Stories: Love
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This is probably a little too self indulgent so please do excuse my ongoing therapy.
Not at all. That was vivid and honest.
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Just because it's Friday and this is one of our favs
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Also the flower spike of my Poor Knight's Lily, which emerged for the first time in 8 years (they can take 10 years or more to first flower).
You have one as well?! Ours flowered for the first time about three weeks ago - I was so excited having been told that they flower once every 13 years or so. I took many photos. It's gone a deep purple now.
I'm not a patch on you guys in terms of articulating LOVE (or indeed, anything that PAS may throw out). But ahh, love. Indeed. Buried in the deep recesses of my mind.
I fell in love with a beautiful boy - he was English, sent out to live with his uncle. He was so different - smoked some, wagged school some (we were in 6th form), was so pushy in some ways. And so lonely, like me. No wonder we bonded. He knew I was gay but was so fucken relaxed about it. He didn't care. We sped down the beach on a motorbike, and hid in the sand dunes smoking a ciggie he had.
Then something happened. I can't remember what. Something I said or did. He stopped hanging out with me. I was so cut up but proud as well. Ahh the stupidity of the young, such privilege. For a year we avoided each other. I cracked at the end of the year, two days before he flew back to England. He came over and we chatted a wee bit and I gave him a present. He walked back up the drive in a light rain - in that lovely December light that you get in the late afternoon.
Fast forward three years. I flew to London to visit family, and one freezing winters day, managed to get the train to High Wycombe, and a bus to where he lived (all in pre-internet 'google' days!). I stood outside mute. And turned around to catch the bus back to the train station. Ahhh love. So mysterious.
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And then of course, who knew, but it sneaks up on you. The way the landscape flows so languidly down to the Manukau Harbour from One Tree Hill. The stauchness of the North Shore's suburbs, perched up behind tall imposing sandstone cliffs. The smell of Vicky Ave - that peculiar combination of oak leaves, red volcanic rock crushed small and the moist mugginess of an Auckland summer's afternoon. The sneaky pretend of a winter's day, teasing, but you know that it'll never be a Dunedin or Wellington no matter how hard the wind blows.
Who knew? The way the houses are artfully arranged along the street - those lovely Edwardian houses. The families they've housed. The puff puff curse that hill! as you ride up it, knowing that it's a volcanic lava flow. The caves beneath our feet - having been in one recently, Thanks Graeme! - how they lie, silent, with the faint sheen of others doing what we did - explore them.
Who knew? Am I really falling in love with Auckland Tamaki Makaurau?
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I love much in my life - & Jackie & Sofie - wow! those are love stories!
Because I am the person I am, my loves dont include sex - but they include reverence, deep history, and a totally inclusive love of whanau - even when I temporarily hate the beggars-me ka hoa katoa-
What I sing/hymn/am nourished by is ---Te ao marama. I once was a christian (presbytarian and then catholic) and I eventually realised that what I truly deeply love is this Earth of our's (and that is negated by christian belief)- of course, the 'our's' is extremely temporary, and I'm bloody sure H. floresensis would have had a different take*-
Take -means different but interestingly enhancing things in Maori & English-
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Hmmm, looks good, steven crawford- what does it taste like?
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I love my country, more than anything... except the fact I've moved overseas, twice, to be with people I love. And despite the fact I ache every day about the fact I'm not home, and neither of those relationships are still alive in the romantic sense, I don't regret a thing about making those moves.
My life really only has meaning through love. I don't believe in a god, or abstract notions of "karma". So I'm here to be with the people I love, and to contribute to their lives, both by sharing in their joys and sorrows and in more practical ways (computer repairs R us). Nothing more or less: it's my function in life.
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It is probably more appropriate that others here mention this, but as I listen to Bill Callahan singing Lapse on the Stroke CD, I can't think of a better example of love this year than that.
The man, the CD, the sentiment, the people involved and the simple beauty of the resulting music are all great big buckets full of Love.
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I get it from the supermarket, and it requires a supervisor to be called, regardless of the fact it is 0.5% alcohol. the other day, I happened upon another one, Bitburger Drive. It contains less than 0.05% alcohol, It's more expensive than Clausthaler, however.
There used to be a 0% version of Clausthaler. I remember showing it to a friend who couldn't drink any more, and who was getting really sick of fizzy water. She was pleased.
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My big love story, was the Kenepuru detox unit.
That, my friend, is love. You're right that love has many levels of meaning. There's romantic love, of course, but for me, love is the feeling when you see someone or a place or a thing - writing and art for me - where you well. You just well, as if your body can't contain all the emotion that that person/place/thing evokes in you. For me it's that visceral. I still say that my favourite film is Magik and Rose because it evoked in me that feeling of deep down to the toes warmth, and my eyes welled, full of tears of joy.
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This is something I tuned into on the Documentary channel last night and made me think of Steven Crawford so this is my song for Steven Crawford.We all love in our own way. :)
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Now this is for my man.Hope Jackie and her man like it too.
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for the ladies i've loved and lost and found...
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My baby girl and her dad - caring for someone you love, with someone you love, has led me to a new understanding of the concept of family.
Clausthaler featured significantly in the development phase of this project - it tastes better than a lot of full strength beers, and isn't sweet, unlike just about every other non-alcoholic drink there is. I suspect the difference between the 0% version and the 0.5% version is only labelling - the latter says "no more than 0.5%", which I've also seen on Phoenix Ginger Beer in the past - no ID required for that. It's the sort of thing you'd say just in case the yeast got away on you in a particular batch and you didn't want to be sued by anyone determined not to drink a single drop of alcohol. It would functionally be pretty much the same.
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Mike Garson's piano on Bowie's Aladdin Sane. I was given a compilation CD (__Chameleon__) with it on for my fourteeth birthday and, the moment I heard those first, off kilter notes, it was like something changed in my brain and i was never going to think about sound in quite the asme way again
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Mike Garson's piano on Bowie's Aladdin Sane.
I was on my first date with my first serious girlfriend, Jane, in mid 1973. I'd bought my first car the day before, a 1964 red mini 850, and we picked up one of my best mates, Marc, from his place in Parnell and rolled into Queens Arcade, where, at Marbecks, I bought her a copy of the just released Aladdin Sane album. It was $4.50 as I recall.
We'd arranged to go over another friend's place and went down Shore Rd into Remuera, whereupon a woman in another car, without warning, turned into the car, smashing the front and pushed us into the playing fields, just missing a bunch of young kids kicking a ball. We were luckily only bruised and the car, although badly bashed, was vaguely drivable. The woman admitted liability, and I didn't know quite what to do, so I drove on, with the car wobbling badly, to Victoria Ave, our intended destination, and sat, stunned, listening to Aladdin Sane over and over.
The car survived, and ended up having a series of sometimes harrowing adventures over the years.
Jane and I went to a school dance later that month and she had the lightning strip painted across her face (a teen thing, I guess..everyone was getting their hair razored a la ziggy at the time too, which, for our crimes, eventually mutated into the mullet out west mid-decade), and she broke my heart a year or so later when she ran off with Marc. I took the copy of Aladdin Sane back in a huff.
Jane went to London in '76 and found herself as PA to the editor of Melody Maker just as punk broke and sent me regular parcels of flyers, 45s and more through to '78 when she returned and married, to have a couple of kids.
We remained friends, but I didn't ever return the album (original pressing 'n all), although I offered.
She died far too young, about 4 years back, and I was unable to go to the funeral as I was not in-country, which really hurt. Marc, too, had a brain haemorrhage, shortly before, in Kent, where he was a riding teacher. They were the first of my generation to go.
I still have the original album, with Jane's name and address on the back and from time to time pull it out, but I've not played the vinyl inside for some years.
So yeah, I've got a spot for Aladdin Sane, too.
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So yeah, I've got a spot for Aladdin Sane, too.
That is a sad beautiful love story Simon. Reading that, I became worried that it was my misspent youth in Remuera you were retelling.The crashing bit could have been me.I lost my vinyl of Aladdin Sane when my first love left and although it was mine, he came in one day whilst I was at work, an cleaned out my record collection. I had every Bowie album. He had a habit. As Isabel said (and Lou Reed commented last night on TV) that tingle, that voice ,the note reached, arhhh.
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Speaking of love of things, I love small, intelligent films like Moon and Mary and Max and sleeping furiously and An Education. Just been to Avatar (in 3D) and I came away really angry, tired and sore after nearly three hours of banal bombardment (often visually beautiful banality). So many multi-millions spent on creating a thing that signifies nothing, other than a core message of kill or be killed.
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. I had every Bowie album.
I had this really, really great version of "Life on Mars", with Bowie twinned with Arcade Fire. I lost it in a iPod failure and I can't find it on iTunes again.
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I have Life on Mars in Italian. Sang by Bowie. It was called Ragazzo Solo / Ragazza Sola. Probably the worst song ever recorded.
(Really, what was with rockstars in those days thinking they could sing in other languages?)
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Some days I remember that occasion, an increasing number of years ago, that I stood in a garden with my lover, his sister, her partner, and a minister and got married. And my heart skips a little beat and my tummy turns over the way it did when I first fell in love with him (you know that feeling you get when you swing too high or the lift goes up really fast).
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The only album that I ever lost in a break-up was a cassette copy of Never Let Me Down, Bowie's least special album apart from, maybe Tonight which was held onto by a guy who made a habit of hitting on women who were on the rebound and getting dumped when they felt better enough to see him for the tosser he was.
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It was called Ragazzo Solo / Ragazza Sola. Probably the worst song ever recorded.
(Really, what was with rockstars in those days thinking they could sing in other languages?)
I think that's Space Oddity not Life on Mars and I'd imagine it was the record company's idea - I believe standard practice was to hand over a phonetic transcript and not tell the artist if it was an actual translation of their own words or not.
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that feeling you get when you swing too high
Yes
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I think that's Space Oddity not Life on Mars
Yes, sorry. Brainrot.
and I'd imagine it was the record company's idea - I believe standard practice was to hand over a phonetic transcript and not tell the artist if it was an actual translation of their own words or not.
Oh come now, the man wans' t a child. I imagine he could have asked. But it's not specifically that the lyrics were awful (although they were), it's how badly he sang them. That said, you're right, it was very common practice. In fact Sting did it comparatively recently, enlisting Zucchero Fornaciari for an Italian version of Mad About You in 1992.
(It is the nature of Sting lyrics that they can only be improved, however.)
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