Foreign Window
(Van Morrison and Bob Dylan)
I saw you from a foreign window
Bearing down the sufferin' road
You were carryin' your burden
To the palace of the Lord
To the palace of the Lord
I spied you from a foreign window
When the lilacs were in bloom
And the sun shone through your window pane
To the place you kept your books
You were reading on your sofa
You were singin' every prayer
That the masters had instilled in you
Since Lord Byron loved despair
In the palace of the Lord
In the palace of the Lord
And if you get it right this time
You don't have to come back again
And if you get it right this time
There's no need to explain
I saw you from a foreign window
Bearing down the sufferin' road
You were carryin' your burden
You were singing about Rimbaud
I was going down to Geneva
When the Kingdom had been found
I was giving you protection
From the loneliness of the crowd
In the palace of the Lord
In the palace of the Lord
They were giving you religion
Breaking bread and drinking wine
And you laid out on the green hills
Just like when you were a child
I saw you from a foreign window
You were trying to find your way back home
You were carrying your defects
Sleeping on a pallet on the floor
In the palace of the Lord
In the palace of the Lord
In the palace of the Lord
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
seconds
before it enters your mouth, you think
the first bite should be enough to do you in
to make you ask for something more than what
you think you have.
with something that looks this boisterously tempting, that's usually the case.
it is like love, this bewildering attraction
at first taste.
everytime, you will find that the present passion overshadows,
if not eradicates, memories of innocence and good intentions.
suddenly you forget the name of the first sweet you have gone back to
time and again when you were
still in trousers and weren't allowed to nurture your sweet tooth.
as with all temporal passions,
what truly matters here
is the now of things.
you have no time to think about consequential calories
or toothaches or the actual probability of diabetes.
this is all you want- pleasure that makes your mouth silky with
sugar- for now.
the past has too many residual claims on you.
it seems ridiculous to contemplate the future at such an early point.
so you decide to forget and embrace the undeniable sweetness
of what is in your mouth, on your unfaithful tongue.
before minutes you realize that
all of it is gone.
you have mercilessly consumed it. it has now become prey to your
mystified hunger.
so it offers itself up, not just in pieces now,
but its entire frosty self.
it trusts that you can finally muster enough courage to
eat it all up.
it recognizes that you are not a god.
it waits patiently for your screaming lust to take over.
pleasure,pleasure,pleasure rises up like moonbeams.
so you get another piece.
you are close to finishing it when
the phantoms of reason (unwelcome, of course,) all come up tapping on your shoulder-
visions of you fat and prostate with
indulgence flash before your eyes;
you in your deathbed, resentfully dramatic.
there is of course, the proverbial battle.
you look at the confection before you.
you remember the time when you were just passing by this store window
and you looked at it with the furor of impatience.
granted, you could not wait to get your hands on her
indifference, on her vulnerability.
you remember feeling disillusioned and cavernous.
this time, you realize that this is not something that you need.
the fact that you even wanted it makes you sorry for yourself.
you push the plate away and wonder how all that
frosting managed to leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
the first bite should be enough to do you in
to make you ask for something more than what
you think you have.
with something that looks this boisterously tempting, that's usually the case.
it is like love, this bewildering attraction
at first taste.
everytime, you will find that the present passion overshadows,
if not eradicates, memories of innocence and good intentions.
suddenly you forget the name of the first sweet you have gone back to
time and again when you were
still in trousers and weren't allowed to nurture your sweet tooth.
as with all temporal passions,
what truly matters here
is the now of things.
you have no time to think about consequential calories
or toothaches or the actual probability of diabetes.
this is all you want- pleasure that makes your mouth silky with
sugar- for now.
the past has too many residual claims on you.
it seems ridiculous to contemplate the future at such an early point.
so you decide to forget and embrace the undeniable sweetness
of what is in your mouth, on your unfaithful tongue.
before minutes you realize that
all of it is gone.
you have mercilessly consumed it. it has now become prey to your
mystified hunger.
so it offers itself up, not just in pieces now,
but its entire frosty self.
it trusts that you can finally muster enough courage to
eat it all up.
it recognizes that you are not a god.
it waits patiently for your screaming lust to take over.
pleasure,pleasure,pleasure rises up like moonbeams.
so you get another piece.
you are close to finishing it when
the phantoms of reason (unwelcome, of course,) all come up tapping on your shoulder-
visions of you fat and prostate with
indulgence flash before your eyes;
you in your deathbed, resentfully dramatic.
there is of course, the proverbial battle.
you look at the confection before you.
you remember the time when you were just passing by this store window
and you looked at it with the furor of impatience.
granted, you could not wait to get your hands on her
indifference, on her vulnerability.
you remember feeling disillusioned and cavernous.
this time, you realize that this is not something that you need.
the fact that you even wanted it makes you sorry for yourself.
you push the plate away and wonder how all that
frosting managed to leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
Nights like this...
Most of the time
(Bob Dylan)
Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around,
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground,
I can follow the path, I can read the signs,
Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,
I can handle whatever I stumble upon,
I don't even notice she's gone,
Most of the time.
Most of the time
It's well understood,
Most of the time
I wouldn't change it if I could,
I can't make it all match up, I can hold my own,
I can deal with the situation right down to the bone,
I can survive, I can endure
And I don't even think about her
Most of the time.
Most of the time
My head is on straight,
Most of the time
I'm strong enough not to hate.
I don't build up illusion 'till it makes me sick,
I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick
I can smile in the face of mankind.
Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time.
Most of the time
She ain't even in my mind,
I wouldn't know her if I saw her
She's that far behind.
Most of the time
I can't even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was with her.
Most of the time
I'm halfway content,
Most of the time
I know exactly where I went,
I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,
Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,
I don't compromise and I don't pretend,
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time.
----------------
Exactly how I feel. I'm not sure, though, if the lyrics I've posted are all correct. Feel free to correct them anytime.
(Bob Dylan)
Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around,
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground,
I can follow the path, I can read the signs,
Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,
I can handle whatever I stumble upon,
I don't even notice she's gone,
Most of the time.
Most of the time
It's well understood,
Most of the time
I wouldn't change it if I could,
I can't make it all match up, I can hold my own,
I can deal with the situation right down to the bone,
I can survive, I can endure
And I don't even think about her
Most of the time.
Most of the time
My head is on straight,
Most of the time
I'm strong enough not to hate.
I don't build up illusion 'till it makes me sick,
I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick
I can smile in the face of mankind.
Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time.
Most of the time
She ain't even in my mind,
I wouldn't know her if I saw her
She's that far behind.
Most of the time
I can't even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was with her.
Most of the time
I'm halfway content,
Most of the time
I know exactly where I went,
I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,
Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,
I don't compromise and I don't pretend,
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time.
----------------
Exactly how I feel. I'm not sure, though, if the lyrics I've posted are all correct. Feel free to correct them anytime.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Women Don't Riot(For N.B.S)
Ana Castillo
Women don't riot,
not in maquilas in Malaysia, Mexico, or Korea,
not in sweatshops in New York or El Paso.
They don't revoltin kitchens, laundries, or nurseries.
Not by the hundreds or thousands, changing
sheets in hotels or in laundries
when scalded by hot water,not in restaurants where they clean and clean
and clean their hands raw.
Women don't riot, not sober and earnest,
or high and strung out, not of any color, any race,
not the rich, poor,or those in between.
And mothers of all kinds especially don't run rampant through the streets.
In college those who've thought it out join hands in crucial times,
carry signs,are dragged away in protest.
We pass out petitions, organize a civilized vigil,
return to work the next day.
We women are sterilized, have more children
than they can feed,don't speak the official language,
want things they see on TV,would like to own a TV--
women who were molested as children
raped,beaten,harassed, which means
every last one sooner or later;
women who've defended themselves
and women who can't or don't know how
we don't--won't ever rise up in arms.
We don't storm through cities,take over the press,
make a unified statement,once and for all:
A third-millennium call--from this day on no more, not me,
not my daughter,not her daughter either.
Women don't form a battalion, march arm in arm
across continents bound
by the same tongue, same food or lack thereof,
same God, same abandonment,
same broken heart,raising children on our own, have
so much endless misery in commonthat must stop
not for one woman or every woman,but for the sake of us all.
Quietly, instead, one and each takes the offense, rejection,
bureaucratic dismissal, disease
that should not have been, insult,shove, blow to the head,
a knife at her throat.
She won't fight, she won't even scream--taught as she's been
to be brought down as if by surprise.
She'll die like an ant beneath a passing heel.
Today it was her. Next time who.
--1998, Chicago
Ana Castillo
Women don't riot,
not in maquilas in Malaysia, Mexico, or Korea,
not in sweatshops in New York or El Paso.
They don't revoltin kitchens, laundries, or nurseries.
Not by the hundreds or thousands, changing
sheets in hotels or in laundries
when scalded by hot water,not in restaurants where they clean and clean
and clean their hands raw.
Women don't riot, not sober and earnest,
or high and strung out, not of any color, any race,
not the rich, poor,or those in between.
And mothers of all kinds especially don't run rampant through the streets.
In college those who've thought it out join hands in crucial times,
carry signs,are dragged away in protest.
We pass out petitions, organize a civilized vigil,
return to work the next day.
We women are sterilized, have more children
than they can feed,don't speak the official language,
want things they see on TV,would like to own a TV--
women who were molested as children
raped,beaten,harassed, which means
every last one sooner or later;
women who've defended themselves
and women who can't or don't know how
we don't--won't ever rise up in arms.
We don't storm through cities,take over the press,
make a unified statement,once and for all:
A third-millennium call--from this day on no more, not me,
not my daughter,not her daughter either.
Women don't form a battalion, march arm in arm
across continents bound
by the same tongue, same food or lack thereof,
same God, same abandonment,
same broken heart,raising children on our own, have
so much endless misery in commonthat must stop
not for one woman or every woman,but for the sake of us all.
Quietly, instead, one and each takes the offense, rejection,
bureaucratic dismissal, disease
that should not have been, insult,shove, blow to the head,
a knife at her throat.
She won't fight, she won't even scream--taught as she's been
to be brought down as if by surprise.
She'll die like an ant beneath a passing heel.
Today it was her. Next time who.
--1998, Chicago
you can check my other link sometime. i'm planning on writing on my former blog again. for variety.:D but of course, i'd still be writing stuff here. it's just harder to access, 'is all.
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