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Finding Profound Meaning in Popular Song Lyrics
Profundity is actully pretty common in songs, I firmly believe. (Think of Bob Dylan. Enough said.) I’m discovering how much I love Neko Case, who can maybe be described as Patsy Cline channeling Tori Amos, with a killer steel guitar player. Not only can she belt, she writes her own songs. Check them out. This is from “I Wish I Was the Moon,” on Blacklisted.
“How will you know if you’ve found me at last?
‘Cause I’ll be the one with my heart in my lap”
Band Names
And today, here’s a list of Potential Band Names Found in Everyday Conversation:
Orcas in Antarctica
Hotdog Water
Heroin Dog
Former Penal Colony
Endless Meat Parade
Gone City
Horse Hooves and Goat Beans
(Oh yeah, you can check out The Website That Nearly Killed Us here: www.mytimeforce.com)
There Will Be New Material Tomorrow, I Promise
Until then, there’s Salinger.
And a little problem with a “fatal error” message with Dreamweaver, which means creativity has to wait while a site is recovered from screen shots and old files. The wacky agency life, indeed.
From the good old “Hapworth 16, 1924”:
He has a mother, however, a young divorcee with an exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be sure.
What a Post-It Note On My Desk Says Right Now:
Salinger, Part III
“I find it magnificent how beautiful loose ends find each other in the world if one only waits with decent patience, resilience, and quite blind strength.”
Let’s hope this is proved correct. We have a huge site that has to go up Monday morning, and it’s still being built. I hope our blind strength will be enough. It’s a little sleep-deprived at this point.
Salinger, Part II
From the same story as yesterday:
While the food itself is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of affection or inspiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving on the camper’s plate quite stripped if its tiny vegetal soul…A nameless inertia hangs over these two [the cooks], alternating with fits of unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork.
Word, Salinger
I have to admit that last week I had a moment of doubt and thought, “Is Salinger still alive?” He is, and I discovered lots of his uncollected stories have been put online. While this is not expressly against his wishes (they were published once, after all), it’s probably entering the murky waters of copyright infringement. But in the spirit of the Internet, here’s a link to the story “Hapworth 16, 1924,” written by a precocious 7-year-old Seymour Glass. (It’s a long story, so be warned.) It had such gems as this in it:
Few of these magnificent, healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority, I will give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a picture to tolerate in one’s heart? On the contrary, it is a picture to rip the heart to pieces.
That’s just so satisfying to hear.
Literature: It’s Everywhere
Found It
The “weeds” bit is in the first section, but the whole thing is worth reading–all about the move from chaos to order. Water’s big, too, going from mud and bog, to holding life, to supporting a boat with a rower, to the final image of water in a vase “still holding and feeding the stem of the contained flower.” Fabulous. I think of this a lot in spring; the last part in summer, too, going outside in the mornings with “To have the whole air!” in my head.