lundi 1 mars 2010

The Cord



He had maps around his room

On the walls and on the ceiling

Of the places that he would have liked to know.

There was a moat around his heart

And sometimes he got to feeling that he’d know when it was time to stay or go.

Cause watching windows, making plans

Telling time by tiny hands

On a clock whose hour is set by only you;

That just won’t do.

(So) you’ve got to:


Fly out the window

Run for the door

These places that you knew

They don’t know you anymore.

Get out those wings that you’ve kept hidden

Gonna need them when you’re sittin’

On the edge of that cliff n’ scared to jump…

(When your heart goes thump)


On a wooded path of brown

On a cold September Sunday

He stopped to look around among the trees.

There was a cord that kept him tethered

It was long and it was weathered

Bound to places that he thought he’d never leave.

Now his heart is whisperin’ to him

From the hollows of his chest

“Listen to me please” (I know you best)

It’s times like these

You need to:


Fly out the window

Run for the door

These places that you knew

They don’t know you anymore.

Get out those wings that you’ve kept hidden

Gonna need them when you’re sittin’

On the edge of that cliff and scared to jump…

(When your heart goes thump)


But if you’re in the mood for fleein’

While it’s dry, before the puddles start to form,

Don’t you ever stop believing

That those puddles weight you down

Your reflection always shakes before the storm

The air is rushing in now from that open windowpane

And the maps have started whirlin’ round the room

Everything’s the same now, only one thing’s missing

It’s those wings and a certain sense of doom

They left this room

When you:


Flew out the window

Ran for the door

These places that you knew

Didn’t know you anymore.

Got out those wings that you kept hidden

Needed them when you were sittin’

On the edge of that cliff and scared to jump…

(When your heart went thump)

mercredi 27 janvier 2010

"....with the brightest sounds..."



My grandmother had a toy record player that played 'The Blue Danube Waltz' and she used to sing along to it while it tinked and dragged over the little metal bumps that made sounds when the needle passed over them, like a giant music box. I can still remember sitting on her living room floor in the warm yellow sunlight of an Indiana afternoon, closing my eyes and imagining standing on the banks of that river.
"Hey Gran" I asked, with my eyes squeezed shut, spires and bridges and cathedrals beginning to form behind their lids, "....do you think it's really blue?"
"I don't know," she answered, "I've never been...but you should go find out and come back and tell me..."
"I'd like to..."I think to myself now, twenty years later,
though now I'm going to find out more than just the color of the Danube...but I guess she already knows that.