Archive for fairytales

“Con Te Partiro”; With You I Leave (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Livin' La Vida Frida, Style & Fashion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2010 by alphabetfiend

When you are far away I dream on the horizon and words fail, and I do know that you are with me, with me, with me. You, my moon, you are here with me. My sun, you are here with me, with me, with me, with me. With you I will leave.

As you may already know, I’ve been a most irresponsible ringleader. I’ve only recently returned to Cream Scene Carnival after a long hiatus. It wasn’t until I returned that I learned I had any “real” readers and now that I know, I’ve promised no more extended absences.

But can a gypsy-carnie with a history of wanderlust really make such a vow?

Well… yes.

Some time away doesn’t seem like such a big deal except for when it comes to one reoccurring post: The Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. The column I obsessed over and that no one ever read (besides The Reliable One) but he loved it too so I forged ahead with the idea. The idea?

A temple built of alphabet & musical notes, a church constructed of code, a sacrament of song.

I call it “The Punk Rock Gospel” though only some of the song choices are officially “punk rock.” It’s our attitude that’s punk rock. 

We’re outside the religious main-stream but still ass-kicker omen-seeker mystic-minded mutants who are looking for a moment of holy meditation but on our own damn terms.

No nun to rap our knuckles, no priest to diddle us under our choir robes. No bigot to tell us who to love or hate. No big-mouth phoney with his pants down and his hand out. No saintly soul with her lips pursed & judging our upblown skirts as we smirk all Tinto-Brass balls-out saucy. No one luring our loved one to the woods and striking her down because she is beautiful and he wants her which makes him hate her. (RIP Ronnie. The Robot-Boy misses you.) No one to tell us which hotdog to eat. No one to chop at the genitals of our babes. No one to shame us for unabashedly loving eachother and ourselves.

Now watch as I pass out pastels and ooh and ahh as you draw chalky caricatures of Muhammad on the sidewalk.

No one to kill us afterwards.

Down with the dogma! Up with the dada!

When I started Cream Scene Carnival, I had high hopes for the punk rock gospel. I wanted people to read it, to love it, to listen to the songs and then to come back again. And again.

It seemed as if it would never happen. Now, almost out of nowhere, my hopes have been realized. Y’all are reading the punk rock gospel! You’re coming back the next week and the next week too! I’m so happy I could fly my own heart like a bright red kite.

Which is why I MUST find my way here every single Saturday night or early Sunday morning (Monday at the latest?) Either that or I must initiate others to serve as Gurus of Garage Rock or Mofos of Funk for those times when I am unavailable in any of my holy guises: High-Priestess of Tom-foolery; Trickster Fox Fortune-teller; Lipstick Shamaness. Finding a sacred sub is really the perfect solution as it means a fresh perspective or a whole new kind of song on a special kinda Sunday.

This week is in that spirit, even though I am here (having hauled my butt to a late-night diner to surf their wireless.) So it’s me whose typing these words today but it’s a reader — and new interwebby friend, Alice — who chose this video and song. She sent the link to me after a recent post on Frida Kahlo’s 103rd birthday. Maybe, if you are lucky, Alice will contribute her own thoughts/”gospel” in the comments. Although I’ve noticed that a normal modest person with decent goodness and the appropriate level of humility doesn’t take easily to the idea of writing “gospel”. I say, Phooey! and Screw that chicken til the feathers fly! I say take the word “gospel” and make it work for you. I say that God was created by us and is ours to recreate.

Of course there are those who will gasp — aghast! — and call me a hell-bound heathen. But the way I look at it, I’m keeping my heavenly options open. Wide open. I’m after an all-access pass! If I wanna smoke a stogey with the Devil after a day of wind-surfing with Jesus but before a long night of drunken club-hopping with Artemis and Venus, well then, so fucking be it. These are OUR MYTHS and we should be able to interact with them freely.

On that note, I’d like to open up the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel to all of you because it was my gift to you and now it’s yours. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep writing week after week but it does mean that I am open to song suggestions or topics of discussion. Anyone interested in guest-hosting a punk rock gospel (choosing song, video & theme, as well as writing the text) should raise their hand with a hell yea! or a why the hell not!?

This week’s song is Com Te Pardis or “With you, I Will Leave” (also known as “Time to Say Goodbye.”) The song is sung by Andrea Bocelli and was “chosen” by Alice who “gifted” it to me after a tough couple weeks in which I wrestled with issues of loss, grief and death. As Alice and I discussed, there’s always that shamanic meaning within injury, illness or trauma.

Let us be the ones to look for those gifts which aren’t showy or jewel-encrusted.

Let us be the ones to love being alive and to never ever be too cool, too hip or too busy to (know) show it.

Let us be the ones who find a new spirit in the rubble of religion.

Let us be Lizard Kings! Let us be everything!

Livin’ la vida Frida!!

Con Te Partiro; With You, I Will Leave

(With you, I leave)

Quando sono solo sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole
(When I’m alone I dream of the horizon and words fail)

si, lo so che non c’e luce in una stanza quando manca il sole
(Yes, I know there is no light in a room when the sun is absent)

se non ci sei tu con me / con me
(If you are not with me / with me)

su le finestre
(at the windows)

mostra a tutti il mio cuore che hai acceso
(show everyone my heart which you set alight)

chiudi dentro me la luce che / hai incontrato per strada
(give to me the light / you found on the street)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

paesi / che non ho mai
(countries which i have never)

veduto e vissuto con te
(seen and experienced with you)

adesso, si, li vivro
(now, yes, i will live them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so / no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, no longer exist)

con te io li vivro
(with you i will live them)

quando sei lontana sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole
(when you are far away I dream on the horizon and words fail)

e io si lo so che sei con me / con me
(and I do know that you are with me, with me)

tu, mia luna, tu sei qui con me
(you, my moon, you are here with me)

mio sole, tu sei qui con me, con me, con me, con me
(my sun, you are here with me, with me, with me, with me)

con te partiro
(with you I will leave)

paesi che non ho mai
(countries which i have never)

veduto e vissuto con te
(seen and experienced with you)

adesso, si, li vivro
(now, yes, i will live them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so / no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, no longer exist)

con te io li rivivro
(with you i will relive them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so, no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, exist no longer)

con te io li rivivro
(with you i will relive them)

Io con te!
(I’m with you!)

********************************

*The surrealist pieces Angels of Death & Infinity are by George Gris and are available as prints.

I love how the Angel of Death has the rowboat which she sails in the song: “With you I will leave, on ships across seas, which, I know, no, no, no longer exist, with you I will relive them, with you I will leave, on ships across seas.”

I’ll be all gypsy-wild & on the road after this is published so there may be some delay in answering comments. But I’ll be back. Be assured.

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Sexy Mermaid Vay-Cay Get-a-Way (for Alice)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Buxom Goo Goo, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Mythos with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Alice has been fantasizing about “a luxurious, decadent, and totally out of reach beach rental in Florida, especially for Mermaids, I kid you not.”

“Mermaid Castle” is the oldest beach house in Crescent Beach, Florida. The house, once a small grove of cypress, sleeps 12 and is available for holiday rentals.

“Mermaid Castle” features a tiki hut, a jacuzzi and a swimming pool perfect for re-infusing our scaly tails with much needed moisture. Also — so we don’t get too homesick for Atlantis, which is such a sorrowful “itis,” just ask Alice — there are “breathtaking ocean views.”

It’s no wonder Alice is inspired to play hostess (with the mostess.) 

“What a tea party I would throw. Of course, I would invite the Mad Hatter, Foxy Trickster, and the illusive brown rabbit with the black spots.”

Did you catch that, sailors?

I’ve been given a sought-after invite to Alice’s tea party. That’s me, Foxy Trickster!

I just can’t wait to meet the Hatter. I hear he’s very, how do they say? Eccentric. Those are my people, y’know. The Eccentrics. Jonathan Zap calls us mutants, I call us mermaids. Some people say weirdos to which I say “Woo-hoo!”

Oh what a tea-party that would be!

There on Crescent Beach, sipping maitais outta porcelain teacups, stuck haphazardly with technicolor paper umbrellas. We’d munch on a rainbow array of Parisian macaroons shaped like swirly seashells. We’d play poker with oceanic ante: tiny starfish & coin-sized turtles with orange sherbet bellies. We’d nap in poolside hammocks as the pages (and our fins) flapped in the salty breeze.

Around midnight, we’d don sequin mini-dresses & fishnet stockings. We’d order dark rum ON THE ROCKS  and lure shy seaman, who would crash into us with the velocity of a tsunami.

Of course they’d be long gone come morning (er, some might call it “afternoon.”) We’d awake satisfied, dreamy-eyed and mop-headed. We’d gossip about the evening’s exploits as we lolled beneath paper parasols (like in our teacups, only big.)We’d flop our tails in the sunshine, trading sexy tips & naughty details.

“Like what?” you wonder, with your drawers a-stir.

Well….a mermaid never kisses & tells (outside of a tea party) but let’s just say that we use what our mer-mama’s gave us.

MMMmmm. Mermmmermermermermmm. Mmm.

Get it, knucklehead?

Mermaids are experts at fellatio!

(Or cunnilingus, for those of us who prefer femmes.)

>Wink wink < 

*************************************

The painting “Fishnets” is by the whimsical & wonderful Nancy Farmer. Prints are available. If you have some time, lotsa time, swim on over to the artist’s site. Nancy Farmer must be a mermaid herself because you WILL get hopelessly ensnared. I once spent several hours in her “net” and when I finally came out of her sea-song trance my shirt was soaked with drool and I’d grown a fine set of demon horns. Be forewarned!

“Cinderella” Dies at 81

Posted in Cinema & Filmmaking, Fame & Celebrity, Movies & Movie Stars, Mythos, Romance, Style & Fashion, Technicolor Pop, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2010 by alphabetfiend

OK, don’t freak out — Cinderella didn’t die because Cinderella shall live forever in Technicolor.

Ilene Woods died at 81. Ilene Woods was the voice — speaking & singing — of Cinderella in the Disney classic.

Woods was just 18 when Walt cast her as Cinderella, beating out 400 hopefuls for the coveted part. The fellas who wrote the lyrics for the feature film were friends of Ilene Woods — songwriters Mack David and Jerry Livingston — and so Woods sang in the demos that were submitted to Disney. Walt liked what he heard and gave Woods the part. How exciting that must’ve been!

I wanna be a cartoon!

I wanna end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard.

When I got my boobs & hips overnight, taking on a pronounced hour-glass shape of near fetishistic proportions, I was immediately hailed as “Betty Boop” by all the boys (much to my dad’s dismay.) The Boop thing continues to this day but before that, I was called “Cinderelli” by my father. If I felt the least bit put upon or taken for granted (as the oldest of six, I often had cause to feel grumbly) Dad would mercilessly tease me in sing-song, “Wash the dishes, Cinderelli! Fold the linens, Cinderelli! Sweep the hearth, Cinderelli! Serve us stew, Cinderelli!”

Only I had no mice or birds to make me gowns of cast away gewgaws. O woe! I want mice and birds! I want a perfectly drawn up-do. I want a pumpkin carriage.

I want GLASS SLIPPERS, the most dreamy and absurd accessory of all. As silly as the diamond-soled shoes that Paul Simon sang of, “People say she’s crazy, she got diamonds on the soles of her shoes, well that’s one way to lose these walking blues. Diamonds on the soles of her shoes!”

Yes, I wanna be the itty-bitty specimen of footly perfection that slips, effortlessly, into that magical high-heel.

It looks like Woods had a real-life pair of glass slippers! (She’s posing with the heels in the above photo.) Lucky lucky cartoon lady.

Ilene Woods said that the best part about playing Cinderella in the timeless classic was that her children (and her children’s children and so on) would be able to connect with her long after she parted.

I wonder if they’ve watched the film since her death on July 1st.

Maybe their hearts are still too raw for that.

Like Janet Jackson was, after Michael Jackson died, when the film “This Is It” was in theatres. Janet refused to see the film, citing her grief and a lack of readyness. Someday, she said, Not yet. Not now.

After my Dad died we continued to pay his cell bill, for months, because we couldn’t give up the comfort of that phone number. We’d call the number just to hear his voice on the message. It was kind of like pushing a big purple bruise, flinching, ouch, and then you push it again. When I finally decided to disconnect the phone, I checked his voicemail one last time and was astounded to find that calls had been pouring in, at all hours of the day and night, from family, friends, kids, cousins, nephews, even his dry-cleaner/tailor who had once turned the flag my dad stole from the post-office into a subversively patriotic shirt. It took me forever to listen to all the messages, as people spoke to him with desperate yearning.

How could you do this to me, Paul? asked one friend, You sonofabitch asshole cocksucker. Why’d you leave me here alone?

Losing a loved one is never easy. I can only imagine how hard it would be if your mother was CINDERELLA. Maybe it is too soon for Ilene’s family to cuddle on the couch and watch as Cinderella enchants Prince Charming. But someday they will and Woods is right, that film will be a gift that keeps on giving.

Bon Voyage, Cinder-Ilene! I hope you are traveling by coach. I hope the journey is magical and Technicolor and glorious. I hope you are wearing your glass slippers.

 

**For more info, see Animation Magazine.  **“I wanna end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard”  is from “You Can Call me Al,” yet another song by Paul Simon.

Swimming Pool Mermaid

Posted in Art Lover, I Heart Mermaids, I Heart My Love-Tribe, Sideshow Siren & Bearded Lady with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2010 by alphabetfiend
 
According to NPR the first official day of summer was yesterday. Tonight’s 6 o’clock news sez today’s the day.      

My body feels it — the summerness — and so I crave chlorine. That wavy blue scent crosses my mind in soaked zig-zags, activating that sparkly spot at the base of my spine… right above my ass crack, where my sequin-esque scales used to be.                

“It isn’t true what they say about mermaids not existing. I know they do for I’ve held one’s hand.” (Robert Fulghum)               

I’m a mermaid.               

Like how transsexual men claim to have a woman inside? Or how fat chicks claim to have a skinny chick whose trying to claw her way out? I have a mermaidy-ness that can’t be fought. She flaps her fins and I dive in.               

It’s always been that way. I’ve always mourned those missing scales, the mythic inside the human.               

I heard the siren song.               

I’d spend hours in the pool, ducking under and holding my breath, ticking away the mississippis until I could go for minutes without air. My cousin Autumn and I would play princess — spoiled mermaid princesses — with a doting Sea-King father and run of the ocean. We’d spin in the deep end, round and round and down like shimmering tornados. As the sun set, we were tired and smiley with skin like plump golden raisins.                

Unlike most kids — picky eaters who subsist on hot dogs and kraft mac n’ cheese — I gobbled raw oysters with abandon, slurping their salty-sweet meat & brine straight from the half-shell. I plucked the pink from the lobster’s red claw. I devoured scallops, mussels, mahi mahi, peachy fleshy salmon steaks. I sucked up the seaweed in my miso.                

My dad was amused by mermaid-me, cracking into my lobster and feeding me the buttery bits like he was tossing sardines to a circus seal.               

My mom, not so much. She grew weary of cleaning up my watery messes — sloshing over the tub with my tail, waves crashing onto the aqua marine tiles. She refused to make tuna fish when sloppy joes were on the stove. She struggled to twist my mop of tangled curls into elaborate french braids (more befitting of my mermaid fantasies.)               

Mom concedes that my inner mermaid came in handy the day I miraculously made it outta the deserted motel swimming pool, even though I was three and didn’t know how to swim. Over time I became a strong swimmer, self-taught and funny-lookin’ yet oddly capable. I could tread water for hours and I even swam across Stony Lake, and then around the perimeter, at Camp Storer. I was also the lone swimmer at the camp’s ass-crack of dawn “Polar Bear Swim”  — they even honored me for it with song & dance. Though I’m sure the lifeguard who met me daily, in the dark, would’ve liked that extra hour in her sleeping bag.                  

I’ve suspected the swish of a tail that wasn’t there and I sway with an unexplainable slosh in my hips.               

In Junior High, I was late for class and splashing down a long empty hallway, except it wasn’t so empty. Behind me, at least 20 feet back, was a loping skulking metal head named Lee. Looking a lot like Tommy of the same name, of Motley Crue fame, Lee was a campus legend. Rumor was, Lee drove a blue Camaro to his 8th grade classes. I was new to 7th grade when Lee called out from the distant shadows:               

If you shake that thing any harder, it’s gonna fall off!               

I was mortified — how dare this horny metal-head burn-out bum think for even one second that my mermaid moves were meant for him. It wasn’t about that for me — sex, seduction, show-offery — and so I tried to re-train myself. I tried to curtail my tail, as it were. Still, the scaly slither stayed with me. I’d pull it out in the safety of black streets or back alleyways. It was my secret mermaid strut. Not so secret after a few drinks, when I’m walking hand-in-hand to the ladies room with Lina or rushing the stage in all my rock & roll fineries. Platform boots, beat-up Stones tee and tiara. What can I say? Sometimes a Mer-Queen’s gotta get out & play.              

Now I’m all grown-up, with no desire to be 10 again, but I still slip into a bath and feel a fairy-tale release as the water rises over my slippery breasts. I’ve slept with 4 men but only 3 of them have seen me naked. Though I’m sure Mr. Three would object to my funny math; he may even have Polaroids to offer up as proof. Except it was a pretend camera the time I posed for all those imaginary click click clicks. (The Minolta in his mind took some really racy piks! Good thing there’s no negatives.) OK, I was nude around him, I confess… but he never held my buoyant body or tasted the salty sea on my collarbone or felt the powerful snap of my tail. So in a strange way, he never really saw me. Did you, fucker, did you ever really sea me? Sea, I told you so.               

Is my mermaid fixation a fetish? An obsession with otherness? A window into my soulful longing for all that lies below the surface?               

Sure, I’ll go for it, whatever rocks your boat. Maybe you think I’m just like those gals who played My Little Pony and grew up wanting to marry Mr. Ed. If so, then you’re wrong wrong wrong so don’t even think it.               

After my sister nearly drowned in Mexico, I taught my little sisters to swim — to overcome their fears and find their fins. Sometimes you just gotta yield to the mermaid. There’s truth in pretend and freedom in fantasy. Connecting with your own mythos is a tune in turn on thing.              

Still don’t believe in real-life mermaids?              

I gotta get me a tail like that! I’ve gotta get rich quick, maybe publish sleazy pulp under a pen name. I’ll crank out a best-selling bodice-ripper under the name Sirena Wave. I want my very own mold-to-my-curves mermaid tail. It’s not just for looks! You can swim in these suckers!  The Mer-Tailor or Merfolktails are just two of the companies making custom tails for freaks like me. They’re pricey, of course, but I’m gonna get one some day. I swear on my scales.               

               

Until that day, I’ll make do with my own jerry-rigged tails which I’ve proudly sported at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade. It’s always this week in June and New York is calling to me like a sea nymph. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be this year. It’s on the 26th, all you squids & sea monsters! Sea-monkeys and mermaids! Even if you’re just a gullible sailor out to gawk at the finned femmes, go go go thee to Coney.               

               

A word about the incredible mermaid art:              

The mermaid with the white hair is a new piece by Carolina Hardigree, whom we adore here at Cream Scene Carnival. Rightly so! She’s been experimenting with a looser brush stroke lately. I wasn’t sure about it at first (Hardigree has a bounty of technical skill and I love her stark mythic style) but it really works in this piece. It expresses the mermaid’s fluid nature. To see more of Hardigree’s magical artwork, hit the Carolina Hardigree tag or check out her studio site .              

The submerged swimming pool siren is a stunning Jaroslaw Kukowski painting. Kukowski, a polish surrealist, often paints mermaids. The Bettie Page mermaid is by the famed Olivia. The geisha is by J. Michael Walker. The folk art “X” mermaid is by Junker Jane. The mer with the tangle of curls is by Rustic Goth The sketchy scales are by Gretchen Kelly Studio. Doesn’t Kelly’s sleepy siren look like a mermaid trying to slither from her sleeping bag in time for the Polar Bear Swim? It was only after I began to fit the already chosen artworks into the text that I realized how well Kelly’s drawing illustrated the Camp Storer story. Hooray for happy accidents! 

Many of these pieces are available for purchase or as prints, so contact the artists if you’ve fallen in love. 

But not the Hardigree! That’s mine! OK, you can have the Hardigree cause I’m po’ but treat her right. Carolina Hardigree (my “Lina”) is more of a forest nymph than a sea siren. She prefers 100 year old pines to the crashing chaos of the ocean. I could see a mermaid coming to her though, after an obsession with snake skin, after she painted herself with bright green reptilian scales, and then there were the mermaid heels. “I tried to get a pair for you too, ” she said, as I fondled the faux fish-scale texture. “But you’re feet are too small! No 5.” I cursed my geisha toes cause there’s something oddly perfect about mermaid highheels — say she wanted to go out and see Soundtrack since they’re her favorite band but damn the no-legs thing and then she meets a briny hag who gives her legs for one night as long as she wears her scales via these magical highheels. When Carolina Hardigree fell for a pair of mermaid highheels, I knew it wasn’t long before a mermaid arrived on her canvas.               

Tails can be had too: http://www.merfolktails.com/ or http://www.themertailor.com/ Also if you balk at the price then renting is an option.               

To learn more about The Annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade, check out the official Coney site. Coney Island needs our love these days, Y’all!

“Be yer own fur, yer own gold” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog)

Posted in Art & Culture, Fur Reals, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Mermaids, Music & Life & Sundays, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2008 by alphabetfiend

“And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark’
— Seal Jubilee (Bats for Lashes; Fur and Gold)

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Natasha Khan is a Priestess of Play

Bats for Lashes… no, it’s not a magic spell scrolled inside a vial of fox blood, nor the tipsy title of a haiku scrawled on a cocktail napkin, nor the “magic words” should you encounter the Wizard of Odd in a dusky maze of roses.  Well, best to keep it in mind.  Natasha Khan is more than songstress, she’s shamaness.  At first sight of Khan in feathers & rainbow glitter, my forehead prickled and my chakras tickled. I ogled her with my third eye.  I’d drink her purple kool-aid!  In big thirsty gulps. We need more DIY spirituality these days. Like Leary’s idea about creating you own religion & then re-creating it before the spark becomes dogma. Glamour has its place in that. Front and center! Chiffon & feathers, jeweled top hat, gold lame slippers with up-turned gypsy toes. I know! I’ll get ordained by an oily seal and then I’ll do weddings.  Anyone getting hitched?  We can all bury our noses in bone china teacups overflowing with sugar — to remind us of life’s delicous absurdity. Then we’ll do the Robot while I read aloud the lyrics from “Seal Jubillee.”

Seal Jubilee :
The seals, they cried in jubilee
The sharks, they howled along with me
And birds, they flew into the wind
The whale, he roamed the lonely sea

And I dived into you
I dived into you
On this ocean hue
‘Cause I dived into you

The lighthouse dog lifted his brow
The crippled trees bent low to growl
And swans, they wrestled with lifetime’s grasp
In hopefullness they nestled the past
Teachers and travellers made their mark
They dined and feasted on whale and shark
And so the ocean lost its depths
And boredom rained as the ocean wept

Birds they raised their young for dead
And ladies used feathery pillows for bed
And black snow came and black snow stayed
And froze the ocean out of love
Out of love

I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew
No longer diving into
But lying quiet next
To you

As if Natasha Khan’s haunting voice and priestly sleight of hand weren’t enough on this September Sunday,  the song’s set to scenes from the VISION QUEST of a film “The Secret of Roan Inish” which just slays me with its mythic beauty. The story of the selkie, a slick Ink of a mer-lass. Watch as she slithers from her seal skin! Now make like selkie and explore the boundries of your skin (skins.)  Push past, walk with wiggly legs unaccustomed to earth; then dive back in like a Selkie who missed her whiskers & sheen. 

Get outta yer skins, then get back in.  Mind your rind.  Be your own fur, your own gold.  Goof bless. 

“I lay quiet, next to you
Transformed a whole
Transformed anew”


Join me next week for another Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel Blog…

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna-be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

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