Poetry 101

If you asked me, "hey, do you like poetry?," I would probably say "no, not really," and go on to bore you by explaining how I prefer reading Actual Books to silly little haikus and how it was So annoying of them to make us English majors take all those poetry classes at UNC. But. Like most everyone else, I am a sucker for rock and roll, and, more to the point, rock and roll Lyrics, hell even country Lyrics. Like certain types of good poetry, good song lyrics simultaneously tell their own story and allow the listener to feel as if its his story being told. Maybe it's that I don't find the plain written word as moving without musical accompaniment....I don't think I'd find Oh Holy Night nearly as powerful if it was just written verse. Anyway. Since you asked and all.

The lyrics below weren't even written by Elton John, but he sure as hell sings them like they were. Which somehow seems to precisely illustrate the above. This is a sad song, kind of....I guess it depends on whose perspective you look at it from. I can feel it as the boy and and as the vodka soused wretch he leaves. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, indeed.............

(Oh, and a bizarre reference to the horny back toad never hurts.)

When are you gonna come down
When are you going to land
I should have stayed on the farm
I should have listened to my old man

You know you can't hold me forever
I didn't sign up with you
I'm not a present for your friends to open
This boy's too young to be singing the blues

So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plough

Back to the howling old owl in the woods
Hunting the horny back toad
Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road

What do you think you'll do then
I bet that'll shoot down your plane
It'll take you a couple of vodka and tonics
To set you on your feet again

Maybe you'll get a replacement
There's plenty like me to be found
Mongrels who ain't got a penny
Sniffing for tidbits like you on the ground

Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds

The Lilac Linen smell from the catalogue spray has pretty much worn out of the comforters and blankets and sheets and things. Her nice face soap has eroded and all but floated down the drain. My friends and I packed up everything she (intentionally?) left and mailed it to her dad. I've got one last package of mail and dry cleaning that I guess I'll mail down next week. Everything else that's popped up - except for the happy things I am going to keep - from broccoli soup to makeup, I've thrown it all away. I am watering the plants. They qualify as among the few happy things resulting from this fiasco towards which I am aiming to afford positive energy. Plants bring joy and life to a place, ya know?

The cat is finally, finally (hopefully) back to normal. She has started meowing a lot, which is kind of weird, unless you consider the suggestion that she might have some things to get off her chest. She is just a cat....but she has some pretty legitimate grievances to air, I suppose. We went through some shit. Lucy infiltrated our previously calm world.......with a sky whose hue would shift as her constantly warring emotional poles insisted.....with poor Mr. Baby and the clueless fawning men....with the endless parade of jewelry, Jimmy Choo shoes, Jaeger shots, en vino veritas, la cocaina, and so on and so on and so on to the tune of the ceaseless goddamn hubabaloo.

Lucy's fantastical dreams and maniacal demands sadly (or happily in her mind?) simultaneously interrupt and define her life. She is at once beautiful and terrifying, kind and cruel, inspiring and demoralizing. It was 3 weeks ago yesterday that I forced her, physically and emotionally, to leave my home. It was one of the most, if not the most, difficult things I've ever done. It was the right thing to do. I miss her so fucking much I can't swallow without choking.