Posts tagged: music
Y’a pas trois moyens - Josephine Baker
There’s not three ways, nor two, there’s only one good way to say I love you.
So she goes floating through my room, Josephine, vapors of wine and smoke trailing behind, the way I walked past the Ciné Doré without going in to watch a movie I wouldn’t understand alone despite every temptation to the contrary and instead read Joyce and got filled slowly with honey in a bright, booky café and returned to jazz and wine and the comfort of knowing that she, too, was once a stranger.
The Good Ones - Sara
“You can never be strong you can only be free”
Saintseneca - Last
the leaking windows fight the heater. wan snow of late march outside. my fingers are caffinated and underslept, they twitch to the wrong letters and I sigh, time, time. five hours.
failing this course means working for eight months extra. how outrageous to put that into context. outside it’s getting lighter in the sense that it is still grey. my stomach scratches and pings. i do not deserve the croissant yet. more coffee. write the words. write the.
yesterday i walked up six flights of stairs and had a panic attack because i have not yet quit smoking, i don’t even want to quit smoking.
je suis fou de toi - manu chao
je te bois dans mon café, je te brûle dans mon tabac
I wrote about helplessness blues over here, the new year has me all paging through my fragments.
Smoking a cigarette. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Desultory, over-shoulder conversation, let’s go. Let’s.
Deep fierce joy, my voice louder than it’s ever been. I can scream, oh God, I can scream for days. A few times, to no one in particular, ‘So I’ll lose my voice today.’ When they come marching up to meet us, oh, that moment. Here we are. Here we all are.
Let’s go, can we, can we go now? For a few moments, on the off-beat of the rap-blast, we chant LA RAGE DU PEUPLE and it’s deep and loud and right and angry and oh, can we go now?
Berri, the hill I’ve ached up on my bike so many times, it’s filled, we’ve filled it, the men and women and cameras and screaming from the overpass, we’ve done it. On veut étudier, on ne veut pas s’endetter! Over and over, my face shining, I know my eyes are like a crazy person’s.
There is always an open door. That moment, my face, who saw me, what do I do now? It felt so easy, puzzle pieces, people just being people after all, they can be shoved; they can be held back. Screaming at the crowd, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Screaming, GET IN HERE! HELP US! That dreadful hesitation and then the bum’s rush.
Trapped. Oh, God, what now? They’ve all got their faces covered, I’m a fucking idiot. To negotiate. Pepper spray, or tear gas. The moment when I thought it was more marchers, and then the slick gleam of streetlight on white helmets. Screams. Trapped.
est-ce que vous avez une recommendation sur la musique anti-anxieté?
Teeth-chatter. Wash my face, quickly, who will come in, change your shirt, no time, hurry, where do you go now. The bus. iPod dead. Run away, now finally to naked wrapped in the duvet in the bed, fingers twitching, still unable to still the worries. To still the worries. Patrick, my darling, please.
J’aime tes genoux - Adanowsky
Sluggish day with the lingering glow of last night, un-looked-for love in my open eyes: Everything works out. Still the poison behind my shoulder blades, the pain when I cough, worries about the mercury and my resistance. Par contre, a pot of bubbling soup and a silly song about knees. The play between the need to worry and the overwhelmingly blue sky, yellow flags fluttering from the norways. And an absent, indulgent paragraph to hand you, tickle your ears with j’aime, j’aime, j’aime, j’aime, j’aime.