Tag Archives: Writing

your eyes are silent

15 Apr

Title comes from a Mondegreened line of Sigur Rós’ Gobbledigook. No idea what the actual line is.
Cannot think properly because my dad is playing the Strokes really loudly and Julian Casablancas is confusing my fingers. Baahhh.

I tried to write more songs today, all I ended up with were new lyrics for White Winter Hymnal, something based on Sun Hands, and the aforementioned mondegreens of Gobbledigook. Dammit! I wish I could write legit songs. Maybe over the summer something will click and I’ll be the new Zach Condon (No.) and write brilliant orchestrar stuff. Ppffft. Wish me luck.
On the other hand, I was looking through Goodbye Foom (the guy who does Pictures For Sad Children’s livejournal) and noticed that he’d put a link to the song he was listening to under the post. So I tried a few out. There was one (good) by Real Estate, but I’d already heard of them so I moved on. A few tracks later, I came to a song by…uh… I wrote them down, and the paper’s on my bedside table, but I don’t want to get up ‘cos I am really freakin’ tired. And comfy.
Taschen? Nothing to say about it. I am surprisingly warming up to the idea of being his accquaintance and nothin’ more. Hum!

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smile upon me

8 Feb

Ah, feels good to lie down on my MONDO-BED and relax for a little while. My French homework’s done, I am looking forward to tomorrow (Think Tank! No Advanced Math! Journalism!) and everything is pretty lovely at the moment.

About the previous post, Seaweed Song: that is going to be kept private, as I am not nearly ready enough to let that info out. Plus, it is very explicit, and I may actually delete it in a few days, depending on what I feel like. No worries, you’re not missing anything- just some desperate drabbles.

Speaking of drabbles, I’ve been writing bilingual poems that sound absolutely marvellous (okay, not quite that, but mighty close). Here’s one:

“another raisin in the driest sun;
sec! un autre-mais notre
et votre voleurs sur les grands nuits
en l’habite des loups.
oh, we frolicked while you slept
and draped curtains of flowers,
bright and velvety, around your face
obscuring the light.
somewhere in there, we played
pan-pipes and nearly exploded
upon your kitchen floor
Wih the joy-
nous sommes les voleurs, nous attrapons
ton mots et ton chance
mais nous ne faisons pas du bruit
nous ne faisons jamais du bruit, petit cherie.”

No idea if it’s gramatically correct or not (especially the notre and votre bit), but I think I did okay. Poetry sounds so much more soothing in French, same as swearing- someone famous once said “it’s like wiping your ass with silk,” and I think he’s right.
Merde!
So relieving! That is what a curseword should make you feel- kind of relieved through your obscenity.

I’m going to write more like this. Much more- I like this sort of free exchange between languages.
I’ve been doing midnight drabbles for the last four or five nights, I will probably type them all up in one huge post and be done with it.

Also: I left my book at Ryan’s house. Dang.

blinded by sound

15 Dec

Here are some more midnight/blind drabbles. Also, Wil hallucinates about unicorns, possibly the highlight of my school day.

It starts:

O, technicolor snowballs, the terrible twos, all makes sense somehow but that answer is a bit of a myster- oh, my stomach what did I do
And the rhythm is in us, it is part of us, of our thoughts
Neutral Milk Hotel must have exploded in alone analytic hellfire modern day fire and brimstone I suppose, but I want to be myself going into the abyss, sail away like the thoughts I think one day decades of memory. God, but-
Golden dentures melted for the poor prophets of the accurate time, of the terrible wit over of the glory that (scribble) life of the trumph the triumph
And there is nothing better than to hallelujah there always is let the coyotes take me away to the sunbeam butterflies, though the atmospheric pressure so here, teaching the things inside to bear a thir
prees, to
tell the life of a silver darkness, remembering and remembering
on and on, this glory for eternity, let things sleep and let our minds rave and wiggle and
Effort of the ties, the pole in the trees would make an exallabling(sic) memory if beheld
Bortglomt I certainly hope I love you until the end of time , or at least of this year because the end of time is a formidable challenge
But the glory in our hearts rolls on and on, trying to escape bit we refuse tonight, make me feel like a redhot poker out of the hot hot air bellows-

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The rest of that page is nigh-incomprehensible, but I tried valiantly to read it. There were several mentions of “today” but that was about it.
Probably going to do it again tonight.

Ciao.