I love jazz because of its allowance for poetic atrocities:
You’re the top!
You’re Mahatma Gandhi.
You’re the top!
You’re Napoleon Brandy.
You’re the purple light
Of a summer night in Spain,
You’re the National Gallery
You’re Garbo’s salary,
You’re turkey dinner,
You’re the time, the time of a Derby winner
I’m a toy balloon that’s fated soon to pop
But if, baby, I’m the bottom,
You’re the top!
-Ella Fitzgerald, “You’re the Top”. It’s what I call ‘Italian Restaurant Music’.
Who wants to hear that they’re cellophane? I’m not too sure, but this type of poetic liberty is appealing. I often sit in class, willing myself to not write poetry. Sometimes I cave and do so anyways; sitting and looking out the windows at the castles and mountaintops breaks down my abstemiousness, even though I know that listening to everything is better for me. It starts off in my head. I usually get anywhere from 2-8 lines drafted out in my head before I set my pen to the page. That’s how I write most of my quatrains. I rarely write out the first line until I’ve found a fourth line to complement the second line. I like to keep it all malleable in my brain until I know just what it’s going to look like. It’s like stalling for a rhyme isn’t dignified. I have no idea why I write this way.
I love being in this family. I think it’s one of the best possible experience for me. The other night at supper we were discussing what makes religions different than cults. My raised-Catholic-now-atheist Papa’s exact words were:
“Pour moi, le mot magique c’est la liberté. Quand tu n’as pas la liberté du penser ou de faire, alors tu mets tes chausseurs et COURS!”
For the French-illiterate:
For me, the magic word is freedom. When you don’t have freedom of thought, of doing, then you put on your shoes and RUN!
It’s true. It comes down to freedom. For me, I’ve come to a place where I’ve found myself unwilling to accept the entirety of my religion. I will not be robbed of my freedom to think things through and come to my own conclusions. That’s something I’m never going to give up. To anyone.
To borrow from Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, “I know zoos are no longer in people’s good graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both.”
My pops here told me that chocolate is his religion, and pulled out the Toblerone. With all the seriousness that my owl-eyes could muster, I replied, “Moi aussi! Je changerai mon religion!” (me too, I’m going to convert!) Apparently if you eat too much chocolate, it’s bad for you liver, and you can die young. However, drinking wine circumvents that risk. Very well then, chocolate and wine will be my religion.
This is my piano. She is beautiful.
Yesterday night I told my family how whenever I skype any of my family members, all I ever say is “I LOVE MY FAMILY HERE SO MUCH!” The only thing I ever EVER want is more hugs… I love my family. As I blog right now, my parents are making supper together. I love them so much. The other day, he brought her roses. No anniversary, birthday, nothing. She’s been sick for a little while and he wants her to get better. Awe… I love watching them. They’re cute. I love watching them pour themselves another glass of wine and sit at the supper table, when the kids have left and are rumbling around the house, and they sit there and talk, before cleaning the kitchen together. Yes. They clean the kitchen together. The other day I told them how luxurious it was here. I get to be a kid! WOOHOO! It’s awesome!
I find it weird that the kids who are given this type of a life -where the maximum amount of work they ever have to do it load the dishwasher or vacuum their rooms- don’t really notice how awesome it is. I mean you get your life handed to you! Think of the possibilities! Think of how many hours you could put in on your instruments like this! woohoo!
My brother came and showed me swiss money from 17 hundred and something, and I reminded him that Canada was born way back then. The truth is: only the name and corporation of Canada was born back then. Before that the land belonged to its hunter-gathering inhabitants. “Canada” as we know it is only a long-term compilation of misplaced Europeans.
Daddy didn’t like what the white man said,
’bout the dirty little kid at his side.
Daddy didn’t like what the white man did,
nor the deal or the way that he lied.
There was blood on the floor of the government store,
when the men took his daddy away,
but the boy stayed back till he’d come to his end,
then he run like the wind from Cherokee Bend.
The other day I saw girl wearing another one of those t-shirts with an Indian on the front. They’re common here. They think nothing of it. In Canada these could be considered racial. The irony of it struck me. They have probably never set foot in a Native trading post on an day-long hour drive north. They have no points of reference about these sorts of things.