How could this be done? I want your sweet ...
Maybe tomorrow ...
Body of Blues
-After Hayes, after Lorca
I want to always wake beneath a warm blue blanket
of sky. I want to never hunger for money. I want to
learn to be as quiet as the moment between snowflakes.
I want to be sure as the ledge on the highest edge of a sky
scraper. I want to scrape the sky only to see what
falls from her wounded belly. I want to splinter
when I break. I want a mouth
full of duende, and a soul made of shrapnel and torn
butterfly wings. I want to be a shadow on the dirt in outer
space. I want to carry nightmares to outer space, and bury
shadows. I want be a sunrise and interrupt your eyelids through the
atmosphere. I want to fight off an army of alarm clocks and protect
your solitude. I want to fight off the morning's unwavering
expectations, and creaking windows, it's pressed suits and broke
down cars; I want to fight off flimsy cubicles,
and leaving, your doubts, your nonchalance, and
regulations, your conference calls, the dead
skin that lights on the plateau of tense shoulders.
I want to fight off morning and be morning. If dolphins
and swans are the only other creatures capable of making
love I want to grow feathers, and web between my limbs and
swim like you are the sea with an infinite waterfall waiting
just beyond the horizon. I want the ocean's strength, but not it's
undertow. I want all the patience of redwoods, but not
their tangled roots. I want the freshness of placenta,
but not its innocence. I want to come up for air, and go
back down for more. When we make our beds apart, may we
be still next to each other. I do not want to be the curtains, a
mumbling television, or glass of water. I do not want to be
the moon coming and going, the blown speaker whispering
riddles, or the sidewalk. I do not want to be the album
of photographs, or the mirror. When I leave this body,
Man, I want to be pure night; I want to be your blues
.
"The heart is a leisurely muscle. It differs from all other muscles. How many push-ups can you make before the muscles in your arms and stomach get so tired that you have to stop? But your heart muscle goes on working for as long as you live. It does not get tired because there is a phase of rest built into every single heartbeat. Our physical heart works leisurely. And when we speak of heart in the wider sense, the idea that life-giving leisure lies at the very center is implied. Never to lose sight of that central place of leisure in our life would keep us youthful. Seen in this light, leisure is not a privilege but a virtue. Leisure is not a privilege of the few who can afford to take the time, but the virtue of all who are willing to give the time to what takes time. To give as much time as a task rightly takes." -David Steindl-Rast
"I can say I hope
It will be worth what I give up"
-Santogold
Body of Blues
-After Hayes, after Lorca
I want to always wake beneath a warm blue blanket
of sky. I want to never hunger for money. I want to
learn to be as quiet as the moment between snowflakes.
I want to be sure as the ledge on the highest edge of a sky
scraper. I want to scrape the sky only to see what
falls from her wounded belly. I want to splinter
when I break. I want a mouth
full of duende, and a soul made of shrapnel and torn
butterfly wings. I want to be a shadow on the dirt in outer
space. I want to carry nightmares to outer space, and bury
shadows. I want be a sunrise and interrupt your eyelids through the
atmosphere. I want to fight off an army of alarm clocks and protect
your solitude. I want to fight off the morning's unwavering
expectations, and creaking windows, it's pressed suits and broke
down cars; I want to fight off flimsy cubicles,
and leaving, your doubts, your nonchalance, and
regulations, your conference calls, the dead
skin that lights on the plateau of tense shoulders.
I want to fight off morning and be morning. If dolphins
and swans are the only other creatures capable of making
love I want to grow feathers, and web between my limbs and
swim like you are the sea with an infinite waterfall waiting
just beyond the horizon. I want the ocean's strength, but not it's
undertow. I want all the patience of redwoods, but not
their tangled roots. I want the freshness of placenta,
but not its innocence. I want to come up for air, and go
back down for more. When we make our beds apart, may we
be still next to each other. I do not want to be the curtains, a
mumbling television, or glass of water. I do not want to be
the moon coming and going, the blown speaker whispering
riddles, or the sidewalk. I do not want to be the album
of photographs, or the mirror. When I leave this body,
Man, I want to be pure night; I want to be your blues
.
"The heart is a leisurely muscle. It differs from all other muscles. How many push-ups can you make before the muscles in your arms and stomach get so tired that you have to stop? But your heart muscle goes on working for as long as you live. It does not get tired because there is a phase of rest built into every single heartbeat. Our physical heart works leisurely. And when we speak of heart in the wider sense, the idea that life-giving leisure lies at the very center is implied. Never to lose sight of that central place of leisure in our life would keep us youthful. Seen in this light, leisure is not a privilege but a virtue. Leisure is not a privilege of the few who can afford to take the time, but the virtue of all who are willing to give the time to what takes time. To give as much time as a task rightly takes." -David Steindl-Rast
"I can say I hope
It will be worth what I give up"
-Santogold