All you need is a Jingle

I think i am jealous of musicians.

Unfortunately, there are more people who are literate than people who know music. i have only met one person in my life who does not like music. She says she only likes songs that remind her of people. i guess its still indirect, but she has a connection to an arbitrary melody. and when she drives a freeway edged in green she sighs and thinks something indefinetly sentimental.

why is sound stored so completley, but we cannot remember the words that shape and define us. I was lucky enough to have my Michael Cunningham First Love moment a couple of years ago. there was no red tipped pirate queen, just a petite vietnamse professor telling me to watch my surveyor self. I tripped and fell for Toni Morrison's Bluest Eye, but i could not quote you a coherent sentence. When asked why i love literature i say toni morrsion. When asked why i love toni morrison i have to scramble for a copy.

i wish words were as memorable as your jingles. Poetry is fancier when set to a tune, "All you need is Love." What deaf person does not know that line, that voice, the rest of the stanza?,,,,..

What about "a patient etherised upon a table." ....?? anyone, ?

what the fuck do you mean all you need is love. Im sure you have an idea, Music God, but really, you dont even have to remember your analysis. If the public gets a slight explanation of your private genuis (on your mothers bathroom floor, in a subway station, sheltered from the rain :/, on an acid trip at Sands ) they/we wet ourselves with idiotic understanding. In the glossy, tight pants happy ending you dont have to explain yourself as the chorus rambles on:::; and beautifully, inexplicably (as someone who knows not a lick about music and tries, mostly unsuccessfully to have her life guided somewhat by past and current wordmiths and visionaries) i am calmed. you are correct, insect men, all i really do need, is love.

while poor eliots infamous line sits mostly unknown and unexplained. it is such a remarkable insertion of anti romantic description, that even now, as a memeber of a generation where best friends refer to one another as cunts and whores, fuckers and bastards; i am still awed. romance and modernsism. my mistresses eyes are nothing like the sun. we are all one, unoriginal, bodily mass.

So all you independet visionaries with homemade apple pie recordings and remarkably interesting lyrics, Allow me and my fellow bloggers our chance to post our words. In the battle of affecting, you will win everytime, but here on our little anonomys pedastals is a chance for someone to waste their time on us. we will never have eliots reverberations. We will never have The Beatles adorations and history-altering capabilities. But we do have our minute chance of publication, of vouyerism, of motivation to keep reading, keep writing. so there, keep strumming smug svelte syndocated bastards. I will be racing you note for note.