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***In the interest of fairness, only about 3/4 of these lyrics apply. But they apply pretty well right about now, no matter how obvious a choice it is.***

I want you to know, that I'm happy for you, I wish nothing but the best for you both. An older version of me, is she perverted like me, would she go down on you in a theater? Does she speak eloquently, and would she have your baby, I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

'cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able to make it enough for you to be open wide, no. And every time you speak her name does she know how you told me you'd hold me until you died, till you died...but you're still alive.

And I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away. It's not fair to deny me of the cross I bear that you gave to me. You, you, you oughta know.

You seem very well, things look peaceful. I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know. Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity, I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner. It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced, are you thinking of me when you fuck her?

'cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able to make it enough for you to be open wide, no. And every time you speak her name does she know how you told me you'd hold me until you died, til you died...but you're still alive.

And I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away. It's not fair to deny me of the cross I bear that you gave to me. You, you, you oughta know.

'Cause the joke that you laid on the bed that was me and I'm not gonna fade as soon as you close your eyes...and you know it. And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back
I hope you feel it...well can you feel it?

Well, I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away. It's not fair to deny me of the cross I bear that you gave to me. You, you, you oughta know.
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Didn't I make you feel like you were the only man, well yeah, and didn't I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can? Honey, you know I did! And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I've had enough, but I'm gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough.

I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it, take another little piece of my heart now, baby, break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah. Hey! Have another little piece of my heart now, baby, yeah. You know you got it if it makes you feel good, oh yes indeed.

You're out on the streets looking good, and baby, deep down in your heart I guess you know that it ain't right, never never never never never never never hear me when I cry at night. Baby, I cry all the time! And each time I tell myself that I, well I can't stand the pain, but when you hold me in your arms, I'll sing it once again.

I'll say come on, come on, come on, come on, yeah take it! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby. Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, have another little piece of my heart now, baby, yeah. Well, You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.

I need you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it, take another little piece of my heart now, baby. Break another little bit of my heart, darling, yeah. Have another little piece of my heart now, baby, you know you got it. Take another little piece of my heart now, baby. Break another little bit of my heart, and darling, yeah yeah, have another little piece of my heart now, baby, you know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good.
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I am walking out in the rain and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again and I am getting nowhere with you and I can't let it go and I can't get through.

The old woman behind the pink curtains and the closed door on the first floor, she's listening through the air shaft to see how long our swan song can last and both hands, now use both hands, oh, no don't close your eyes. I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we tried.

I am watching your chest rise and fall like the tides of my life, and the rest of it all and your bones have been my bed frame and your flesh has been my pillow. I am waiting for sleep to offer up the deep with both hands in each other's shadows we grew less and less tall and eventually our theories couldn't explain it all and I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall and when we leave the landlord will come and paint over it all.

I am walking out in the rain and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again and I am getting nowhere with you and I can't let it go and I can't get through. So now use both hands, please use both hands, oh, no don't close your eyes. I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we tried.
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Now there you go again, you say you want your freedom, who am I to keep you down? It's only right that you should play it the way that you feel it, but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, like a heartbeat, drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost.

Thunder only happens when it's raining, players only love you when they're playing. They say, women, they will come and they will go. When the rain washes you clean, you'll know, you will know.

Here I go again, I see the crystal visions. I keep my visions to myself, yeah. It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and have you any dreams you'd like to sell? Loneliness, like a heartbeat, drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost...oooh, says what you had, you know what you lost.

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I'm trying to figure out how difficult or not it is to use livejournal on my phone. Nothing long will be happening this way, that's for sure!
Humeur actuelle:
awake awake
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I'm having an issue, and let me tell you why. There are unpacked boxes behind my chair that make it impossible for me to sit straight at the keyboard, and there's too much crap on the desk for me to put down my tea safely.

I had many dreams last night, and almost all of them involved working. The very first was one of those where you're not quite asleep, still aware of the world, and something pulls you back to reality and then you know you were dreaming. That happened, and I realized I'd been coding invoices in my head. The others were just as dull, but the last one left me with an inspiration. Don't ask me why, because I don't recall it appearing in the dream, but I woke up with the decision that I need a framed recipe for something cool, in French, in illuminated script (like the monks used to do) hanging in my kitchen. I need this. So if anyone happens to have one lying around...

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I can still hear Ripley yelling from her bedroom, so I'm guessing I have a few more minutes before Erika emerges.

Wine may have been a bad idea tonight. I haven't had much, a glass, but what was a pleasantly mellow and homey feeling is quickly turning to melancholy. I'm glad I didn't stay home tonight like I was tempted to do...I have projects that are in full-swing, and I like to get these things done while I'm still enthusiastic about them. But I also remembered the last New Year's Eve I spent alone...it was the first year here, and Erika had been invited to California with James for the holiday. I knew a couple of people in the state, but they were all Erika's coworkers. It was pretty depressing.

This year it's a personal choice. I was invited to a couple of parties, which a week ago I would have been all over. Today, though, I'm just not feeling like it. I'd rather drink wine and watch movies and talk to my sister. Granted, that may have brought on the melancholy...right before she had to put Ripley down we were talking about some fairly serious things, people that we're worried about and people we're about ready to give up on. That's a great place to leave a conversation.

Just a small aside here. Ripley's been around for over three years now. She's been going down for naps and bedtime that whole time. (Otherwise, she'd be pretty tired by now.) However, the phrase "put her down" still reminds me first of putting a pet to sleep and then of small children sleeping. It amuses me and slightly creeps me out.

Anyway. I'm debating having more wine with myself. If I do, I may well end up sleeping on the couch , which will result in a day hanging out here tomorrow. Which is fine, but we've spent a great deal of time together lately. Plus, of course, there are the aforementioned projects and a needy cat who has felt particularly deserted of late.

Erika has emerged, and Ripley is displeased. Ah, children. I go back to wine (whine?) and conversation.
Current Location:
Adam's computer.
Humeur actuelle:
melancholy melancholy
Musique actuelle:
screaming three-year old. New band, by a crazy coincidence.
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When I was at Susquehanna, I was in a production of Brigadoon. Afterwards I needed a copy of the soundtrack to listen to in order to easily pull up and revel in all those memories, and the movie soundtrack had to do. I listened to it again today, and I was hit by the same problem I always have when listening to this.

I don't remember having this problem when I was in it...but I wasn't in the key bothersome scene, so I might just have passed it by. It's the scene of expositional dialogue that explains the entire cornerstone of the musical...that Brigadoon is the result of a "miracle". If you don't know the story, read the synopsis of scene five.Réduire )


My problems with this story are many and varied.

1. According to this timeline, the miracle took place two hundred years ago, which is two days to the villagers. Yet they all talk about it as if it was something that happened years ago, and is generally accepted among them as if it had always been. Plus, they talk about Mr. Forsythe, the guy that brought it all about, as if he had been gone a while. The man doing the explaining, Mr. Lundie, even says "we ne'er saw him again." Please. They'd all still be in mourning, or possibly still expecting him to turn up. Which brings me to problem 2, which is really the biggie.

2. How do they know what happened at all? Picture this: you live in a small village in 18th century Scotland. One day you go to bed, and when you wake up your minister is gone and it's one hundred years later. Great, but how on earth would you know that it's a hundred years later? Not to mention all the details of the deal...which are pretty exact. No one can leave, but there are loopholes that allow people to stay. But how the hell do they know that? Sure, Mr. Forsythe apparently told Mr. Lundie his plans, so they knew where he went and what he was asking for. They didn't know if it worked, they didn't know if God listened to all the specifics of the plan and went along with it.

3. Now we come to the moral part of the deal. Yeah, yeah, he asked for the miracle to save his little village from the influence of witches and the evils of the outside world. Which also cuts them off from any good influences from the outside world. Given that it was written in 1947, I can understand the theme and appeal of hiding from evil influences, blah blah blah. The ethics of that are debatable, but I can see it. But not allowing anyone in Brigadoon to leave? That's just mean. There are always people who need to travel, or who just don't fit in where they are born. Those people are doomed to live and die in a tiny village when they know that there is a world out there that has moved past that village by leaps and bounds every single day.

4. This is part of 3, really, but it deserves its own number because it's a big one. How long are these people going to live? I suppose it's a modern perspective that may not have been part of the zeitgeist in 1947, but it seems to me that the world is going to end someday. Whether it be natural or man-made disaster, living a hundred years in every day is just leap-frogging your way toward armageddon. So by creating this miracle, Mr. Forsythe is dooming his flock to a pretty short life. Maybe a couple of months...maybe. And that's putting them several millennia ahead of us, so it's giving a lot of benefit of the doubt to humanity.

I don't talk about my logistical issues with Brigadoon very often. People have a tendency to roll their eyes at me and say that it's fiction. It was written over fifty years ago. And it's a musical romantic comedy, for god's sake. All true, no question. But I like my fiction to at least hold to its own premise well. I like to not see plot holes large enough to herd a Highland village through. And I like to be able to discuss fictional plots as if they were real, to poke holes if I can. I'll suspend disbelief, but not logic or basic human nature.
Humeur actuelle:
argumentative
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So. Sickness and travel preparation play hell with my writing intentions, huh?

Last night I was asked for my favorite historical factoid, and I couldn't come up with anything. I felt like a fraud for a while, but later I figured out why I couldn't pull something like that out of my hat. Part of it, of course, was the being on the spot issue, which is another reason I will never go on a game show. Most of it, though, is my vision of history.

To me, history isn't a collection of facts to be spouted. It's a story, a continually rolling tapestry of cause and effect that has endless facets to examine. Everything that happens does so because of the very human reasons and decisions that go on somewhere. Every story has not only two sides, but two thousand or more.

Oh, and for the record, a factoid: In the Weimar republic in Germany, between WWI and WWII, the currency was so devalued that children fashioned cash into kites to play with, as it had very little other worth. Which, by the way, made the country particularly susceptible to Hitler's brand of rhetoric.

My historical reputation thus preserved, I go back to work.
Current Location:
my lovely little cube
Humeur actuelle:
jangled
Musique actuelle:
Cup of Coffee - Garbage
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Anyone want a bookshelf? I'm purging. If no one (within a reasonable area) expresses interest AND comes to pick it up by...I'm going to say January 5, it's going to Goodwill or Value Village or something.

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