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Victoria & Olivia
Having Champagne & Discussing the Memoirs
Someone Else's Story
In someone else's lifetime
Someone with my name
Who looked a lot like me
Came to know
A man and made a promise
He only had to say
And that's where she would be
Lately, although the feelings
run just as deep
The promise she made
has grown impossible to keep
And yet I wish it wasn't so
Will he miss me if I go?
In a way
It's someone else's story
I don't see myself
As taking part at all
A girl that I was fond of
Finally could see
The writing on the wall
Sadly, she realized
she'd left him behind
And sadder than that
She knew he wouldn't even mind
And though there's nothing left to say
Would he listen if I stay?
It's all very well to say
You fool it's now or never
I could be choosing
No choices whatsoever.
I could be
In someone else's story
In someone else's life
And he could be in mine
I don't see
A reason to be lonely
I could take my chances
Further down the line
And if that girl I knew
Should ask my advice
Oh I wouldn't hesitate
She needn't ask me twice
I'd tell her that for free
Trouble is, the girl is me
The story is, the girl is me.
From the musical Chess
Lyrics by the incredible Tim Rice (b 1944)
Music by Benny Andersson & Bjoern Ulvaeus -- of Abba
Click here for another great song: The Ugly Truth
By Lucinda Williams
As one of Lucinda's fans comments: " . . . don't make the same mistake that I did! Take those ghosts out of the closet, hang 'em up on a clothes line and disinfect them with sunlight. Sit back in a deck chair with a cool beverage and watch 'em blow in the breeze! You gotta look at this 'truth stuff' or it'll haunt you forever . . . "
One should want only one thing and want it constantly. Then one is sure of getting it. But I desire everything and consequently get nothing. Each time I discover, and too late, that one thing had come to me while I was running after another.
from The Journals of André Gide
I devoted myself to my business to the best of my ability — not taking much pleasure in it, but hoping by this semblance of work to give some stability to my disintegrated life.
Perhaps it was because the day had begun so badly that I felt so anguished. Oh, I thought, without a doubt, everything in my life is falling to pieces. Nothing that my hand grasps can my hand hold.
from Gide's novel, The Immoralist
When Ben & Sam were small, we often read and sang and watched The Snowman as a favorite bedtime story. To add some local color, we liked to say that the Snowman was "flying over Crosby," the hometown of their British grandparents. Certainly, that's what the pictures made us think of!
Walking In The Air
We're walking in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping as we fly
I'm holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you
On across the world
The villages go by like dreams
The rivers and the hills, the forests and the streams
Children gaze open-mouthed taken by surprise
Nobody down below believes their eyes
We're surfing in the air
We're swimming in the frozen sky
We're drifting over icy mountains floating by
Suddenly swooping low on an ocean deep
Rising up a mighty monster from its sleep
We're walking in the air
We're dancing in the midnight sky
And everyone who sees us greets us as we fly
London Snow (1890)
When we were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
‘O look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul’s high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
by Robert Bridges (1844 – 1930)
Britain's Poet Laureate: 1913 - 1930
We'll go on as always harvesting walnuts
on our hands and knees,
and die voicelessly
as a sedan full of cigar smoke
sinking under a bridge.
We'll turn slowly, flowers
in the mouths of drowned cattle
In a dawn of burned fields,
the sun disappoints you,
and the blight you begin to remember
Like an Alp overlooking a corpse
I explain nothing.
As I write this,
some blown rhododendrons are nodding
in the first breezes. I want
to resemble them, and remember nothing,
the way a photograph of an excavation
cannot remember the sun.
The wind rises or stops
and it means nothing.
I want to be circular;
a pond or a column of smoke
revolving, slowly, its ashes.
I want to turn back and go up
to myself at age 20,
and press five dollars into his hand
so he can sleep.
While he stands trembling on a street in Fresno,
suddenly one among many in the crowd
that strolls down Fulton Street,
among the stores that are closing,
and is never heard of again.
Out here, I can say anything.
I can say, for example, that a girl
will sleep or stare out
fixedly as the train moves her
into its adulthood of dust
I remember watching wasps
on hot evenings
fly heavily over chandeliers
in hotel lobbies.
They’ve torn them down, too.
And the elderly drunks
who seemed not to mind anything,
who seemed to look for change
in their pockets, as they gazed
at the girl in the Pepsi ad,
and the girl who posed for the ad,
must all be dead now.
I can already tell that this
is no poem to show you,
this love poem. It’s so
flat spoken and ignorable,
like the man chain smoking
who discovers he’s
no longer waiting for anyone,
and goes to the movies
alone each Saturday, and grins,
and likes them.
This poem so like the hour
when the street lights turn
amber and blink, and the calm
professor burns another book,
and the divorcee waters her one
chronically dying plant.
This poem so like me
it could be my double.
I have stood for a long time
in its shadow, the way I stood
in the shadow of a dead roommate
I had to cut down from the ceiling
on Easter break, when
I was young.
That night I put my car
in neutral, and cut the engine
and lights to glide downhill
and hear the wind rush over
the dead metal.
I had to know what it felt
like, and under the moon,
gaining speed, I wanted to slip
out of my body and be
done with it.
A man can give up smoking
and the movies, and live for years
hearing the wind tick over roofs
but never looking up from
his one page, or the tiny
life he keeps carving over and
over upon it. And when everyone
around him dies, he can move
a grand piano into
his house, and sit down
alone, and finally play,
certain that no one will
overhear him, though he plays
as loud as he can,
so that when the dead come
and take his hands off the keys
they are invisible, the way air
and music are not. [emphasis added]