Saturday, 19 December 2009

I miss 'that' place.

Largeman: You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.
Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Largeman: You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.

Friday, 11 December 2009

No-one knows true, not even you.

Boetti's embroidered Map of the World (part of a series embroidered by Afghan and Pakistani artisans). [click for larger image]

Sunday, 27 September 2009

Oh where are you going and can I come with you?

Oh where are you going
and can I come with you,
and what is your method
for keeping alive:
no pack or possessions,
no clothing or shelter,
no food to sustain you -
how can you survive?

- John Bell, in "Heaven Shall Not Wait" music book

Friday, 7 August 2009

The heart asks pleasure first...and then...

I didn't know this was a poem. A very sad poem.

The heart asks pleasure first, 
And then, excuse from pain; 
And then, those little anodynes 
That deaden suffering;  

And then, to go to sleep; 
And then, if it should be 
The will of its Inquisitor, 
The liberty to die.  

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) P.1890

Friday, 10 April 2009

me and you

You can do better than me,
but I can't do better than you.
- Death Cab for Cutie

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

When Earth's last picture is painted...

When Earth's last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew

And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!

- Rudyard Kipling

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

So I took to whisky so I could recall The taste of his mouth on my mouth, that’s all.

Karine Polwart's The Sun's Coming Over The Hill.

I've been listening to this non stop for the past few weeks. She's my favourite singer, but I hadn't got this (her first solo) album, Faultlines. The lyric's for this song are just out of this world. I listen to them over and over and every time I just think it's about the saddest song ever.

Two different live versions of the song [the second just shows how great a live performer she is]: