If this was a truly, evenly schizo serious-fluffy journal, I would've spaced out lyrics and song and lyrics with something about. . . Idunno, my cavities or that funny swollen lymph node and the inequities of the American systems of marriage and insurance, bigotry, etc. But Lancelot is licking plastic and attacking spider plants, so it's time to buck up and post his lyrics, instead. I can carry a musical theme for five whole posts, see? Not bad, that.
Since we put up our shaky copy of "the Only Living Boy in Turlock," let's see if I can't persuade my lovely Lover to put up the first runs of Lancelot's Song and the Late-Afternoon Lullaby, while we're at it. . . Since, as I said, they're not at all the same without the music!
Edit: In fact, he was persuaded! Click here to hear Lance's song, and click here to hear the Late-Afternoon Lullaby--which is my favorite, I think, of these three.
And here're the lyrics:
Watch them, see them, hear them
Strange and loud and fuss and laugh and
Singing out loud in the sunshine
Sleeping too long in the dark
Tearing around in the Sunshine!
Running to and fro and
fro and to and to and fro and--
They tearing around in the sunshine
they Singing out loud in the dark
they Sleeping too long in the sunshine
And they call and grab and
clutch and hold and love and cry out--
all my names
They soaking all day in the sunshine
They tearing around in the dark
They singing out loud in the sunshine!
. . . .which would all make more sense if everyone knew our boy (The Boy, Shtinkertoy, Bunky, Lanceamaphone, Lance without Pants, Lancelot sans coulots, kitty fricasee, etc) and how we are with him. The lyrics are from his perspective; we were going for a sort of anthropological observation Lance-a-pot style.
Now, this one was to music Chris was going to pitch because he didn't like it (which I still can't believe). I told him it sounded like dapplied sunlight, late afternoon, and that I loved it, and he kept playing it for me but didn't really get what I meant 'til I sang the words for him. I think he likes it better, now. :)
On the side of some old desert road
Lying in the sand
Staring up at red rock cliff face
Hand in dusty hand
And we'll dream
Dappled sunlight through old birch trees
On a fading porch somewhere
You lying with your head in my lap
My hands in your hair
And we'll dream
Dream, dream, sweet dreams. . .
I'll sing to you
in a voice rough with age
And you'll play for me
hands old sweet and sage
And we'll dream
Sweet dreams . . .
. . . the first version of that I wrote (and lost) on a bus to Monterey on a zoology class field trip. Listening to a couple of girls in the seat ahead of me, one of whom actually happened to be a student of Chris'. In one breath criticizing him for her not participating in class, and in the next talking about dogs: "Eugh, I don't want a girl dog, girl dogs are so stupid. . . always having babies and stuff. . . " Hm.
Sometimes Turlock hurts. But that was a couple posts ago. The apricots are trickling in, now, and soon it'll be peaches. Out on the verandah, three of my five tomato plants are flowering or bearing green fruit (well, one of them is actually indoors on the desk in the War Room--doing better than a lot of the others, we get more sun there than outside, somehow), my radishes are growing, my bell pepper from last season, which has now self-resurrected from near death two or three times, may or may not produce something resembling buds, this year. Basil, parsley, chives, and cilantro, chervil from seeds, a few weak sprouts of pansies (also for food, also from seeds, also scraggly, also growing best on the desk, the touchy little bastards). . . Two cacti (a weak aloe, a strong little funky crossbreed that's sort've green and lavender), two kinds of columbines, two kinds of daisies, mums, azaleas, fuschia, most of which are in between bouts of flowering but looking happy. . . Inside (with one of the tomatoes and some of the pansies), two "tropical plants," two Wandering Jews, three Pothos, 8 spider plants in pots and 6 rooting in a bowl, two different kinds of ficus, and one pot of ivy. Most of which I/we cloned/rooted.
There is green everywhere.
Not bad for an apartment and verandah with difficult light!
It feels so, so good to be surrounded by plants.
Oh! And there's a green plant living in with the fish. I forgot about that one, since I consider it more like FishFish's pet, I suppose. Fishfish, who, a year and a half later, is still alive. Through fin rot and fussy eating. . . despite the white bubble growing on his head. . . That is one tough fish, there. That's why he's FishFish the Ferocious. Keep swimmin', FishFish.