Thursday, June 5, 2014
the soundtrack of loving the place which cradles you – in spite of everything
Natalie Merchant's Motherland, covered by Christy Moore
No sexy woman this (the ugly bugger), but an Irish lilt and a smattering of Celtic lyricism never hurt anyone ...
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
the soundtrack of loving the place where one comes from – despite everything
Where in hell can you go
Far from the things that you know
Far from the sprawl of concrete
That keeps crawling its way
About 1,000 miles a day?
Take one last look behind
Commit this to memory and mind
Don't miss this wasteland, this terrible place
When you leave
Keep your heart off your sleeve
Motherland cradle me
Close my eyes
Lullaby me to sleep
Keep me safe
Lie with me
Stay beside me
Don't go, don't you go
O, my five & dime queen
Tell me what have you seen?
The lust and the avarice
The bottomless, the cavernous greed
Is that what you see?
Motherland cradle me
Close my eyes
Lullaby me to sleep
Keep me safe
Lie with me
Stay beside me
Don't go
It's your happiness I want most of all
And for that I'd do anything at all, o mercy me!
If you want the best of it or the most of all
If there's anything I can do at all
Now come on shot gun bride
What makes me envy your life?
Faceless, nameless, innocent, blameless and free,
What's that like to be?
Motherland cradle me
Close my eyes
Lullaby me to sleep
Keep me safe
Lie with me
Stay beside me
Don't go, don't you go
Motherland, Natalie Merchant
Teenage talent (she was 16 when she first fronted 10,000 Maniacs) turned accomplished mature poet/singer/songwriter. A very sexy woman.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
life on the hill (XV)
Un
amateur du jardinage,
Demi-bourgeois,
demi-manant,
Possédait
en certain Village
Un
jardin assez propre,
et
le clos attenant.
Le Jardinier et son Seigneur, Jean de La Fontaine
 |
| Shadow play – or, le jardinier dans son jardin |
life lessons that are priceless – where angels fear to tread
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are
there.”
The Spider and The Fly, Mary Howitt
 |
| Sail-training ship Sagres, Navy Day Celebrations, Cascais 17 May '14 |
Saturday, May 3, 2014
the soundtrack of romance in the soul
Oh will you never let me be?
Oh will you never set me free?
The ties that bound us are still around us
There's no escape that I can see
And still those little things remain
That bring me happiness or pain
A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces
An airline ticket to romantic places
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
A tinkling piano in the next apartment
Those stumbling words that told you
What my heart meant
A fairground's painted swings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
You came, you saw, you conquered me
When you did that to me
I somehow knew that this had to be
The winds of march that make my heart a dancer
A telephone that rings, but who's to answer?
Oh, how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
Gardenia perfume ling'ring on a pillow
Wild strawb'ries only seven francs a kilo
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
The park at evening when the bell has sounded
The ile-de-France with all the girls around it
The beauty that is Spring
These foolish things
Remind me of you
I know that this was bound to me
These things have haunted me
For you've entirely enchanted me
The sigh of midnight trains in empty stations
Silk stockings thrown aside, dance invitations
Oh, how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
First daffodills and long excited cables
And candle light on little corner tables
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
The smile of Garbo and the scent of roses
The waiters whistling as the last bar closes
The song that Crosby sings
These foolish things
Remind me of you
How strange, how sweet to find you still
These things are dear to me
That seem to bring you so near to me
The scent of smouldering leaves, the wail of steamers
Two lovers on the street who walk like dreamers
Oh, how the ghost of you clings
These foolish things
Remind me of you, just you
These Foolish Things, Bryan Ferry
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle
Just remember, darling all the while
You belong to me
See the market place in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me
I'll be so lonesome without you
Maybe you'll be lonesome too
And blue
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me
Maybe you'll be lonesome too
And blue
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me
Maybe you'll be lonesome too
And blue
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again
You belong to me
You Belong to Me, Vonda Shepard
Great modern (in a manner of speaking) covers of a couple of
great old songs
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
life lessons that are priceless – pirate chief (or, romance in the soul)
“Seriously, do you like to repose? Ye gods, I hate it … And
when a man, seemingly sane, tells me he has fallen in love with stagnation, I
can only say to him You will never be a Pirate! … After all boyhood aspirations
and youth’s immoral daydreams you are condemned to sit down, grossly draw in
your chair to the fat board, and be a beastly Burgess till you die …
To confess plainly, I had intended to spend my life (or any
leisure I might have from Piracy upon the high seas) as the leader of a great
horde of irregular cavalry, devastating whole valleys. I can still, looking
back, see myself in many favourite attitudes; signaling for a boat from my
pirate ship with a pocket-handkerchief, I at the jetty end, and one or two of
my bold blades keeping the crowd at bay; or else turning in the saddle to look
back at my whole command (some five thousand strong) following me at the hand gallop
up the road out of the burning valley; this last by moonlight …”
Robert Louis Stevenson, in a letter to William Cosmo
Monkhouse, 1884
life on the hill (XIV)
Like lips behind a veil
The poppies rest under the oats;
Lips parting in sleep,
As though night were hot about them,
Touching the souls they speak for with sensual fires;
These lips not petals.
But here it is summer morning,
Cool after the pride-shower;
The smoke goes up in prayer from the village,
And the hills are monks stooping under a hood of mist,
This is surely a virgin moment.
Then what is this fantasy of the poppies?
Poppies, Richard Church
This year wild poppies popped up again on the Hill,
fluttering like butterflies in the wind amidst the usual riot of other spring
blossoms. Time was when I hoped that, suitably cared for and encouraged to
thrive, they would eventually make my fortune.
People with more information in their heads than romance in
their souls soon dashed that hope; it’s a different species of poppy that keeps
Afghan warlords in new weaponry (so goodbye to my long-dreamed-of pair of
Purdeys – or even McKay Browns for that matter).
But I still love it when they crop up here, and take it as a
sign that the soil is slowly improving on the Hill, and becoming a haven for
all sorts of wildflowers, rather than just weeds as in the beginning. Bees must
come next.
the soundtrack of revolution
Marie Antoinette
your name's a legend
in this land
treasure for your pleasure
bestowed on favoured gentlemen
the people are in arms
marching on the town
they rise -
chanting revolution!
"Vive la Nation!"
Marie Antoinette
your shadow's falling
along the land
anger born of hunger
poisons the hearts of
your loyal men
fire in their eyes
steel in their hands
they rise -
chanting revolution!
"Vive la Nation!"
Clamouring in the square
the rabble have gone insane
they're over the balustrade
defying the cannon fire
they're into the garrison
they murder the noble men
Marie Antoinette
Marie Antoinette
We are the people of France
We demand
that the elegant blue-blooded
leeches that bleed us
are taught what it means
to grow fat and not feed us
we are the people of France
you must heed us
Already at the Bastille
the prisoners all run free
they're hammering on the door
Marie Antoinette
they've taken the guillotine
they're coming to take the Queen
Marie Antoinette
the King and the guards
have fled...
Marie Antoinette
your shadow's falling
along the land
anger born of hunger
poisoned your men
they rise -
chanting revolution!
"Vive la Nation!"
Marie Antoinette, Curved Air
70s rock at its most pompous. Great :)
Sunday, April 27, 2014
life on the hill (XIII)
Petit Versailles
 |
| Mysterious lines on the ground, Jan '09 |
 |
| Brick outlines set, pits dug, underground watering tubes deployed, soil added, Aug '09 |
 |
| 200 box plants in the back of a truck, Oct '09 |
 |
| Pots aligned in place, like good little soldiers, ready for planting, Oct '09 |
 |
| Planted, Oct '09 |
 |
| Flourishing, April '14 |
Thursday, April 24, 2014
the soundtrack of misanthropy
Good morning, good afternoon
And what have you got to say?
Well, I'm waiting and I can't stay long
It's such a lovely day
There's a time to be talking
And a time when it's no use
Right now I think the things you say
Are liable to confuse
I've just gone solo
Do you play solo?
Ain't life a solo?
What a wonderful way to live
Traveling all over the world
Why the fame and all the golden
Opportunities unfurled
No time for the gent with the Mulliner Bentley
And Heaven knows what else
Why, he wouldn't even stand a chance
With all his oil wells
She just went solo
Do you play solo?
Ain't life a solo?
I've always lived in a mansion
On the other side of the moon
I've always kept a unicorn
And I never sing out of tune
I could tell you that the grass is really greener
On the other side of the hill
But I can't communicate with you
And I guess I never will
We've all, all gone solo
We all play solo
Ain't life, life a solo?
Solo, Sandy Denny
"L'Enfer c'est les autres ..."
life lessons that are priceless – the virtue of conciseness
El Dinosaurio, Augusto Monterroso
The best short story ever?
wild life (7) – the woodpigeon
The thing most people remark upon, who associate the word
“pigeon” with ratty urban denizens, is the sheer size of the wild bird. Then
the lustrous, subtle, consistent colouring – no mongrel patching, nor that
seemingly cut-and-paste use of colour for some imagined effect.
It was Mr Júlio, the Builder – a keen shot himself – who
first alerted me to them while construction was proceeding on the Hill. “Ah, Mr
Architect (Germans have nothing on us when it comes to the use of honorific
titles), there are days when one could just stand quietly underneath that
umbrella pine there, and shoot one’s limit in a couple of hours.” My own first
sight of one was when I once left some feed up on the Hill for my partridges –
of which more in a later post – and inadvertently came upon a “woodie” stuffing
his face on it. They are prodigious eaters (a friend once extracted a dozen
acorns from the crop of a single shot bird), as they must be to build up energy
for their daily travelling in search of food – the huge gatherings of tens of
thousands of birds which roost in concentrated sites in the Alentejo during the
winter are known to disperse during the day to feeding grounds as far away as
100 km and more.
And that brings us to the other thing people remark upon:
the way they fly. No pansy, sinchronized aerobatics here – just strong,
powerful, purposeful flight, straight and true, only occasionally broken by a
long glide down to investigate food sources left by thoughtful Fools on sunny
Hills. A marvellous bird.
And they make for excellent eating, too. Pluck and clean a brace
(reserving the hearts and livers), slice off the breasts and reserve. Put the
carcasses in a pot of boiling water with the hearts and livers, lower the heat, cover partially and leave to simmer for a couple of hours until the meat comes away easily from
the bones. Remove and discard the bones (and the skins, if you prefer). Throw a
handful of rice into the pot, season (salt, pepper, a bay leaf), and continue
to simmer till the rice is cooked (you can add some vegetables at this stage,
if you like – some sliced cabbage leaves and diced carrots). And there you have
your ideal comfort soup for a cold winter’s day. As for the breasts, fry them
lightly in butter and serve on toast as a simple, healthy (lean meat, no hormones) appetizer.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
the soundtrack of the good wife
Once again it's happening
All this love is unrequited
Twice the pain, the suffering
All my love is unrequited
All my love is unrequited
That must mean I'll live again
And get back what I gave my men
Get back what I lost to them
All the shame, this crying game
All my love I've been denied
All my love is unrequited
And I know it so well
I could play it again
Looking back at myself
While the violin plays
This endure is my tomb
Another stitch to my wound
Another inch in this dwell
I know it all too well
When once again it's happening
All our love has gone divided
\All my love is unrequited
All my love is unrequited
All my love is unrequited
All my love is unrequited
Unrequited Love, Likke Li
Poor Alicia (season 4, episode 18).
Friday, February 7, 2014
life on the hill (XII)
The Fool’s new conveyance on the Hill, la pharamineuse Renault 4 F4 Eppur
Si Muove (or Stealth Gamekeeper,
I still haven’t decided on the name).
 |
| Eppur si muove |
A proper little van – 1100 cc petrol in-line four-pot (originally
rated for 34 brake horsepower though I suspect a few of the horses have bolted
by now), fed by a single Zenith carburettor (as God intended, no pesky
injectors or electronics) –, perfect for moving both self and stuff around the Hill.
 |
| Stealth Gamekeeper |
Perfect also, now that I think about it, for sneaking up –
like a lioness slinking among tall grasses – on rabbits come to feast on my
broad beans (or, for that matter, on poachers come to poach on the rabbits). One
never knows when it may come in handy.
Finally, perfect for rediscovering the
lost joy of driving – heel-and-toeing and double-declutching (to keep the revs
up and the cogs meshing properly as you crash down through the gears – as one
does – on the approach to a corner); carrying speed through corners, and
clipping your apexes just so; planning your braking well in advance (and then applying
pressure to the pedal as though you mean it, not dabbing it gently and relying
on assisted circuits to do the job for you); building momentum before tackling
uphill portions of the road (not to mention steep cobbled driveways, such as
the one on the Hill) … In other words, a thinking man’s car, one that rewards one’s
powers of recall, concentration, reasoning, preparation, anticipation (and largely
unused muscles). In other words: want
to exercise your brain? Fuck sudoku and crossword puzzles and mind games — go
drive an old car.
People carrier, farm truck, produce
transporter, boy racer, brain teasing device, exercise machine – the original
Multi Purpose Vehicle, what! Which is just as well, seeing as we’re living in
difficult times, and even the wealthiest farming estates need to husband all their
resources in a responsible manner.
Monday, January 20, 2014
wild life (6)
"I caught this
morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin,
dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth
on a bow-bend: the hurl and
gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart
in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the
thing.
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks
from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes
plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash
gold-vermilion."
The Windhover (To
Christ Our Lord), Gerard Manley Hopkins
My kestrel.
I only ever see the one, though there must be at least a
pair nesting nearby – I once saw it repeatedly dive-bombing a couple of the
buzzards, which suggests the existence of a nest in the vicinity that it was
trying to protect. And succeeding, too, for the buzzards, much larger birds
though they are, eventually flew away. “Brute beauty and valour” indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)