and i forgot that the creative type just ain't for me...

Mr Slackjaw - the night bell

Mr Slackjaw
You're in my hair tonight
You're shadow softly wavering
In this fading light
He was the creative type
So he's not for me
Because the creative type
Just imagine things

Beneath this stars light

In the dark behind your eyelids
It's in the air around
These sounds that we've grown up with
But still never noticed until now
Because we kept our petty town-folk ediquet
Like the fences around our homes
And when this sanctity proved unbearable
Our desires became wearable

Come the winter
Was like our testing ground
Where our round edges and depressions
Took on a grayness like the clouds
And I can't kick this old feeling
That's been with us most our lives
That we simply don't belong
No we simply don't belong here
It was on the coldest night I think I've ever known
A sharp clear cold night
When I found your warmth

Beneath this stars light

So Mr slackjaw
Let's go out tonight
You'll wear your best with the ruffled chest
And we'll walk to the car in this fading light
You are the creative type
At least you talk that way
And I forgot that the creative type
Just aint for me.

getting away with it all messed up thanks to james

hey..

do you know how much weight a name carries? it's a symbol, a designation, a categorisation that something or someone belongs somewhere. not only for the carrier of the name, but for the caller as well...

when you call someone Mum, you are identifying not only the other, but also yourself in relation to the other...

i never could name you.

i'm getting away with it all messed up. and so are you.

damn it's too bloody cold

Je veux écrire mais j'ai perdu ma voix... encore...

"...Et ce n'était pas bon, mais parce que c'était en cachette, et que tu te punissais d'écrire, que tu n'allais pas jusqu'au bout : ou qu'écrivant, irrésistiblement, comme nous nous masturbions en cachette, c'était non pas pour aller plus loin, mais pour atténuer un peu la tension, juste assez pour que le trop cesse de tourmenter. Et puis dès qu'on a joui, on se dépéche de se culpabiliser - pour se faire pardonner ; ou d'oublier, d'enterrer, jusqu'à la prochaine..."
-- Le Rire de la Méduse, Hélène Cixous

Too much feministe theory can really get to your head... I want to write but I have lost my voice. Once again. I want to blame this cold on you and say that you stole it, you stole it all away from me, all that I held so dear, all that I treasured without reservation, all that I trusted without suspicion, you changed all of that. Once upon a time, they were my friends; this world of words, this world of ambiguity and sense and nonsense and flexibility and interpretation. Suddenly they became unfamiliar, they lied, they changed, they were dishonest and untrustworthy, suddenly I didn't understand anymore.
I need a new concept.
Maybe this whole world is based on persuasion. All power struggles and society formed by who is the most persuasive for the moment. You were persuaded by your words, by my words, by a lack, by an immense overwhelming overflowing something that you were persuaded was what you wanted it to be, was what I wanted it to be, and in the course of all that persuasion, I wanted to be persuaded too, I found evidence, all this proof, all these messages to tell me what I wanted to know, to give me exactly what I lacked, what I thought you lacked, what I persuaded myself would and could and was exactly what it seemed to be.
So now I need to persuade myself of something else.
I spent one night travelling through words to find a happiness that I had forgotten, to get out of myself and all this preoccupation with me, me, ME, and found instead something else and somebody else and some other world and for a very little while it felt really good, to have realised that I had fallen back into an adolescent depression and managed to find my way out of it before it was too late.
I spent the next day thinking of you and yet not unhappy in the company of a lovely new friend, a truly peaceful and tranquil and calm soul, and mysterious in all the right ways to make me fall in love again. I suspect beauty, also, lies beneath her prettiness but I do not know yet.
It's nice to be able to be quiet and happy at the same time.

The next morning I dreamt of everyone back at home:
A tragedy that I could see happen before it happened right before my horrified eyes.
A crashing that was too much for my delicate, weak, sensitive heart.
I ran around frantically making sure that everyone was ok, that I hadn't watched helplessly as everyone I loved got hurt,
and that you were alright...
but I couldn't find you...
The damage seemed minimal, but you were still missing.
I couldn't break down in front of everyone because I was ashamed of my inability to remain calm, to not let my emotions get in the way, I was ashamed that I felt it so strongly, this love, this wanting that no one ever got hurt, I was ashamed that I couldn't help crying...
I ran away and into his arms because he was the first warm voice I heard
and into his smile I cried.
Then you appeared.
I pushed him away, this love that couldn't console me,
and wrapped my arms around you. More tears and more senseless repetition, reassuring myself that you were ok...
Then I remembered...
that I no longer had that right to be that close to you like I was, to hold you like I was doing, to cry for you like I was crying, to care about you like I did, and I pulled myself together,
away,
apologising...
ashamed...

Tu peux t'occuper de tous sauf de moi; mais moi, je ne peux que penser à toi...
Comment t'echapper?

Taxi

I stole this from someone else's blog...

Paul Eluard

Le tout est de
tout dire
et je manque
de mots
Et je manque de
temps et je
Manque
d´audace

guess i'm not the fighting kind...

"A Bad Dream" - KEANE

Why do I have to fly
Over every town up and down the line?
I'll die in the clouds above
And you that I defend, I do not love

I wake up, it's a bad dream
No one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired
To be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind

Where will I meet my fate?
Baby I'm a man, I was born to hate
And when will I meet my end?
In a better time you could be my friend

I wake up, it's a bad dream
No one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired
To be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind
Wouldn't mind it
If you were by my side
But you're long gone
Yeah you're long gone now

Where do we go?
I don't even know
My strange old face
And I'm thinking about those days
And I'm thinking about those days

I wake up, it's a bad dream
No one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired
To be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind
Wouldn't mind it
If you were by my side
But you're long gone
Yeah you're long gone now

i wonder what kind of old woman i'd be....

looking for lyrics to a song i don't know the name of really sucks.....

wow! that felt good!!

:)

stream of consciousness - well, d'ya wanna know what i'm thinking or not? well, do ya??

it used to be so easy, this writing thing, tiny scraps of phrases and a nice turn and twist of words would appear and suddenly i'd have a story that i didn't even know i knew... where did it go? i want so much to be good at this. or to be good at something. maybe what i've been seeing, what i've been saying, that i'm lucky, that i'm so lucky, is not untrue, but true for everyone, so a kind of useless stupid tautology that is so evident it needs no explanation, no declaration, everyone is lucky, in their own little ways, if only they'd care to see it that way, because i certainly don't feel very lucky right now, and yet the prof doesn't turn up once again and i'm saved, for another week, or is it doomed for another week of wasted time, time, bloody time, i really need to stop quoting songs, quoting in general, people don't understand my sense of humour, or if they do then they don't find it funny, which is a pity because i really do... is this my virginia woolf inpersonation? no i would never even try.. i decided this week maybe i am not really made for real work, that's why it's so hard, but i like working so much, i like the sweat and stress and making money except i don't like working because i have to i like working because i want to and i thought so much this week that maybe i am made to be or should be a writer after all but then that means i am still going in the wrong direction, how can so many changes still result in me going the WRONG way??? i always thought i was pretty good with directions, what a shame to find out that i'm not. i really miss driving but maybe it's a good thing i'm stuck here and have no car because in my current state i think i'd drive to geelong, just because, but petrol is expensive and i'm not even in melbourne at the moment so it'd cost a bomb, actually, i'm not even in Oz so actually it wouldn't even be possible unless i decided to drive under the sea along with the little mermaids and their crabby friends, except even if i wanted to i don't think the car would work and i'd run out of petrol and there wouldn't be any petrol stations under the sea, kinda like here in Lyon actually, hardly any petrol stations, where on earth do people fill up??? actually, that's not true i keep discovering petrol stations on a daily basis, they're hidden like little secret bars that only the exclusive word of mouth advertisement would actually let you in on, and i stumble across them because i get lost because i have nothing i'd rather do than walk and get lost and be cold and try and forget or blanken my mind and empty the emptyness because i really don't understand even with all this explanation and all these words i don't understand, i don't understand and i don't want it to be like this and i hate the fact that i feel so bloody impotent and useless and stupid and hopelessly alone... i know i'm not alone. i know that. i know that it is not my whole life, but here i sometimes feel like i have no life because my life is back in Melbourne... i should've could've would've didn't and thus cannot complain, cannot cannot cannot