Diamonds and Rust
(Joan Baez)

Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid

ONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.

But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever.

Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment.


OSCAR WILDE

I cannot believe I spent the whole day arguing with faceless cowards on the general forum.

My only 'sin' was frankness.

Death threats, abuse, hate. Ingredients of a second-rate soap opera.
All here, all free!

Who cares if I am biased in my interpretation of Moz's lyrics. Who isn't, anyway?

But I have learnt my lesson, and will be keeping my thoughts to myself and those whom I know won't be using anything I say or write against me.

Also, why the latent homophobia, prejudice, pettiness and intolerance prevail around here?

Morrissey would be ashamed if he knew how evil and brutally unkind some of his fans can be.
Those very fans who look for consolation and sympathy in his Art, don't waste an opportunity to humiliate, mock and look down on other fellow fans.

It's sad.

I'm reading two books currently.
Carol by Patricia Highsmith, which I read a while ago (and got a translated second edition so cheap the other day) which it's a beautiful and moving novel about two women who fall in love, and David Seltzer's The Omen (Errata - this one is in its original language, not a translation, I must be losing my mind).

Curiously, some seven or eight years ago, I read the sequel to The Omen, which narrates Damien's adolescent years and is scary as hell, but I can't recall reading this one before (I'm in the first 20 pages and it is already giving me the creeps); and, yes, I've watched all of the films.

I guess Horror/Suspense Literature doesn't do it much for me, apart from a couple of Clive Barker's short stories I came across when I couldn't keep my nose out of books and devoured anything I could get my hands on...

I wish I felt like reading more, but after the delight that is experiencing Wilde, Austen, Conan Doyle, D. H. Lawrence and a few more brilliant 19th century/early 20th century authors, what else is left?
Can contemporary fiction (with well-deserved exceptions, of course) glue you to a bed, take you to unknown places, amaze you, excite your senses and make you forget this dreadful Age we're living in?
I don't think so.

Thank you to those who endured this tiresome and somewhat silly attempt of journal writing.
Stay tuned for more, heheh.

IMHO, Eddie Cochran was the finest rock and roller that ever lived.

I know the huge Elvis following will disagree, but I think Eddie accomplished so much and proved to have exemplary professionalism through his short career as a singer/composer/guitarist.

Plus, he was such a handsome guy. The girls (and some boys as well, heheh ) must have gone wild when they attended his concerts and saw Eddie rockin' and rollin' and shakin' and sweatin' on stage...


I transcribe below the lyrics to a Eddie Cochran's song I like a lot.


C'mon Everybody
(E. Cochran - J. Capehart)

Well c'mon everybody and let's get together tonight
I got some money in my jeans
And I'm really gonna spend it right
Well, I been doin' my homework all week long
Now the house is empty and my folks are gone
Ooh, c'mon everybody

Well my baby's number one
But I'm gonna dance with three or four
And the house will be a-shakin'
From the bare feet a-slappin' on the floor
Well when you hear the music you just can't sit still
If your brother won't rock, then your sister will
Ooh, c'mon everybody

Well we'll really have a party
But we gotta put a guard outside
If the folks come home, I'm afraid they gonna have my hide
There'll be no more movies for a week or two
No more running 'round with the usual crew
Who cares?
C'mon everybody ... c'mon everybody


There's a great site dedicated to him - Remember Eddie Cochran

Happy New Year, Mozmaniacs!

I don't get this "I'm a true fan and you're not" attitude.

Why age, likes/dislikes, favourite artists, background and pompous pseudo-intellectual rantings matter so much to Moz's supporters?

If I am touched, feel it, like it, can relate to the music, words or images on any level, I consider myself as 'worthy' (for lack of a better word) of a particular artist's body of work as some thirty/forty-something, I-was-there, I-knew-them-before-you-were-even-born native or scholar fan.

No one can read my mind or penetrate my heart and say I am not genuine in my appreciation.

That's just how I see it.