This is the face of Fu Manchu (it makes no sense at all)

I never got lyrics. When I was a teenager, my understanding of English was mostly better than my peers, just because I spent so much time in the UK. No, scrap that. I just picked it up because my brain thought I was English - crossed synapses or something.

Anyway - if I listened to the lyrics, I knew what they meant. I just couldn't hear them or remember them. My friends would sing entire songs they'd heard once or twice on the radio, faultlessly, with the right accent, intonations. I went through a phase, like most teenagers, of feeling pretentious about Pink Floyd lyrics. Now I can't listen to them too closely or I cringe... Sometimes I write down the lyrics of a song I like, but to this day I can't remember the lyrics of my favourite songs...

It's not like I think it doesn't matter: some lyrics are beautiful and add to the song. Some are crap and take away from it. One of my favourite tunes at the moment is Cee-Lo Green's 'Fuck You'. Not 'Forget You' cause that doesn't even fit. Since when does Pop music get bawdlerised? But the song is about a boy whose girlfriend left him for someone else and he's accusing her of being a gold-digger, of prefering the other guy because he's got more money. And he's 'like, Fuck you, and fuck her too', and we're, like, going along with it, cause the tune is so damn catchy, and the beat so arse-twitching. But the lyrics do bother me, a little, and they mean that my enjoyment of the song isn't as pure as it would otherwise be. Nothing a beer or two wouldn't fix - my principles tend to be soluble in small doses of alcohol- but you see what I mean.

Then there's the song of the same name by Lily Allen -  the kind of lyrics you want to shout along with, and the tune is good too. But the music just isn't up there with Cee Lo's. It's a nice tune, no more.


So I say, forget the lyrics, and revert to words that don't make sense and that you can forget. That's what the Beatles were to me for years, and I'm glad to see, now that I am familiar with them in their written form, that they don't actually make any sense most of the time. This is great. Just what I need.

But let's face it, the master of the nonsensical, non commital lyrics has to be Desmond Dekker with his Israelites and, my favourite, the Face of Fu Manchu. As he says with (so little!) eloquence: it makes no sense at all!





This was my entry for Josie's Writing Workshop. The prompt was 'Get Lyrical'.

Twilight Zone

What a storm! Violent lightening that turned the whole world white, not just a fraction of the sky, and a nasty, loud, powerful wind, banging and pushing at the window so hard I thought it might take it off the wall.

The noise of it woke me.

Storm by Sister 3

The Passions of the Soul

This is Sister 3's entry for the Gallery / Writing Workshop mash-up.
The theme is 'Emotions'.


Renee Descartes defined the six primitive passions as love, hatred, joy, desire wonder and sadness. Any other emotion, he said, is a combination of those six, of varying intensity. Although Descartes did not think emotions should be eradicated, he believed, like the Stoics, that emotions could be mistaken, just like perceptions, and if they were they ought to be cured.

So when the Princess of Bohemia, his philosophical correspondent on the topic of mind and body for over six years, contracted a low fever, Descartes blamed it on depression and recommended she read the Stoic Seneca, all the while reflecting on how much stronger the mind is than the body.
Surprisingly, it didn't go down all that well.

Here are Sister 3's interpretations of Descartes' Passions:

Fear

Max is afraid of dogs. Two years ago, we holidayed on the beach, near Izmir. Early mornings, I would grab a book, a cup of tea, and a camera and leave our room to lay on the sand just outside. Max would join me and play in the sand quietly. But some mornings, the owners' dog would be out too. He would be sleeping by the shade of a palm tree. Occasionally walking past. Max would see it and shriek, jump on me, or - if he felt he was close enough - run back to the room to be protected by his Daddy. If we met the dog in the day time, Max would instantly climb on his father's shoulders.

Sticks and Stones may break my bones.

Yesterday I posted on this page about a letter I had received from a close family member that was accusing me of criminal neglect towards my son. I am now removing this text, not because I think I shouldn't have posted it in the first place, nor because it is too personal, but because it involves people other than me, people who may be have a chance of developing a better relationship with this person. I know - I made it sound as if maybe it wouldn't be worth having any kind of a relationship with him. But people can change, and, more to the point, you can have really terrible relationships with some people but not others, and I don't want to take this chance away from anyone. People know, they know. That's enough.

Here's one from the beach!

For this week's writing workshop, I chose this prompt : 'What qualities or traits do you think your children have inherited from you, you partner, or even from your extended family?'.

I really wanted to do the thing on magical powers, but I don't want anyone to be jealous, cause, you know, I have so many. Oh, I can hear you oohing and ahhing and also thinking 'right, she's totally nuts' (especially my evil sisters). And since I want to prove you wrong, I'll tell you a few. The first one that comes to my mind is that I attract lunatics. Not you average weirdo (I live in Paris, it's a big city, we all are weirdos, anyway) but the real crazy ones. Trust me, if there is ONE looney around and you're with me, fear not, he or she will come straight to me. For instance, I was in a bus in the 7th arrondissement, probably listening to music or typing on my dear Blackberry when a lady came really close to my ear, as in, I could feel her breath on my neck and said 'I like your scarf'. I thanked her, trying to get away without sitting on my neighbour's lap, and she came even closer and said 'Will you give it to me?'. I have to say she had a very personal breath and her eyes were wide open, she was smiling but not with your friendly kinda smile, rather the Nicholson's The Shining one. I considered giving it to her but chose to tell her 'no, I can't do that, I quite like it', instead. She smiled back, and then she left me alone. She had her normal face back on, people turned their heads back to whatever they were doing and it really seemed as if nothing had happened.

Shrinks, bullies and hot Swedish actors

For this week's writing workshop, over at Sleep is for the Weak, I chose this prompt: Have you ever felt bullied? At school? At work? In your personal life? How did you deal with that? Tell us your story.

- Hello, doctor B.

- Hello, Marianne, how are you today ?

This writing workshop sure sounds like a therapy session, this week. So let’s do it that way, alright ? Awesome. Let’s rock.

- OK, I guess. Having those dreams, again. You know, with that blond Swedish guy, the one with the gorgeous eyes, hair, chest, Oh dear, his chest…

- Yes, OK.

- Oh, sorry. Got lost again. This Alex Skarsgard thing is getting serious, isn’t it, I wonder whether I should tell someone, you know, let it be taken care of. Oh, but listen to me, I AM telling someone, I’m telling you. But since all you do is nod and say yes, of course I think I’m talking to myself. I’m not crazy, am I, thinking I’m talking to myself when I’m actually talking to you? Right?

There's useless stuff and useless stuff. And sour grapes, too.

This week's entry for the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop.

Our home is full of stuff that is essentially useless... except we're using it. So there's retired religious book holders we use to pile up big books, old photo albums, and, well, bits of paper; Copper incense burners where we keep last autumn's conkers, big ceramic vases containing charming yet potentially eye poking bouquets of assorted sticks that we pick up on walks...

Yes, you're getting the picture, we buy useless stuff to hold other useless stuff. As long as it's wood, or metal, or something old, we're big fans. We just don't seem to see it as clutter. It's family.

Ghost Story

This week's entry for the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop.

I was a late reader. I learnt to read when I was 6, like everyone else and liked it instantly. But by the age of 10, I was more interested in real life and I put the books away. I only picked them again when I was 14, so that’s a whole 4 years without reading much.

The book that got me back on the reading train was Stephen King’s It. It scared the hell out of me and made me realize books were actually as cool as life, sometimes even better. I haven’t stop reading since, but I gave up King pretty quickly ;) Anyway, he'd given me a taste for horror stories and I was secretly hoping something creepy would happen to me one day.

It happened when I was visiting friends in the States, near New York. One of them was a librarian and I was waiting for him to end his shift.

I decided to wait in a reading room, upstairs. I climbed the stairs, looked around the three rooms on that floor and settled for the empty one as I figured I wouldn’t be disturbing anyone there. So I sat, picked up a book and started reading – I know, so original in a library. After a couple of minutes, I started feeling bored. I got up, walked to the window, but felt compelled to go back to my seat. I returned to the chair, going all around the big table instead of heading straight back. I was feeling dizzy, cold and very hot at the same time. When I sat again, I couldn’t remember exactly what had just happened, but I felt something wasn’t right. My hands shaking slightly, my legs wobbling, I went down the stairs and as I was going down, I was starting to feel better. I was still under the impression that something was forcing me to move, that I wasn’t in control any more.

I didn’t mention it to my friend right away. His shift had ended, we went out for a smoke and then I told him all about it. He stared for a while and then said : « I cannot believe this. I’ve been working here five whole years, going to that room nearly every day hoping something would happen to me and you get ghost vibes the minute you get there » . He then explained that the library was known to be haunted and that several people had experienced weird things over the years. He said how they had described exactly what I had just told him, sharing the same disturbing feelings. At that precise moment, I looked up to the room and I SWEAR I saw someone smile. Just a smile, actually, the someone didn’t really seem to be there. You know, like the Cheshire cat. I told my friend but by the time he looked, the smile was gone. He wanted to go back there with me but I begged him to take me home.

Creepy, huh ?