http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBMfrWlpbsM
Hard Candy by Counting Crows (Live on Good Morning America 2008)
I suppose when Adam Duritz wrote Hard Candy, the certain Sunday in November could have been a day like today. A day where the weather is overcast, the wind is cool, the sky is grey or black and the sun is a memory. A memory of summer unfolded by postcards, pictures and letters.
I tried to watch Bon Cop, Bad Cop last night but only made it through half an hour before my eyes got the better of me. I was up before six am this morning and there is very little to do this early on a Sunday. I tried to go back to sleep but it didn't work, so I spent much of the morning reading and sipping tea at one of the many Starbucks here. I actually wrote something, which will be below later. It is nothing great or significant, it felt weird writing and I think the result is rusty. I spent some of the afternoon shopping for something to wear for an upcoming wedding and my afternoon nap was semi successful. Because the work week begins shortly, got to love working midnights.
Just Another
Her skin smelled like cinnamon
The Sunday snow swirled outside
Her mouth tasted like tangerines
The November rain ceased yesterday
Autumn has finally become too cold
Winter is now among us like strangers
I need to start rearranging my heart
Making way for someone to occupy it
They have to be here and not a memory
Remembering is a way of losing again
I am done being haunted by women
Who would never have dreamt of me
Just another man looking for beauty
Without being able to offer it himself
The Sunday snow suddenly halts outside
Allowing the rare November sun to shine
Another face has caught my attention
I could never get behind her framed eyes
Just another world unable to be explored
The planets of women are plentiful on Earth
Billions of satellites orbiting their surfaces
Each individually locked like a treasure box
Once opened it might be empty of gems
Or it could be full of life’s most rare gift
A person to spend every variety of day with
No matter the weather unfolding outside
Our thoughts would be commingled inside
A world completely ours with its secrets
The things no one else would ever know
Every love is unique and not imagined
Unreciprocated it is only a lacking fantasy
A thing not worth remembering too much
The person might be special but so are you.
11/16/08
"Take a message to your head, just stay beside her in the bed, you were so stupid to believe in things you couldn't see...."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZByH7y5FxGE
On Almost Any Sunday Morning by Counting Crows (Live Paris 2008)
The following is another passage from The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai. "After the initial excitement was over, it often became obvious that the love was gone; for affection was only a habit after all, and people, they forgot, or they became accustomed to its absence." Love is only a habit, and once the habit is broken, the love is gone. This is absolutely true. Of course, the habit could return.
"I don't believe in Sundays and I don't believe in anything at all...."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lFm4juaVswQ
Sundays by Counting Crows (Live Iowa 2008)
It is a sad state when we don't believe in anything, especially the ability of anyone loving us.
john.
"I want to touch you for my self-respect..."
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