no idea.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Roman Roads
Roman Roads, straight as the sun
Open and endless, through my mind they run
Wait not a day,
Go on your way,
Down Roman Roads.
Spanish Silver, bright as blood
Hidden and waiting, buried in the mud
Seek it no more,
Stray not from the law,
For Spanish silver.
Persian Princes, noble as night
Cruel and lonely, blinded by sight
Return your knife,
Give not your life
To Persian Princes.
Open and endless, through my mind they run
Wait not a day,
Go on your way,
Down Roman Roads.
Spanish Silver, bright as blood
Hidden and waiting, buried in the mud
Seek it no more,
Stray not from the law,
For Spanish silver.
Persian Princes, noble as night
Cruel and lonely, blinded by sight
Return your knife,
Give not your life
To Persian Princes.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Monday, January 02, 2006
The Memory of Pain
It’s a strange thing that something utterly immediate at the time can fade into nothingness so quickly. A couple months ago I shattered my knuckle, resulting in unbearable pain. But oddly enough, when I look back on it now, the experience is so painless, so sanitised, that I wonder why I made such a fuss. Not only that, I actually begin to think that it may have been a good experience, somehow character-building. I can remember it happened, I can remember I never wanted it to happen again and I gritted my teeth, but I can’t actually feel it.
It’s like the memory of a smell. I can remember roses smell good, I could even recognise the smell. But I just can’t smell it in my memory. With sight and sound it’s different. If you were asked to conjure up an image of your house, you could probably do it. Not just remember that your house is blue, that it looks ugly, that you prefer red houses, but actually remember the image of the house, and be able to see it again when you close your eyes. Now try and close your eyes and remember what pain feels like.
Of course, when I say you can conjure up the memory of your house, you can do it, but only up to a point. Even if you think you can see it in your mind, I could ask you the colour of the flowers in the window and you probably won’t know. That's because your memory doesn’t really have an image imprinted on it like a computer. Memory just takes the best parts, the one’s you’re most interested in, and forgets the rest. Nonetheless, you still can make an image, however vague, in your mind. But you can’t recreate pure physical pain. Pain isn’t even something with lots of details to remember, like a song, or a picture. Pain is just a pure emotion, in fact even less than an emotion, just a pure physical state. It’s like not being able to recall the colour red, in fact even more elemental than that.
So what about Pavlov and his dogs or Skinner and his rats? It’s been proved that you can condition an animal by punishing it with physical pain. Could it be that only humans forget the actuality of pain, that other animals have no such difficulties in remembering it? More likely, I think, that other animals, no matter how simple can learn and remember that pain is not something they wish to happen to them again.
Perhaps I’m looking at this too much from the perspective of a middleclass English white boy. After all, a beaten dog may wince even at the sight of the whip. However, even then I think that what is remembered is the emotional anguished caused by the physical pain, and not the pain itself. Under the influence of pain, at the extremes, one can be persuaded to anything (after all, think of room 101 in 1984, or if you prefer non-fiction, of the countless false confessions by torture throughout history). There is no denying the power of imprinting in such a state, but I think that it makes the lack of recall even more odd.
On the other hand, it would be bizarre if we could in fact recall pain. Unlike other memories, like a voice, pain is not limited in time to a specific event or even series of events, but is constant in life, always ready to be awakened. Being able to recall pain would be like being able to recall what it feels like to be asleep. Imagine the absurdity of people yelping in pain or falling asleep while re-living their memories! And if you could turn pain on in order to remember it, then you would have to be able to turn it off just as easily, something the human body could never allow because it knows the inherent weakness of the human mind.
If it were not for our ability to forget our pain, so much of the violence, perseverance, sacrifices and striving of humanity might never have come to pass.
It’s like the memory of a smell. I can remember roses smell good, I could even recognise the smell. But I just can’t smell it in my memory. With sight and sound it’s different. If you were asked to conjure up an image of your house, you could probably do it. Not just remember that your house is blue, that it looks ugly, that you prefer red houses, but actually remember the image of the house, and be able to see it again when you close your eyes. Now try and close your eyes and remember what pain feels like.
Of course, when I say you can conjure up the memory of your house, you can do it, but only up to a point. Even if you think you can see it in your mind, I could ask you the colour of the flowers in the window and you probably won’t know. That's because your memory doesn’t really have an image imprinted on it like a computer. Memory just takes the best parts, the one’s you’re most interested in, and forgets the rest. Nonetheless, you still can make an image, however vague, in your mind. But you can’t recreate pure physical pain. Pain isn’t even something with lots of details to remember, like a song, or a picture. Pain is just a pure emotion, in fact even less than an emotion, just a pure physical state. It’s like not being able to recall the colour red, in fact even more elemental than that.
So what about Pavlov and his dogs or Skinner and his rats? It’s been proved that you can condition an animal by punishing it with physical pain. Could it be that only humans forget the actuality of pain, that other animals have no such difficulties in remembering it? More likely, I think, that other animals, no matter how simple can learn and remember that pain is not something they wish to happen to them again.
Perhaps I’m looking at this too much from the perspective of a middleclass English white boy. After all, a beaten dog may wince even at the sight of the whip. However, even then I think that what is remembered is the emotional anguished caused by the physical pain, and not the pain itself. Under the influence of pain, at the extremes, one can be persuaded to anything (after all, think of room 101 in 1984, or if you prefer non-fiction, of the countless false confessions by torture throughout history). There is no denying the power of imprinting in such a state, but I think that it makes the lack of recall even more odd.
On the other hand, it would be bizarre if we could in fact recall pain. Unlike other memories, like a voice, pain is not limited in time to a specific event or even series of events, but is constant in life, always ready to be awakened. Being able to recall pain would be like being able to recall what it feels like to be asleep. Imagine the absurdity of people yelping in pain or falling asleep while re-living their memories! And if you could turn pain on in order to remember it, then you would have to be able to turn it off just as easily, something the human body could never allow because it knows the inherent weakness of the human mind.
If it were not for our ability to forget our pain, so much of the violence, perseverance, sacrifices and striving of humanity might never have come to pass.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Five Best
Five Best Reasons Not To Kill George Bush
1. He provides great material for comedians
2. Killing monkeys is against the Convention on Endangered Species
3. If he stays and continues to fuck up (and let's face it, he probably will) we'll have a better chance of a President Hilary
4. He'll become a martyr
5. The pretzels will get him sooner or later anyway
Five Best Reasons To Be Ginger
1. To show your revolutionary colours
2. To save people the trouble of thinking of proper insults
3. To distract bulls (and yes i know they're colourblind really)
4. To make it easier for friends to find you in crowds
5. People remember you better
Five Best Sounds
1. Hockey balls striking the back of a goal (exept when it's your goal)
2. The sound of fingers sliding in chord changes on the guitar
3. Frying bacon
4. Bob Dylan's early period
5. Rain
1. He provides great material for comedians
2. Killing monkeys is against the Convention on Endangered Species
3. If he stays and continues to fuck up (and let's face it, he probably will) we'll have a better chance of a President Hilary
4. He'll become a martyr
5. The pretzels will get him sooner or later anyway
Five Best Reasons To Be Ginger
1. To show your revolutionary colours
2. To save people the trouble of thinking of proper insults
3. To distract bulls (and yes i know they're colourblind really)
4. To make it easier for friends to find you in crowds
5. People remember you better
Five Best Sounds
1. Hockey balls striking the back of a goal (exept when it's your goal)
2. The sound of fingers sliding in chord changes on the guitar
3. Frying bacon
4. Bob Dylan's early period
5. Rain
Friday, December 30, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Take this
Take this photo; there I am, in the background
Take this letter; there are the tear-stains
Take this single tear I hurriedly brushed away
Tate my hidden looks of envy when she saw your face
Take that knotted stomach, that empty space
But take that dance with her so close
Take too that night we could see the stars
Though we hardly gave them a glance
Take another night of sleepless fretting
Take a night of sweating and tossing
Take a day of whispered sunrise and dashed moonlight
Take the poems, the letters, the pictures
Take my shirt, her scent is still there
Or take this vision of her bright and fair
Take this hope, this regret, this age from my bones
Take the bitterness hat put this pen to paper
And take this poem too.
She was mine, now I give all of this to you.
She was my muse, but now she has flown
Flown to your arms, now I am alone
So I wish more luck to make her your own
May she give you all the happiness I’d never known.
A bit over-the-top i think.
I cant decide if there's a point to the second part
Take this letter; there are the tear-stains
Take this single tear I hurriedly brushed away
Tate my hidden looks of envy when she saw your face
Take that knotted stomach, that empty space
But take that dance with her so close
Take too that night we could see the stars
Though we hardly gave them a glance
Take another night of sleepless fretting
Take a night of sweating and tossing
Take a day of whispered sunrise and dashed moonlight
Take the poems, the letters, the pictures
Take my shirt, her scent is still there
Or take this vision of her bright and fair
Take this hope, this regret, this age from my bones
Take the bitterness hat put this pen to paper
And take this poem too.
She was mine, now I give all of this to you.
She was my muse, but now she has flown
Flown to your arms, now I am alone
So I wish more luck to make her your own
May she give you all the happiness I’d never known.
A bit over-the-top i think.
I cant decide if there's a point to the second part
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Three Days From Jerusalem
I
Three Days from Jerusalem
But here I will stay forever
Watching the pilgrims and angels pass
On their way to the halls of David
But here I sit, under the tree,
This Cyprus tree, and find
That all men walk this dawning globe
Though some walk far behind
But none of them will stay with me
Not one Samaritan takes my hospitality
And so I watch alone
II
When nightfall kills the shade of the tree
My thoughts walk down the road
A city they find, shining with light
A thousand or more candles ablaze
On the highest mount, the beacon shines
And the searchers flock through the gates
All around the hills abound, the pilgrims
Starring to the city of lights
Guided, they stumble through the dusty roads
Keeping always the beacon in their sights
And reaching the wall, they marvel in wonder
At the others who marvel there too
The lights call forth, and the pilgrims sing
For the angels have shown them the way home.
But where I stand, no light but the stars
Reaches my hand; I am three days
From Jerusalem. But I know where to find it.
III
When I was young, or so it seemed,
I chanced to find a sparrow
Curling tight her tiny winds, I saw
She was in sorrow. And so I said
Dear little bird, where is the air under your wings?
Why so sad and lonely? why this morning silence?
She could not answer me, but I saw
Her leg was trapped in a branch
So I freed that life
I felt that tiny warmth in my hand
And I threw her to the wind
The wild and lonely wind
She caught that wind beneath her wings
And soared up to the morning sun
But blinded by that light, I looked away
And when I returned, she was gone.
IV
They say there is a man who waits
On the banks of the broad river Styx
In fear of Cerberus, of Charon, of the water
He jealously guards his own mortality
And shuns the wanderers on their way to Hades
He does not know he is dead
V
Four moons ago, a pilgrim I saw
On the road from Babylon
A seer he might have been
A wise, a brave man, curious and true
Though his face was old and his spirit young
I saw in him something of you.
And that is why, of all these pilgrims
For him I answered his questions.
I told him I sit by this tree on the road to Damascus
Forever, three days from Jerusalem.
And I told him I waited because the angels had hurt me
Because I had been with black truths lied too, with strong sticks beaten and with bright fires blinded
Because I hate the human soul and am weary of human voices
Because truth lies not in the light but in the dirt from which it is grown
Because the Lord can find me here if he loves me
Because these legs will carry me no further
And in short, because I am afraid.
VI
I have heard the harps of angels play
As they make their way to the city
I do not think they will not sing to me.
A missionagly long, religious themed poem for Christmas Eve
Three Days from Jerusalem
But here I will stay forever
Watching the pilgrims and angels pass
On their way to the halls of David
But here I sit, under the tree,
This Cyprus tree, and find
That all men walk this dawning globe
Though some walk far behind
But none of them will stay with me
Not one Samaritan takes my hospitality
And so I watch alone
II
When nightfall kills the shade of the tree
My thoughts walk down the road
A city they find, shining with light
A thousand or more candles ablaze
On the highest mount, the beacon shines
And the searchers flock through the gates
All around the hills abound, the pilgrims
Starring to the city of lights
Guided, they stumble through the dusty roads
Keeping always the beacon in their sights
And reaching the wall, they marvel in wonder
At the others who marvel there too
The lights call forth, and the pilgrims sing
For the angels have shown them the way home.
But where I stand, no light but the stars
Reaches my hand; I am three days
From Jerusalem. But I know where to find it.
III
When I was young, or so it seemed,
I chanced to find a sparrow
Curling tight her tiny winds, I saw
She was in sorrow. And so I said
Dear little bird, where is the air under your wings?
Why so sad and lonely? why this morning silence?
She could not answer me, but I saw
Her leg was trapped in a branch
So I freed that life
I felt that tiny warmth in my hand
And I threw her to the wind
The wild and lonely wind
She caught that wind beneath her wings
And soared up to the morning sun
But blinded by that light, I looked away
And when I returned, she was gone.
IV
They say there is a man who waits
On the banks of the broad river Styx
In fear of Cerberus, of Charon, of the water
He jealously guards his own mortality
And shuns the wanderers on their way to Hades
He does not know he is dead
V
Four moons ago, a pilgrim I saw
On the road from Babylon
A seer he might have been
A wise, a brave man, curious and true
Though his face was old and his spirit young
I saw in him something of you.
And that is why, of all these pilgrims
For him I answered his questions.
I told him I sit by this tree on the road to Damascus
Forever, three days from Jerusalem.
And I told him I waited because the angels had hurt me
Because I had been with black truths lied too, with strong sticks beaten and with bright fires blinded
Because I hate the human soul and am weary of human voices
Because truth lies not in the light but in the dirt from which it is grown
Because the Lord can find me here if he loves me
Because these legs will carry me no further
And in short, because I am afraid.
VI
I have heard the harps of angels play
As they make their way to the city
I do not think they will not sing to me.
A missionagly long, religious themed poem for Christmas Eve
Friday, December 23, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Dialogue for Cynic and Believer
Believer: When we are hurt
when we are broken
when we are damaged.
Our bodies draw in and close the wounds.
we harden, we separate ourselves.
we cut off our damaged parts.
pretend they were never there.
Cynic: we all make sacrifices.
Believer: we all make sacrifices but i dont know if I...
if i have to kill something of myself to be mended,
if i have to be less alive to stay living...
then i dont know if i want to be healed any more.
Cynic: everyone wants to be healed. Noone wants to stay in pain for ever.
Believer: but what if the only thing thats real is the pain.
everything else.. my whole life, its not mine any more
i dont feel like its me living it.
Sometimes i look in the mirror and wonder who this is.
why i care so much about what happens to him.
Cynic: you'll always be you, Believer. youre too strong to break up.
Believer: i dont think i want to be strong any more.
Cynic: I dont think you have a choice.
like you said; Our bodies draw in, we harden.
whether we like it or not.
Believer: already i feel like theres some kind of scar there.
less flexible, less open.
brittle and ugly.
where...
she.
used to be.
Isnt that ridiculous?
its happening already. Did you hear how hard it was for me to say that? just to say 'she'? not even her name?
Cynic: i dont blame you
Believer: but i want you to!
I dont want to be healed. I want to have her back.
when we are broken
when we are damaged.
Our bodies draw in and close the wounds.
we harden, we separate ourselves.
we cut off our damaged parts.
pretend they were never there.
Cynic: we all make sacrifices.
Believer: we all make sacrifices but i dont know if I...
if i have to kill something of myself to be mended,
if i have to be less alive to stay living...
then i dont know if i want to be healed any more.
Cynic: everyone wants to be healed. Noone wants to stay in pain for ever.
Believer: but what if the only thing thats real is the pain.
everything else.. my whole life, its not mine any more
i dont feel like its me living it.
Sometimes i look in the mirror and wonder who this is.
why i care so much about what happens to him.
Cynic: you'll always be you, Believer. youre too strong to break up.
Believer: i dont think i want to be strong any more.
Cynic: I dont think you have a choice.
like you said; Our bodies draw in, we harden.
whether we like it or not.
Believer: already i feel like theres some kind of scar there.
less flexible, less open.
brittle and ugly.
where...
she.
used to be.
Isnt that ridiculous?
its happening already. Did you hear how hard it was for me to say that? just to say 'she'? not even her name?
Cynic: i dont blame you
Believer: but i want you to!
I dont want to be healed. I want to have her back.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Thorn in the Lion's Paw
Like the thorn in the lion’s paw
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you
How long, have you heard
The sounds of my words
You never even thought
That they might be for you
Apologies, I have heard
And frankly, have forgotten
It would have been enough
For you just to hear me
And if you ever showed me kindness
If you ever healed my blindness
Then I’d wait for you, until the day I died
How long must I wait again
How soon can we meet again
I couldn’t have waited this long
If I did not care for you
I’ve never known
The first day I met you
And I hope that I’m dead
Before I see the last
Like the thorn in the lion’s paw
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you.
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you
How long, have you heard
The sounds of my words
You never even thought
That they might be for you
Apologies, I have heard
And frankly, have forgotten
It would have been enough
For you just to hear me
And if you ever showed me kindness
If you ever healed my blindness
Then I’d wait for you, until the day I died
How long must I wait again
How soon can we meet again
I couldn’t have waited this long
If I did not care for you
I’ve never known
The first day I met you
And I hope that I’m dead
Before I see the last
Like the thorn in the lion’s paw
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Here’s to you
Here’s to you who loved the world
Though the world loved you not in return.
Who adored and worshiped that, which,
Would gladly let you burn.
Here’s to you who played in the embers
While the fire scorched your skin.
Who danced in the blazing ruins
Knowing always the fire would win.
Here’s to you who gazed at the sky
Though the sky gave you only it’s rain.
Who sang with the wind and the thunder
Though the storm wanted only your pain.
Here’s to you who admired their beauty
When the tigers were circling near.
Who remembered their elegance and grace
When all they wanted was your fear.
Here’s to you, my friend
May your days be long and unnumbered.
You who loved the world
Though the world loved you not in return.
Though the world loved you not in return.
Who adored and worshiped that, which,
Would gladly let you burn.
Here’s to you who played in the embers
While the fire scorched your skin.
Who danced in the blazing ruins
Knowing always the fire would win.
Here’s to you who gazed at the sky
Though the sky gave you only it’s rain.
Who sang with the wind and the thunder
Though the storm wanted only your pain.
Here’s to you who admired their beauty
When the tigers were circling near.
Who remembered their elegance and grace
When all they wanted was your fear.
Here’s to you, my friend
May your days be long and unnumbered.
You who loved the world
Though the world loved you not in return.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
Sea Poem
If the ropes could groan and the
wind could blow and the
steersmen keep his course
And the bells would ring and the
sails would strain and the
masts creak with the force
And the waves might rise and the
rain might lash and the
waves be full of foam
And the mate will yell and the
sailors heave,
but I’ll be safe at home.
wind could blow and the
steersmen keep his course
And the bells would ring and the
sails would strain and the
masts creak with the force
And the waves might rise and the
rain might lash and the
waves be full of foam
And the mate will yell and the
sailors heave,
but I’ll be safe at home.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Castles Of The Mind
Kings and Princes, all down the line
Were searching for a poet, but not for mine
He, he was safe, though far behind
Sleeping, peaceful in Castles of the Mind.
And when the rough winds from forests will blow
My love he will weather them, though he’ll never know
Alone there he waits, noble and kind
Alone in white Castles of the Mind.
All the Lord’s chariots and all the Lord’s fine
Might break on the walls, and flames burn higher
I will not tremble with the rest of mankind
My love, he is safe in Castles of the Mind.
But though he is secure, these stone walls are cold
The towers are high, these gateways are old
His keep is all ruined, and his deed is unsigned
What kind of home is a Castle of the Mind?
So I with my flowers cannot enter the keep
I sit in the barbican, sit there and weep
These high doors have bared him from the one he would find
These high doors that guard his Castles of the Mind.
He bids me to build up my own redoubt
But the stone is heavy, I cannot quarry it out
I tried for his sake but I am not thus inclined
Mine are the gardens and Flowers of the Mind.
I am no poet, and I am no soldier
I am no artist, and I am no sculptor
I am but a poor girl, simple, unrefined
Perhaps too poor for great Castles of the Mind.
These spires are soaring, these buttresses fly
But war they beget, and many men die
Alone in their glory, they make us blind
It is time to tear down these Castles of the Mind.
This one was inexplicably written from a female perspective. Don't ask, it just turned out that way. I got Jenni to put some chords behind it, so hopefully one day it'll turn into a song one day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)