Once in a while, I let it go. I have to, or my thoughts would consume me. Instead, I unhitch a million threads, and float… and drift. <\/p>\n
Before too long, a path waves toward me, but I prefer to explore. For that you need a dose of the random. Open possibility is too vertiginous, but play is a vector of freedom. Only a judicious, homeopathic dose of the random…such is the contemporary life. <\/p>\n
Why not play in a field of the familiar, rearranging my prejudices and laughing through the cut and paste method? A little homage, a little pattern recognition, and a little selection by will or inclination. <\/p>\n
Spin the dial on the ipod; it’s as good as a tarot deck or a casting of the lots. Better, because there’s a context of every song, a layering of experience, the roads of habitual thought – all put into abeyance and at the same time summoned. A combinatorial sequencing, a dna-imaged lyrical selection – inherently the stuff of thought. <\/p>\n
The focus then – would it be on the subtexts as they are woven? Or does the focus go to the rhythms of genre and mood? Will it be a ungainly monster, or will something be de-monstrated? <\/p>\n
There is no predicting the outcome, and yet it all unfolds within a specific space. The space of multiple association, but in this you’ll miss the sound. Will you know any of these? <\/p>\n
What meaning is made? What is accomplished with such cherry-picked flotsam ? Nothing. And this is good, because as with so much else, what matters is the journey. <\/p>\n
Let’s see, then, what resonates now. Random song, chosen lyric… Three, two one…<\/p>\n
rolling the ball rolling the ball
\nrolling the ball to me<\/p>\nI’m locked in tight I’m out of range
\nI used to care, but things have changed<\/p>\nall we do crumbles to the ground
\nthough we refuse to see<\/p>\ntemples are greying
\nand teeth are decaying
\nand creditors weighing your purse<\/p>\nbroccoli feed your head
\ntheir ideas are fried in fat<\/p>\ncome dance with the west wind
\nand touch all the mountaintops<\/p>\ncheck my vital signs and
\nno I’m still alive<\/p>\nand the world spins madly on<\/p>\n
cellophane flowers of yellow and green
\ntowering over your head<\/p>\nraining in my head like a tragedy
\ntearing me apart like a new emotion<\/p>\nblossoms that fall from the trees so tall
\nthat falling is floating in heaven for hours<\/p>\nthe winds of night so softly are sighing
\nsoon they will fly your troubles to sea<\/p>\nit don’t make no difference to me
\neverybody has to fight to be free<\/p>\nis that you, mo-dean
\nis that you, mo-dean<\/p>\nbe well you children of the land
\nof all the dying beauties<\/p>\nshall crime bring crime forever
\nstrength aiding still the strong<\/p>\nI’m waiting for the night to fall
\nwhen everything is bearable<\/p>\nblue for the tears
\nblack for the night spheres<\/p>\nnow they know how many holes
\nit takes to fill the Albert Hall<\/p>\nall the crocodiles – ohh-ayy-ohh –
\nthey snap their teeth on your cigarette<\/p>\nfor millions this life
\nis a sad vale of tears<\/p>\npreserve your memories
\nthey’re all that’s left you<\/p>\nI am just simply an old tired poet
\nwaiting for the apple to drop tonight<\/p>\nI thought I heard somebody calling
\nin the dark I thought I heard somebody call<\/p>\nlistening to my breath
\nfalling from the edge<\/p>\nthere’s no way of turning more than this<\/p>\n
and the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards
\ninto the future<\/p>\nand then she said both those words are dead
\nthat’s the story of my life<\/p>\nhad it been another day
\nI might have looked the other way
\nand I’d have never been aware<\/p>\nleave the shadows dancing
\ndancing on their own
\nlet the moment free you<\/p>\nour breath comes out white clouds
\nmingles and hangs in the air <\/p>\nhow I’m moved how you move me
\nwith your beauty’s potency<\/p>\n’cause every time it rains
\nyou’re here in my head
\nlike the sun coming out<\/p>\nwhile the wide arc of the globe is turning
\nwe feel it moving through the dark<\/p>\nwhispering lingering
\n’till the sting of dawn<\/p>\nrecurring dreams of minor chords
\nmetered time muted chimes find the beat<\/p>\nand from the dark secluded valleys
\nI heard the ancient sighs of sadness<\/p>\nwinds are whipping waves up
\nlike sky scrapers
\nand the harder they hit me
\nthe less I seem to bruise <\/p>\nso I got me some horses
\nto ride on to ride on<\/p>\ntake my hand as the sun descends
\nthey can’t hurt you now<\/p>\nspeak softly love
\nso no one hears us but the sky<\/p>\ncan I meet you in between
\nwill you be there
\nlet me hold you sight unseen
\nstill in the air<\/p>\nyour enchanting light is leaving
\nsilver haze is leaving<\/p>\nwindswept lady
\nmoves the night the waves the sand<\/p>\nI am falling down the stairs
\nI am skipping on the sidewalk
\nI am thrown against the sky<\/p>\nprends moi
\nje suis a toi
\nmea culpa <\/p>\nlimitless undying love
\nwhich shines around me like a million suns
\nand calls me on and on
\nacross the universe<\/p>\ndry your wings in the sun
\nyou have only begun to understand<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Once in a while, I let it go. I have to, or my thoughts would consume me. Instead, I unhitch a million threads, and float… and drift. Before too long, a path waves toward me, but I prefer to explore. For that you need a dose of the random. Open possibility is too vertiginous, but play is a vector of freedom. Only a judicious, homeopathic dose of the random…such is the contemporary life. Why not play in a field of…<\/p>\n