Ton rêve n'est pas evanoui... c'est soulement le début, aujourd'hui.

Current mood: spacey
Currently listening to: Badly Drawn Boy - "Another Devil Dies"

It is wonderfabulous to see perennial change about and within oneself (and to knit new rules and things along the way). What even defeats that prior amazement is that other thing that allows one to just be glad for life. To be glad that, even though things happen and people and places and technology evolve (or backtrack in progress?) by the second, there are some things, such as a nice coupl'hour-long coffee consumption sitting, that may maintain constancy in goodness. ^.^


On a note off to the right, I am so, so sorry for every confusing fabricated form of a composition I may have ever developed or really, attempted to develop, for that matter; for the made-up code I trick people into believeing is language; for all the babbling scoowample (there goes!); I understand now, and I am awfully sorry.

Don't worry, though sorry, I'll do it again-- with reason or rhythm or neither of them...

Current mood: quietly rebellious
Currently listening to: Badly Drawn Boy - "The Shining"

You know, Life, you and I are going to get along just fine, whether-you-like-it-or-not.

Today was wonderfabulous sorta-of-- blah blah blah.
But life, give me coffee.

To watch them, to listen, you just knew. You just knew that was it. And then he said, "And you know, you can be up here, too--one day-- if you like. And only if you like. My message to you is to do what you want to do, for if you don't, there's no other way."

And he is so incredibly right. And I figured it out... I suppose the reason the it that won't be got considered was not to let... others down. Low, no? Yeah, low. Not to let others down. That word-- "others"-- including more people you can imagine and a list that would make you look at me and say, "Fran?!"

But then, life, you try to shake that.

*spoken in a very Kathy Bizarth-ish way-- as in, as she would when she gets angry that the choir did not perform to her expectations when she never directed nor told it what to do in the first place* NO! NO! NO!!!

NO! I have my mind made up. Please don't throw doubt pie in my face!!!

Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease don't. I will do what I am going to, I will be let.
Can't you just nod quietly!!?


I played some BDB and things were better, but some weights are overwhelming sometimes.


So, Life,
get
over yourself,
come
take my hand,
and let's live happily ever after, okay?
Please?

WOW...

Current mood: ecstatic and nostalgic for Badly Drawn Boy
Currently listening to: Badly Drawn Boy - "Year of the Rat"

My crickey doodle. Unbelievable stuff... I now understand. I can't ever forget this concert. Never, ever. Can't ever forget what I was told and what I heard and what I sensed and what I felt and what was transferred over. Redefine rapture.

I went to the Badly Drawn Boy concert yesterday, and it was flat out incredible. They are amazing musicians-- they sound very much better live than they do on CD (not to say that their CD's are not wonderful also).

Not only all this, but I got to meet them. That's right. We were waiting for them to come on stage, and one of the crew guys handed us backstage passes out of the blue. It was incredible. We were ecstatic. We broke curfew by three solid hours and amazingly Katherine's parents didn't seem as though they wanted to murder her, and neither did mine. It's a bit of an overly complex story of how all this happened, but it doesn't matter. I got to meet Chris and Oliver of BDB (cello and violin performers), and I got to shake Damon's hand because I was in the front row, where I comfortably leaned against the stage. The flute fellow seemed to smile at me a lot in appreciation of my appreciation (I was likely the biggest fan there, and I was able to sing along to most songs), and the lead singer sang to the guy in front of him, Katherine, and me.


They took requests and the first requested song they played was the one I screamed out-- "Cause a Rockslide," which was amazing. Damon said that that was the first time anyone had requested that song in the U.S.! They played everything I wanted them to play very badly except for, perhaps, "Walking Out of Stride" and maybe a few others. Played 3 hours. It ended at 1.15 am.

Unfortunately I did not bring my camera because I am a forgetful idiot, but the memories are imprinted in my brain. The signed ticket and the backstage pass are framed. They offered us beer, but we didn't take it because we were so young (and still are!). Cello man could not believe we were as young as we claimed to be.

They were overly hilarious
And they reminded me everything that I needed to remember. They delivered something that was just something else. Amazing stuff. To emphasize the message, Damon articulated the fact that one should do what he/she truly wants to do. I will take that advice.


I sincerely hope I will be able to experience their immense awesomenessitissity again. I don't exactly know how to explain, but I shan't forget.

It really, really, really could happen...

Current mood: hmm
Currently listening to: Blur - "The Universal"

--Scary?

During AP English, instead of listening to the explanation for the myriad correct answers that I didn't get on the multiple choice practice, I copied a poem we analyzed from the same book some weeks ago. It was my best score on multiple choice practice, too, which, I think, hints that I really liked the poem-- for I did.

Hence, I shall share it. I hope you can savor it fully.


"The Novel"
by Denise Levertov


A wind is blowing. The book being written
shifts, halts, pages
yellow and white drawing apart
and inching together in
new tries. A single white half sheet
skims out under the door


And cramped in their not yet
half written lives a man and a woman
grimace in pain. Their cat
yawning its animal secret,
stirs in the monstrous limbo of erasure.
They live (when they live) in fear


of blinding, of burning, of choking under a
mushroom cloud in the year of the roach.
And they want (like us) the eternity
of today, they want this fear to be
stuck out at once by a thick black
magic marker, everywhere, every page,


the whole sheets of it, crushed, crackling,
and tossed in the fire

and when they were fine ashes
the stove would cool and be cleaned
and a jar of flowers would be put to stand
on top of the stove in the spring light.


Meanwhile from page to page they
buy things, acquiring the look of a
full life; they argue, make silence bitter,
plan journeys, move house, implant
despair in each other
and then in the nick of time


they save one another with tears,
remorse, tenderness---
hooked on those wonder-drugs.
Yet they do have---
don't they--- like us---
their days of grace, they


halt, stretch, a vision
breaks in on the cramped grimace,
inscape of transformation.
Something sundered begins to knit.
By scene, by sentence, something is rendered
back into life, back to the gods.