Yesterday anyway you made it was just fine,
So you turned your days into night-time,
Didn’t you know, you can’t make it without ever even trying?
And something’s on your mind, isn’t it
Let these times show you that you’re breaking up the lines,
Leaving all your dreams too far behind,
Didn’t you see, you can’t make it without ever even trying?
And something’s on your mind.
Maybe another day you’ll want to feel another way,
you can’t stop crying,
You haven’t got a thing to say,
Feel you want to run away
There’s no use trying, anyway.
I’ve seen the writing on the wall,
Who cannot maintain will always fall,
Well, you know, you can’t make it without ever even trying.
And something’s on your mind, isn’t it
Tell the truth now, isn’t it
And something’s on your mind, isn’t it
This is a fantastic song- and if you can get the Karen Dalton versh- amazing!
I play it and play and playit in my car- louder and louder to cover my increasingly confident - yet ultimately still outta tune singing!
For some reason I find this song so heart breaking so compassionate and beautiful.
I know noone visits my boring little blog....
BUT if you DO happen by....
Check K Dalton out- this song at least!!!
Tuesday 31 July 2007
Tuesday 17 July 2007
Today's Poem- Church Going- Philip Larkin
Church Going
Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside,
letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation ?marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these ?for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round
Philip Larkin
Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside,
letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation ?marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these ?for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round
Philip Larkin
Sunday 15 July 2007
'Fari Park
Went with my amazing 4 year old neice to the ' Fari Park saw amongst other amazing aminals some Wobblies (small Kangaroos) from Australia- where John and Sarah bit not Marcie (the dog) went!)
Too cute! BUT I find it amazing how absolutley excited Your Truly was about the whole experience.. Ultimately don't take your ababies to the Safari Park- wait til thy're about 20 and then have a family day out! I never realised when 5 years old how bloody mad, crazy and beautiful were elephants, rhinos, baboons, girraphs.... Mad creatures mad crazy daliesque creatures which share the planet and rely on us (funny looking naked apes) to save it for them!
Too cute! BUT I find it amazing how absolutley excited Your Truly was about the whole experience.. Ultimately don't take your ababies to the Safari Park- wait til thy're about 20 and then have a family day out! I never realised when 5 years old how bloody mad, crazy and beautiful were elephants, rhinos, baboons, girraphs.... Mad creatures mad crazy daliesque creatures which share the planet and rely on us (funny looking naked apes) to save it for them!
Thursday 12 July 2007
Poem for today
Lost Love
HIS eyes are quickened so with grief,
He can watch a grass or leaf
Every instant grow; he can
Clearly through a flint wall see,
Or watch the startled spirit flee
From the throat of a dead man.
Across two counties he can hear
And catch your words before you speak.
The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
Clamour rings in his sad ear,
And noise so slight it would surpass
Credence--drinking sound of grass,
Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
Chumbling holes in cloth;
The groan of ants who undertake
Gigantic loads for honour's sake
(Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);
Whir of spiders when they spin,
And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
Of idle grubs and flies.
This man is quickened so with grief,
He wanders god-like or like thief
Inside and out, below, above,
Without relief seeking lost love.
-Robert Graves
HIS eyes are quickened so with grief,
He can watch a grass or leaf
Every instant grow; he can
Clearly through a flint wall see,
Or watch the startled spirit flee
From the throat of a dead man.
Across two counties he can hear
And catch your words before you speak.
The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
Clamour rings in his sad ear,
And noise so slight it would surpass
Credence--drinking sound of grass,
Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
Chumbling holes in cloth;
The groan of ants who undertake
Gigantic loads for honour's sake
(Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);
Whir of spiders when they spin,
And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
Of idle grubs and flies.
This man is quickened so with grief,
He wanders god-like or like thief
Inside and out, below, above,
Without relief seeking lost love.
-Robert Graves
Wednesday 11 July 2007
Liv Tyler...
...is absolutely the most honestly, unaffectedly, beautiful film actress I ever saw. I just think she's the bees knees.
I want to post a pic- but realise I haven't got one of the lovely!
Here's one of her just randomly bumping into Orlando in London...
I want to post a pic- but realise I haven't got one of the lovely!
Here's one of her just randomly bumping into Orlando in London...
Wednesday 4 July 2007
You had to go and be nice to Al Gore..
... and now we're in trouble!"
From South Park
My Gods South Park is f**king hilarious. They are soooo clever on so many levels. My other keeps downloading episodes not previously shown on UK TV. By Gods they are genius..things about freedom of speach; paedophilia; terrorism; global warming. They are genius- did I say that already.
Meanwhile in life... school finished; I got wrecked- idjit!! Seems okay though- noone has killed me yet!
Will come back with more when I find time..... jeez time! When will I find time (This may be my last post ever .. )
Pah!
From South Park
My Gods South Park is f**king hilarious. They are soooo clever on so many levels. My other keeps downloading episodes not previously shown on UK TV. By Gods they are genius..things about freedom of speach; paedophilia; terrorism; global warming. They are genius- did I say that already.
Meanwhile in life... school finished; I got wrecked- idjit!! Seems okay though- noone has killed me yet!
Will come back with more when I find time..... jeez time! When will I find time (This may be my last post ever .. )
Pah!
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