2006-03-10

Vernacular

My inspiration for writing comes from the mundane details of my day. I hear a song in the hum of the New York subway, in the drops of rain on the city street, in the buzz of overheard conversations in a crowded park. The aim of my songwriting is to translate these ordinary, everyday moments into something transcendental and universally inspiring.

-- John Legend
(Musician. His songs can be heard on Starbucks Hear Music� station,XM Satellite Radio Channel 75.)


I want to be with you
I want to be clear
but each time I try
it's the voice I hear
I hear that voice again

I'm listening to the conversation
judge and jury in my head
it's colouring everything
all we did and said
and still I head that sharp tongue talking
talking tangled words
I can sense the danger
just listen to the wind

I want you close I want you near
I can't help but listen
but I don't want to hear
hear that voice again

I'm hearing right and wrong so clearly
there must be more than this
it's only in uncertainty
that we're naked and alive
I hear it through the rattle of a streetcar
hear it through the things you said
I can get so scared
listen to the wind

what I carry in my heart
brings us so close or so far apart
only love can make love

--Peter Gabriel, So


Quotes, lyrics, brainstorming bubbles, haikus, word soup, it�s all good. I love words.

However, of late my head has been filled with floaty words, naughty little pishers of words, words that won�t give in to the idea of being strung together into coherent sentences. They giggle when I try to snatch them up, rushing away to mock me from the outer reaches of my brain. They make obscene hand gestures and intentionally stand in odd formations for the sole purpose of confounding me even further. Not that that�s a difficult task lately, mind you. It seems the items on my ToDo list (on which �journal entry� makes a rather spectacular appearance with a bullet at #2, right after �do taxes�) have been getting busy in the dark of night, causing the list to grow wildly out of control.

Some of the items on this list would take literally minutes and I am well aware the trick would simply be to grit my teeth and blow through about nine of them immediately after getting home from work one evening. However, the exercise of inputting upwards of 125 invoices per day at the uni is, I have found, extremely draining. Not taxing, just draining. (You try concentrating on nothing but numeric and alpha-numeric combinations for eight hours a day with little to no conversation thrown in for variety and see how it sucks the life out of you). So, by the time I get home, I�m whipped. The state of �being whipped� allows my numbed Type A mind to overlook things that would ordinarily drive me to madness, like a kitchen full of dirty dishes, a neglected washroom or dusting. Oy, the dusting; let�s just say I�m glad it�s overcast a lot lately. I don�t much care about the Pig Sty Chic look of the house because this contract winds up in about 12 weeks and I can certainly hang in that long. I only fear that we will lose one or both dogs at some point under an avalanche of dirty clothing.

As for those naughty words? I continue my attempts to catch the little beggars and bend them to my will. Promise.

Posted at 1:26 p.m.