Conversations with my niece

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus our Saviour did come for to die,
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.

When Mary birthed Jesus 'twas in a cow's stall
With wise men and shepherds and farmers and all
But high from God's heaven, a star's light did fall
And the promise of ages it then did recall.

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God's Angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could have had it, 'cause he was the King.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus our Saviour did come for to die,
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.





I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus our saviour did come for to die,
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.

When Mary birthed Jesus 'twas in a cow's stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all,
But high from God's heaven, a star's light did fall,
And the promise of ages it then did recall.

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God's angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could have had it, 'cause he was the King.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus our saviour did come for to die,
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.





Blow the wind southerly,
Southerly, southerly,
Blow the wind south o'er
The bonnie blue sea.
Blow the wind southerly,
Southerly, southerly,
Blow bonnie breeze
My lover to me.

They told me last night
There were ships in the offing,
And I hurried down
To the deep rolling sea;
But my eye could not see it,
Wherever might be it,
The bark that is bearing
My lover to me.

Blow the wind southerly,
Southerly, southerly,
Blow bonnie breeze o'er
The bonnie blue sea.
Blow the wind southerly,
Southerly, southerly,
Blow bonnie breeze
And bring him to me.

Is it not sweet
To hear the breeze singing
As lively it comes
O'er the deep rolling sea?
But sweeter and dearer
By far 'tis when bringing
The bark of my true love
In safety to me.





Ombra mai fu
Di vegetabile,
Cara ed amabile,
Soave più. [x2]
Cara ed amabile
Ombra mai fu
Di vegetabile
Cara ed amabile
Soave più, soave piú

Oooooo
De vegetabile
Cara ed amabile
Soave più, soave più.





Hay and a clean stall
and ivy on a garden wall
and a sign saying sold
and no coat for the bad cold.

I believe in you.
Do you believe in me?
What do you want to do?
Are we leaving the city?

On the black road,
through the gold fields
while the fields are plowed
towards what we are allowed.

The bridle bends in idle hands
and slows your canter to a trot.
We mean to stop in increments,
but can’t commit. We post and sit in impotence.

The harder the hit, the deeper the dent.
We seek our name, we seek our fame
in our credentials, paved in glass,
trying to master incidentals.

Bleach a collar, leech a dollar
from our cents.
The longer you live, the higher the rent
beneath a pale sky,
beside the red barn,
below the white cloud
is all we are allowed.

Here, the light will seep,
and the scythe will reap,
and spirit will bend
in counting to the end.

In December of that year,
the word came down that she was here.
The days were shorter,
I was sure if she came round,
I’d hold my ground.

I can do what they alluded to,
a change that came to pass. And
Spring did range, weeping grass
and sleepless broke
itself upon my winter glass.

And I could barely breathe for seeing
all the splintered light that leaked.
A fish is fleeing, launched in flight
but starched in light,
bright and bleeding, bleach the night
with dawn deleting in that high sun,
after our good run,
when the spirit bends
beneath knowing it must end.

And that is all I want here,
to draw my gaunt spirit to bow
beneath what I am allowed,
beneath what I am allowed.

What is Jazz? This is Jazz. Toxic.

What is Jazz? This is Jazz.

I am late to the appreciation of Jazz Appreciation Month, again, the spur, as always, being, my friend, the essential, Rose, who was raised, as I was--a hopeful, white, American child--in a house of Jazz.

I always seek the liminal, the undefinable, the indecipherable, the edge-places, and in-between places. All of the true, American art forms belong to this space of uncertain certainty: they all come from and are beholden to earlier expressions and traditions, yet pose a problem-solution so special that we decide, upon some thoughtful, knowledgeable, respectful analysis that it presents a unique position. 

Not even Athena sprang Athena-like from the forehead of Zeus. Her mother, Metis, the Titan of Wisdom, whose progeny would be greater than the father, were that prophecy allowed to take place properly, had been swallowed as the fly into which she'd transformed herself to escape Zeus' amour. There are two great prophecies, that I know of, in Greek mythology, calling out the offspring of the mother as greater than the father, the other being a sea goddess, Thetis. Both prophecies encounter Zeus, who--wily as Odin and the other Skyfathers--sidesteps the prophetic outcome made in the lap of a woman, which is to say, a womb. Who says the Fates can't be denied?

Metis. Thetis.

In the case of Thetis, Zeus, who "loved" her but, given her prophetic baggage, was unwilling to chance his throne on his lust, through an incredible public relations coup, relegated her offspring, through a mortal father, King Peleus, to the mortal dimension, as Achilles, mightiest of doomed mortals. Similarly, Athena--as a woman, not a man, as a goddess of wisdom and war, out-does her father in every way; she is her father's favorite--poses no threat to the line of succession and the base of power, since only male offspring pose that issue of issue. And thus, the rape of her mother, and the prophecy about her, was constrained, contained, diffused, and defused into the most fascinating of deities, as a female, always-virgin god.

All the post-indigenous-people, indigenous, American forms are based on a kind of love, appropriation, and violence: the Blues, Jazz, the Broadway Musical, and Rock and Roll--all of which, constantly, bleed into each other. Miscegenation is our American past and our American future. It is our heritage, our dowry, our inheritance, our legacy, and our estate. Just ask Thomas Jefferson.

Welcome to Jazz Appreciation Month.

Toxic

Baby, can't you see,

I'm calling.

A guy like you

Should wear a warning.

It's dangerous.

I'm falling.

There is no escape;

I can't wait;

I need a hit;

Baby, give me it;

You're dangerous;

I'm loving it.

Too high,

Can't come down;

It's in the air

And it's all around.

Can you feel me, now?

With a taste of your lips,

I'm on a ride:

You're toxic,

I'm slipping under.

A taste of your poison paradise,

I'm addicted to you,

Don't you know that you're 

toc-sick,

And I love what you do,

Don't you know that you're 

toxic?

It's getting late

To give you up;

I took a sip

From my devil's cup;

Slowly,

It's taking over me:

Too high,

Can't come down;

It's in the air,

And it's all around.

Can you feel me now?

With a taste 

of your lips,

I'm on a ride.

You're toxic,

I'm slipping 

under;

Taste of a poison paradise,

I'm addicted to you;

Don't you know that you're toxic?

And I love what you do,

Don't you know 

that you're toxic?

Intoxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

Think I'm ready, now,

Think I'm ready, now.

Toxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

Think I'm ready, now,

Think I'm ready, now.

Toxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

I think I'm ready, now,

I think I'm ready, now.

I think I'm ready, now.

I think I'm ready, now.

Toxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

I think I'm ready, now,

Think I'm ready, now.

Now.

Now.

Now

Now.

Now-ow.

Now.

Now

Now.

Now.

Now

Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now Now. Now. Now. Now.

I think I'm ready, now,

With a taste of lips,

I think I'm ready, now.

I think I'm ready, now.

Intoxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

I think I'm ready, now,

I think I'm ready, now.

Intoxicate me, now,

With your lovin', now,

I think I'm ready, now,

I think I'm ready, now.

Yael Naïm, "Toxic." 

"Toxic" is a song recorded by American singer Britney Spears for her fourth studio album In the Zone (2003). It was written and produced by Christian Karlsson and Pontus Winnberg (known collectively as Bloodshy & Avant), with additional writing from Cathy Dennis and Henrik Jonback. 

On "My White Knight"

These lyrics don't exist online--I had to transcribe the whole thing, myself. This is a sort of reconstruction, by Cook and company, for that first, legendary Carnegie concert, of a version that never really existed because there were so many versions of "My White Knight," as they put The Music Man together. My friends, Meredith Wilson and friends: Welcome to the stream-of-consciousness that is Marian the Librarian.

My White Knight

All I want is a plain man,
A modest man, a quiet man,
A straightforward and honest man,
With habits
That do not exclude the occasional reading of a book;

I do not yearn for,
Nor do I await,
Any handsome,
Hand-kissing,
Wine-tasting,
Silk-pillow,
Hookah-smoker;

No world-traveller,
In fact or fancy,
No show-off,
No clotheshorse;
He need not necessarily be
In uniform;

Ah, you wait,
No clean-cut,
Weather-beaten,
Square-rigged, white duck
Pants in tennis shoes;

No plumed hat,
No splendid insignia,
No Moose-, Elk-, Eagle-
Oddfellows-, National Guardsman,
Fire chief, or Highlander;

Be he from the Arabian Knights,
Or the French Foreign Legion;
No lothario shoe salesman,
No bandleader, no railroad conductor,
Or any other charmer,
Either of me, or anybody else;

No Chautauqua advance agent,
No vaudevillian,
No depot telegrapher;
I'm not dazzled or for any such a kind
Of fascinating flame.

All I want is a plain man,
A modest man,
A quiet man,
A straightforward,

And honest man,
To sit with me,
In a cottage somewhere,
In the state of Iowa;

And listen with a smile,
To a poem or a song
That is neither a five-line
Limerick about Saint Peter,
And the Man from Duluth,

Or a sing-song Lament
Of a Purple Cow;
And not every day,

But just occasionally,
We could walk down by the meadow,
In the twilight-sprinkled dew:

My White Knight,
Can be blacksmith,
Well-digger, clerk, or king;

All I want is a plain man,
A modest man, a quiet man,
A straightforward, and honest man,

With habits,
That do not
Necessarily include

The chewing of snuff,
Or exploding root beer,
In the cellar, every June;

And I would like him to be
More interested in me,
Than he is in himself,

And more interested in us,
Than in me.
And if occasionally

He'd ponder
What makes
Shakespeare and
Beethoven great:

Him, I could love,
till I die. Him,
I could love,
Till I die.

My White Knight,
Not a Lancelot,
Nor an angel with wings,

Just someone to love me,
Who is not ashamed
Of a few nice things;

My White Knight,
Let me walk with him,
Where the others ride by,

Walk, and love him,
Till I die,
Till I die.

Meredith Wilson, "My White Knight," The Music Man, 1957. Book, lyrics, and music: Meredith Wilson. Barbara Cook went through the development process of The Music Man and put this version together, with her music director, from snippets and versions that didn't make it into the final song; from "My White Knight," Barbara Cook at Carnegie Hall, 1975.

This is Prophetic

In the bedroom communities let us be taken by surprise.
Yes! Let the band play on and on,

This is Prophetic

Smiling and waving, Mrs. Nixon and her entourage leave the commune and proceed to the next stop on her tour: the Summer Palace where she is photographed strolling through the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity, the Hall of Happiness in Longevity, the Hall of Dispelling the Clouds, and the Pavilion of the Fragrance of Buddha. She pauses in the gate of Longevity and Good Will to sing.

PAT

This is prophetic! I foresee a time will come when

luxury dissolves into the atmosphere like a perfume,

and everywhere the simple virtues root

and branch and leaf and flower.

On that bench there we'll relax

and taste the fruit of all our actions.

Why regret life which is so much like a dream?

Let the eternal plan resume.

In the bedroom communities let us be taken by surprise.

Yes! Let the band play on and on,

let the stand-up comedian finish his act,

let Gypsy Rose kick off her high-heeled party shoes;

let interested businessmen speculate further,

let routine dull the edge of mortality.

Let days grow imperceptibly longer,

let the sun set in cloud;

let lonely drivers on the road pull over for a bite to eat,

let the farmer switch on the light over the porch,

let passer by look in at the large family

around the table, let them pass.

Let the expression on the face

of the Statue of Liberty change just a little,

let her see what lies inland:

across the plain one man is marching...

the Unknown Soldier has risen from his tomb,

let him be recognized at home.

The Prodigal. Give him his share:

the eagle nailed to the barn door.

Let him be quick.

The sirens wail as bride

and groom kiss through the veil.

Bless this union with all its might,

let it remain inviolate.

John Adams (composer), Alice Goodman (librettist), "This is Prophetic," Nixon in China, 1987.

On Love in the Twenty-First Century

In the twenty-first century, Love lacks kindness, compassion, or sympathy. Love is quick to judgment and blame. Love is stupid. Love is busy and impatient. Love will seek the cliche of you before it seeks understanding. Love feels too stingingly the critique of it. Love is too glib and willing to joke about its own mistakes. Love doesn't make mistakes. Love is very tired, right now. Love is self-seeking; Love dishonors others and is easily angered. Love is mean-spirited, though Love doesn't mean to be. Love is weak and blameless. Love records wrongs. Love renounces its protection, trust, and hope, yet says it perseveres. Love is sad about it and wants to help but doesn't know how. Love has another person on the line, right now. Love is long-winded and short of breath. Love is jealous and thrifty. Love is never having to say, "Please," "Excuse me," "Thank you," or "I'm sorry." Love is sick of you. Love is unhappy and too unhappy to deal with more unhappiness.

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred let me bring your love,
Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord,
And where there's doubt, true faith in you.

O Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love with all my soul.

Make me a channel of your peace.
Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope,
Where there is darkness, only light,
And where there's sadness, ever joy.

O Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love with all my soul.

Make me a channel of your peace.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
In giving to all others that we receive,
And in dying that we're born to eternal life.

de Man is Da Man, yo?

The 6th of December is Paul de Man's birthday. From his--as the amazing Michael Riffaterre calls it--"seminal discussion of Nietzsche's On Truth and Lie," de Man makes a bold statement about poetry that I have spent several years pondering profitably:

What we call the lyric, the instance of represented voice includes the grammatical transformation of the declarative into the vocative modes of question, exclamation, address, hypothesis, etc., the tropological transformation of analogy into apostrophe or the equivalent, more general… transformation of trope into anthropomorphism.

He redescribes poetry as a series of figural moves of the voice and then resolves it into anthropomorphism. It's brilliant. It's fucking brilliant. It is a laser beam-direct insight into what makes representative language (and there is no other kind) happen, on the level of Rhetoric, on the level of Grammar (which he played with in oppositions, throughout his late career), as such. It is vital. It is indispensable. And I don't care if important readers, like Lydia Davis, whom I admire, and Louis Menand, who is an idiot, don't care for de Man. He's one of the most important thinkers of the 20th century, even if he wasn't really a Nazi.

Have a great day.

I Post Song Lyrics Sometimes: F**cking with the Altimeter

F**cking with the Altimeter

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

God save us all.

Give me some love.

Give me some love.

     Give me some love
Give me some love.
        Give me some love
Give me some love.
              Give me some love
Give me some love.
              Give me some love

No more flowers for you. 

  Give me some love.
So when you see an empty face
     Give me some love.
you'll know it's supposed to be a clue.
           Give me some love.
Not just a mishap
some kind of creep forgot.
   Give me some love. 

Now, tell me, how does paralysis feel?
       Give me some love.
Like you're trapped in a light beam
           Give me some love.
part of the atom stream
   Give me some love.
that oozes down through the glass.
   Give me some love.
Enough for me, you can't
                      Give me some love.
penetrate my physical field.

Zip with silver airplanes quivering down.

Under the fuselage.
Elementary aeronautics ground.
Look at me now, I'm a wreck!

How 'bout a kiss?

My oxygen's lost in those lungs again.
How 'bout a kiss?
Somebody give me my oxygen.
   How 'bout a kiss?
I need to breathe.
       How 'bout a kiss?
Before I forget.
            How 'bout a kiss?
i'm going into oxygen debt.
                 How 'bout a kiss?

I think your flesh is separated

        How 'bout a kiss?
from the sins it commits
and that explains
  How 'bout a kiss?
why you smile when you balance
         How 'bout a kiss?
on your stack of regrets.
    How 'bout a kiss?
Nobody's with you this time.
How does it feel?

One flight down
the aeronaut was found.
Under the fuselage.
Friends leave before
we feed the carnivore.
Look at me now, I'm a wreck!


Such a pretty bird

Such a
Such a pretty bird


Such a

Such a pretty bird

Brainiac

F**king with the Altimeter

Bonsai Superstar

1994

I Post Song Lyrics Sometimes: When Doves Cry

When Doves Cry


Dig if you will
the picture,
Of you and I engaged
in a kiss,
The sweat of your body
covers me,
Can you, my darling,
Can you picture this?

Dream if you can
a courtyard,
An ocean of violets
in bloom,
Animals strike
curious poses,
They feel the heat,
The heat between me and you.

How can you just leave me standing?
Alone in a world that's so cold?
   So cold
Maybe I'm just too demanding,
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold,

Maybe you're just like my mother,
She's never satisfied,
   She's never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like,
When doves cry.

Touch if you will
my stomach,
Feel how it trembles inside;
You've got the butterflies
all tied up,
Don't make me chase you,
Even doves have pride.

How can you just leave me standing?
Alone in a world so cold?
   World so cold
Maybe I'm just too demanding,
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold;

Maybe you're just like my mother,
She's never satisfied,
   She's never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like,
When doves cry.

How can you just leave me standing?
Alone in a world that's so cold?
   A world that's so cold?
Maybe I'm just too demanding?
   Maybe, maybe I'm like my father?
Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?
   Ya know he's too bold?

Maybe you're just like my mother?
   Maybe you're just like my mother?
She's never satisfied,
   She's never, never satisfied.
Why do we scream at each other?
   Why do we scream, why?
This is what it sounds like

When doves cry.
   When doves cry.
When doves cry.
   When doves cry.
When doves cry.

   When doves cry.
Don't cry.


Prince Rogers Nelson (June 7, 1958 – April 21, 2016)
Prince & the Revolution
When Doves Cry
Purple Rain