Sitting under an acutely blue sky in her quiet garden yesterday, my friend and I were talking about the way we process ourselves and the world through both writing and reading stories. While the gently literary women's fiction written by my friend is a world away from Nick Cave's cynical lyrics in terms of genre and style, both consistently generate a host of thinky thoughts for me -- hers are soundtracked by brown wrens and mockingbirds, his by weathered band buddies.
Check this out. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds live via the BBC. "What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we have now will never be that way again...we call upon the author to explain..."
...Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet
Ask me things, but I don't know where to start
They ignite the power-trail straight to my father's heart
And once again I call upon the author to explain
Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?
I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's fucked up and he is a fucker
But what an enormous and encyclopaedic brain
I call upon the author to explain
...Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best!
He wrote like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly on wings and with maximum pain
We call upon the author to explain
Down in my bolthole I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish
"The waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well, thank you, thank you, thank you
And again I call upon the author to explain
Yeah, we call upon the author to explain
Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
Check this out. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds live via the BBC. "What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we have now will never be that way again...we call upon the author to explain..."
...Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet
Ask me things, but I don't know where to start
They ignite the power-trail straight to my father's heart
And once again I call upon the author to explain
Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?
I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's fucked up and he is a fucker
But what an enormous and encyclopaedic brain
I call upon the author to explain
...Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best!
He wrote like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly on wings and with maximum pain
We call upon the author to explain
Down in my bolthole I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish
"The waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well, thank you, thank you, thank you
And again I call upon the author to explain
Yeah, we call upon the author to explain
Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
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