

Pardon the bulk mailing. I Can't Vote. I am an immigrant with a Green Card and, therefore, I am not eligible to vote in a federal election. FYI - I can get drafted (luckily, Daniel Berrigan burned my draft board's records) and I pay taxes, yet I cannot vote for President. On Election Day, I see my neighbors heading to the nearby elementary school to cast their ballots. The voting booth joint is a great leveler; the whole neighborhood - rich, poor, old, young, decrepit and spunky - they all turn out in one day.

But most of you can vote. What can I say? The Republicans have made us less safe than before 9/11, bankrupted this economy, started an illegal war they can't - and don't intend to - finish, removed what sympathy (after 9/11) and respect the world had for the US, and have robbed US citizens of many of their basic rights. Global warming? What's that? Science and education? Investment in our future? No, thanks - we'll stick with a good 'ole hockey mom. Ignorant, and fucking proud of it, as is always the case.

Although it looks like a shoo-in, it ain't over 'til Florida. And there are plenty of racists in this country who will vote against their own best interests. So please, get to your local elementary school, post office, town hall, or whatever, and cast your vote and make this a country we can all be proud of. We can get out of this mess, and life can be better than it is.

David Byrne
NYC

Well said, Mr. Byrne. That's all. I'm now going to bed to wake up early to vote before work.

'Night.

Am I a songwriter?
Do I write songs?
Do my thoughts cling and linger?
Are they sturdy and strong?

When I put pen to paper
Do the words, as they flow,
Approximate gravity
Do they tug and let go?

What of a songwriter?
Is there purpose in wit,
Declarations, and daring
Cries of "beauty" and "shit"?

In my memories' melodies,
Rhythms, and tones,
Can I carry humanity,
Put meat on its bones?

What is a songwriter?
One who nourishes souls?
Or is it all for distraction--
Does one dare to draw goals?

I am a songwriter
I don't care or know why
My purpose is simple--
To make music, then die

Oh, this wit, oh, celebrity--
My reason to live, to want, to be
To watch your dance, bask in your style,
Compare two depths distinct, servile.

Oh, these lights, oh, projection--
A voice twice filtered by desire.
Gauzy notions, hung humid air,
Distort what heights were never there.

Oh, the gallery, oh, this audience--
Eyes afire, alive with dream,
All solipsistic elevation;
A million martyrs for the meme.

Oh, right. You can share stuff you draw.

That dealie up there is the first thing I've drawn in five months*. That's not right (and not very good). I need to get back into 'stration, I think. Maybe I'll do 'Stration Fridays again. Yeah.

___________
*Type-art, yeah, yeah...

At the bar, at the party,
Where fives and families are high,
The game or the music is important,
The siren a trivial cry

The cool door was pulled
Open and pushed into hand
Is a pull-tab potable dripping cold water,
Perspiring like in TV Land.

The drugs go down easy,
Settle slow, softly, in blood.
Hours. Hazy hates varicose veins,
Would whim-wipe 'em out if it could.

It could, yeah, it should--
They're rivers of anarchy, wax down a skirt.
Queasy ass-queries, choleric questions
Boast knives, lies, smiles, and hurt.

Her, hurt.
Blur.
Her.
Hurt.

Hurt, how? Home now.
Knees on veined tiles, temple to hand.
Severe, several, an everyday devil
Perspiring. Like in TV Land.