line of lyrics # 7

I'm all on my own
I've kinda lost
my throne
I'm absent from the scene
I'm searchin' for
a way in life, I'm lookin' for
a theme

A plan or a scheme, a road to a better place

I'm splashin' water
on my face,
Wake up lazy bones, please just
take me home
I'm out of my comfort zone
the liquids wearin' off
Now I just

feel alone
Now I just
feel alone

I know we fuss and fight yeah
a little bit
I've had a couple drinks well
a little bit
I'm beggin' you
Just carry me
home

I know we fuss
and fight here
a little bit

I've had a couple drinks
well a little bit

I'm beggin' you
Just carry me

home

I'm all on
my own



(Ghostpoet - Cash and Carry Me Home)

nice cd cover # 22

Max Richter - Memoryhouse

beautiful sense of displacement

biking at night, fully in that one place, with its darkened stillwarm evening quiet, the old streets. listening to "Coney Island Low" at the same time, the gulls, the soft crash of surf, and being there just as much. and in this dual existence, at two times and on two places, happiness, as if twofold me in one silence.

nice cd cover # 21

Clearlake - Amber

nice words # 17

coniferous

late night long time hazy lingerings, and memories

"We both developed a passion for cigarettes. Tobacco is difficult to find here, and terribly expensive when you do, but Sam had made a number of black market connections while compiling the research for his book, and he was often able to find packs of twenty for as low as one or one-and-a-half glots. I am talking about real, old-fashioned cigarettes, the kind that are produced in factories and come in colorful paper wrappers with cellophane on the outside. The ones Sam bought had been stolen from the various foreign charity ships that had docked here in the past, and the brand names were usually printed in languages we could not even read. We would smoke them after it got dark, lying in bed and looking out through the big, fan-shaped window, watching the sky and its agitations, the clouds drifting across the moon, the tiny stars, the blizzards that came pouring down from above. We would blow the smoke out of our mouths and watch it float across the room, casting shadows on the far wall that dispersed the moment they formed. There was a beautiful transience in all this, a sense of fate dragging us along with it into unknown corners of oblivion. We often talked about home then, summoning up as many memories as we could, bringing back the smallest, most specific images in a kind of languorous incantation--the maple trees along Miro Avenue in October, the Roman numeral clocks in the public school classrooms, the green dragon light fixture in the Chinese restaurant across from the university. We were able to share the flavor of these things, to relive the myriad incidentals of a world we had both known since childhood, and it helped to keep our spirits up, I think, helped to make us believe that some day we would be able to return to all that."


- Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things

nice words # 16

widdershins

nice cd cover # 20

Junip - Fields

the skylight of rock

"There's also a story that claims the city wasn't really destroyed at all. Instead, through a charm known only to the King, the city and its inhabitants were whisked away and replaced by phantoms of themselves, and it was only these phantoms that were burnt and slaughtered. The real city was shrunk very small and placed in a cave beneath the great heap of stones. Everything that was once there is there still, including the palaces and the gardens filled with trees and flowers; including the people, no bigger than ants, but going about their lives as before -- wearing their tiny clothes, giving their tiny banquets, telling their tiny stories, singing their tiny songs.

The King knows what's happened and it gives him nightmares, but the rest of them don't know. They don't know they've become so small. They don't know they're supposed to be dead. They don't even know they've been saved. To them the ceiling of rock looks like a sky: light comes in through a pinhole between the stones, and they think it's the sun."


- Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

a series of sea pics # 2