There's a lot of it about at the moment. Rainy weather: cliche, but nevertheless effective, metaphorical links between it and the moods of the people living beneath it. And all the while I have lyrics and songs flying around my head.
There is truth in the thunder, love in the lightning, the feeling is frightening, and isn't it exciting? I'm something like stormy weather, my word, wished we'd never huddled together. Do I have to tell ya, that I'm also the sunlight that shines shortly after, there's friends that I hafta, onto other chapter: I wish you lots of laughter, til the next time you see me, just remember you need me!
Gnarls Barkley, 2006
Work is a welther of things, none of which stay still for very long. Home a mixture of positive and odd, nothing negative. Latch-key kids, lists of names, numbers dancing across hastily scribbled pages and thoughts of steel and lace infecting the straight forward movement of the day to day. Familial worries about ill parents who aren't, politeness a necessity, meetings planned and brow-beating e-mails a-plenty.
Run toward the hills to avoid the high flood, I can do a dance that'll make the sky cry blood: skills provoking seals to be broken open, all that's left to do is try my love. And I- I'm singing a cyclone, I'm writing a raging sea. Searching for a sign of the times, it's insane to say it's me. Listen to our lives, the way we whisper the way it is: I'm going to happen. [...] Don't ask why; just live and die.
Gnarls Barkley, 2006
Poetry is in motion all around, in the sunlight and the birdsong - hooting doves and pigeons in the trees, budding leaves bursting into green dappling light across the slick stone made wet by the passing maelstrom. Students supporting, students complaining, the up and down of offering heartfelt advice to those that hold themselves to impossible standards whilst knowing I won't take the same and wouldn't if 'twere offered to myself. Wanting to reach out but not knowing how.
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness, like resignation to the end, always the end.
And so it goes. From one thing to the next. Friends and companions lost in the fog, waiting for sodden earth to dry out under the blasting sun of summer but knowing that as surely as tidal power is pooh-poohed on cost that towering anvil clouds will bring their own pressure to bear. A worry, does the umbrella you hold have the power to withstand the wind that will come and rip at the edges? Should you own one with frills that you can pretend was for a wife and 'forget' about when all seems lost? How far will you go now?
If you've got it can you get it, if so, how often? Which do you choose, the hard or soft option?
Pet Shop Boys, 1984
Inspired, non-communicative, wanting to speak out but lacking the words. Taking the lead in the blind alley, wearing a blindfold, but hardly daring to be led. Horses to water, giraffes to drink. Nina Simone defecates on a microphone, two times, and Sinatra loads a pistol, cocks it and shoots. A monk, serious and silent in the club genuflecting in interpretive dance: the IRA providing backing vocals to a chorus in 1987; aging German generals considering the map of Europe labelled Africa with the ghost of Hitler in a picture of Frederick the Great whilst washing up piles up in the sink.
You're. No good for me. I don't need no body. Don't. Need. No-one. That's. No. Good for me.