Undo

there are many times when i wish my brain was like a tv, i could switch it off when i'm tired of thinking. it seems the more one tries not to see, the more one sees. it would seem that the more one denies, the stronger the faith grows. after all these years, isn't it supposed to be easier?

i started to write something about about the eternal search for solitude in the midst of all this bedlam at your place but i never got to finish the thought. maybe this is a preserve of the sanctum of purity. God, I'm beginning to sound like the Hipflaskswigger!

Posted by: Iwaya | Wednesday, February 21, 2007

There is a nice way you have put that thing about the music being infectious. Very, very nice way.

Posted by: The 27th Comrade | Saturday, February 24, 2007

There is a lot of music that makes one feel like this. Four years ago, I started to collect poems on music. I managed to assemble four; a Wole Soyinka (Fado Singer), Philip Larkin (For Sydney Bechet and Guitor II) and a Ted Hughes (Sonata). They were all haunting. Some more than others; Soyinka more than the rest. How can one describe the sensation - like the downswing of a swing in which your innerds seem suspended, your nerve-ends drawn in gritty sensation; don't touch me or I explode sort of attenuation. Fado Singer was my first experience (there is always sex hinted at, I feel about poems on Music.) Fado Singer still haunts me with its descriptions ("Long rides in Tear vaults", "My skin pumiced to a fault of the raw tobbacco nerve", "You strain sutures of song to bear") There was a headiness in those days, ten years ago, when I met the full force of Wole Soyinka. More than any other writer, what he brought to bear has still not fully unspooled itself to me. I suspect that his writing is categorising after something false. But this is counterbalanced by the sensations which his writings bring that are so deeply gratifying it seems justified to go after this sort of thing. A writing friend I met at Campus and I used to quarrel badly about this. I was always on about originality. He, quite brutally, pointed at a cup of coffee (crude huge granules floating on top to be drunk with large, throat-scratching buns) and said "This cup of coffee is original. It has never been made before".

Soyinka did write other music poems. I have since come down to trusting only Larkin on such matters. As for music, I am sceptical about anything that sounds nostalgic. I wasted some 17000 buying Diana Ross and Brian Adams from Music Land because I wanted to hear the opening lines "I've been thinking about the lonely years". The chap I bought the CD from told me "The CD has "Heaven", which everybody asks for. The lines were from "Heaven". At that moment, I felt like one of those people whose tortured, asphysixated faces are bundled into matatus at 7:30 in a jam; inconsequential, feeling personally, what thousands others are feeling. I paid for the CD. I have it at home and continue to play "Heaven".

Posted by: HipFlaskSwigger | Tuesday, February 27, 2007

There is a lot of music that makes one feel like this. Four years ago, I started to collect poems on music. I managed to assemble four; a Wole Soyinka (Fado Singer), Philip Larkin (For Sydney Bechet and Guitor II) and a Ted Hughes (Sonata). They were all haunting. Some more than others; Soyinka more than the rest. How can one describe the sensation - like the downswing of a swing in which your innerds seem suspended, your nerve-ends drawn in gritty sensation; don't touch me or I explode sort of attenuation. Fado Singer was my first experience (there is always sex hinted at, I feel about poems on Music.) Fado Singer still haunts me with its descriptions ("Long rides in Tear vaults", "My skin pumiced to a fault of the raw tobbacco nerve", "You strain sutures of song to bear") There was a headiness in those days, ten years ago, when I met the full force of Wole Soyinka. More than any other writer, what he brought to bear has still not fully unspooled itself to me. I suspect that his writing is categorising after something false. But this is counterbalanced by the sensations which his writings bring that are so deeply gratifying it seems justified to go after this sort of thing. A writing friend I met at Campus and I used to quarrel badly about this. I was always on about originality. He, quite brutally, pointed at a cup of coffee (crude huge granules floating on top to be drunk with large, throat-scratching buns) and said "This cup of coffee is original. It has never been made before".

Soyinka did write other music poems. I have since come down to trusting only Larkin on such matters. As for music, I am sceptical about anything that sounds nostalgic. I wasted some 17000 buying Diana Ross and Brian Adams from Music Land because I wanted to hear the opening lines "I've been thinking about the lonely years". The chap I bought the CD from told me "The CD has "Heaven", which everybody asks for. The lines were from "Heaven". At that moment, I felt like one of those people whose tortured, asphysixated faces are bundled into matatus at 7:30 in a jam; inconsequential, feeling personally, what thousands others are feeling. I paid for the CD. I have it at home and continue to play "Heaven".

Posted by: HipFlaskSwigger | Tuesday, February 27, 2007

well well,let me first think...

Posted by: eddiie | Thursday, March 08, 2007

24% of Americans believe that the Internet is able for a time to replace them with a loved one. For obvious reasons, such sentiments particularly prevalent among residents of the United States alone. Both men and women can replace the beloved, beloved trips to the World Network. However, the willingness to such transactions vary among followers of different ideologies: conservatives frowned relate to this idea, and the "progressive-minded" on the contrary,

Posted by: Zeratulss | Tuesday, November 13, 2007