A lovely Saturday afternoon, well baked.
Damn you vinyls, tapes and CDs which stack so high, for being so good and making me late.
I got to thinking about what I like to call "epic tracks", a list of my favourites
Echoes, Pink Floyd
Maggot Brain, FunkadelicLike Herod, Mogwai
Hidden Shadows, Herbie Hancock
Oscar is snoozing at the foot of my bed.Occasionally he'll wake up in a daze to lick his paws but soon drifts off back to sleep. In deep slumber, he snores, grumbles & twitches. He is dreaming. I creep up and cradle myself next to him. I can feel his chest rising up and down in tune with his gentle breath.
With his head tucked under his paws, he is happy as Larry.
That's Oscar, our not so wild cat.
The Cherry Orchard
Barbara's afraid we shall go and fall in love with each other.
Day after day she never leaves us alone.
With her narrow mind she cannot understand that we are above love.
To avoid everything petty, everything illusory, everything that prevents one
from being free and happy, that is the whole meaning and purpose of our life.
Forward! We march on irresistibly towards that bright star which burns far,
far before us! Forward! Don't tarry, comrades! All Russia is our garden.
The earth is great and beautiful; it is full of wonderful places.
Think, Anya, your grandfather, your great-grandfather and all
your ancestors were serf-owners, owners of living souls.
Do not human spirits look out at you from every tree in the orchard,
from every leaf and every stem? Do you not hear human voices? . . .
Oh! it is terrible. Your orchard frightens me.
When I walk through it in the evening or at night,
the rugged bark on the trees glows with a dim light,
and the cherry-trees seem to see all that happened a hundred
and two hundred years ago in painful and oppressive dreams.
Well, well, we have fallen at least two hundred years behind the times.
We have achieved nothing at all as yet;
we have not made up our minds how we stand with the past;
we only philosophize, complain of boredom, or drink vodka.
It is so plain that, before we can live in the present,
we must first redeem the past, and have done with it;
and it is only by suffering that we can redeem it,
only by strenuous, unremitting toil.
If you have the household keys, throw them in the well and go away.
Be free, be free as the wind.
Believe what I say, Anya; believe what I say.
I'm not thirty yet; I am still young, still a student;
but what I have been through!
I am hungry as the winter; I am sick, anxious, poor as a beggar.
Fate has tossed me hither and thither; I have been everywhere, everywhere.
But wherever I have been, every minute, day and night,
my soul has been full of mysterious anticipations.
I feel the approach of happiness, Anya; I see it coming. . . .
Day after day she never leaves us alone.
With her narrow mind she cannot understand that we are above love.
To avoid everything petty, everything illusory, everything that prevents one
from being free and happy, that is the whole meaning and purpose of our life.
Forward! We march on irresistibly towards that bright star which burns far,
far before us! Forward! Don't tarry, comrades! All Russia is our garden.
The earth is great and beautiful; it is full of wonderful places.
Think, Anya, your grandfather, your great-grandfather and all
your ancestors were serf-owners, owners of living souls.
Do not human spirits look out at you from every tree in the orchard,
from every leaf and every stem? Do you not hear human voices? . . .
Oh! it is terrible. Your orchard frightens me.
When I walk through it in the evening or at night,
the rugged bark on the trees glows with a dim light,
and the cherry-trees seem to see all that happened a hundred
and two hundred years ago in painful and oppressive dreams.
Well, well, we have fallen at least two hundred years behind the times.
We have achieved nothing at all as yet;
we have not made up our minds how we stand with the past;
we only philosophize, complain of boredom, or drink vodka.
It is so plain that, before we can live in the present,
we must first redeem the past, and have done with it;
and it is only by suffering that we can redeem it,
only by strenuous, unremitting toil.
If you have the household keys, throw them in the well and go away.
Be free, be free as the wind.
Believe what I say, Anya; believe what I say.
I'm not thirty yet; I am still young, still a student;
but what I have been through!
I am hungry as the winter; I am sick, anxious, poor as a beggar.
Fate has tossed me hither and thither; I have been everywhere, everywhere.
But wherever I have been, every minute, day and night,
my soul has been full of mysterious anticipations.
I feel the approach of happiness, Anya; I see it coming. . . .
Currently reading:
The Doors of Perception
by
Aldous Huxley
"To be shaken out of the ruts of ordinary perception,
to be shown for a few timeless hours the outer and inner world,
not as they appear to an animal obsessed with
survival or to a human being obsessed with words and notions,
but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally."
inspired by William Blake's quote
"If the doors of perception were cleansed
everything would appear to man as it is,
infinite"
DEF POETRY JAM
Sarah Jones
"Your revolution will not happen between these thighs
The real revolution ain't about booty size
The Versaces you buys, or the Lexus you don't drives
And though we've lost Biggie Smalls
Baby your Notorious revolution
Will never allow you to lace no lyrical douche, in my bush
Your revolution will not be killing me softly, with Fugees
Your revolution ain't gonna knock me up without no ring no plan
And produce little future MCs
Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs
Your revolution will not find me in the backseat of a Jeep
With LL, hard as hell, you know doin' it and doin' it and doin' it well
Your revolution will not be you smacking it, flipping it or rubbing it down
Nor will it take you downtown or humpin' around
Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs
Your revolution will not have me singing, ain't no nigga like the one I got
And your revolution will not be sending for no drip, drip VD shot
And your revolution will not involve me, feeling your nature rise
Helping you fantasize
Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs
No no, not between these thighs
Oh, my Jamaican brother, your revolution will not make you feel bombastic
And really fantastic
And have you groping in the dark for that rubber wrapped in plastic
You will not be touching your lips with my triple dip of french vanilla,
butter pecan, chocolate delux
Or having Akinyele's dream, hmm a 6 foot blowjob machine, hmm
You want to subjugate your Queen? Uh huh
Think I'm a put it in my mouth, just cause you made me a few bucks?
Please brother please
Your revolution will not be me tossing my weave
And making me believe I'm some caviar-eating ghetto mafia clown
Or me giving up my behind, just so I can get signed
And maybe having somebody else write my rhymes
I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown
You know I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown
Your revolution makes me wonder, where could we go
If we could drop the empty pursuit of props and ego
We'd revolt back to our Roots, use a little Common sense
On a quest to make love De La Soul, no pretense
But your revolution will not be you flexing your little sex and status
To express what you feel
Your revolution will not happen between these thighs.
Because the real revolution, that's right I said the real revolution
You know I'm talking about the revolution
When it comes, it's gonna to be real"
Erykah Badu
"Friends, fans, artists must meet.
Which one are you, which one is me?
Friends, fans, artists must beat.
Which one are you, which one are me?"
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