Monthly Archives: November 2013

“I’m Going Home” released by Rocky Horror Picture Show

On the day I went away…


Was all I had to say…

Now I…

I want to come again, and stay.

Oh, my, my…

Smile, and that will mean I may.

`Cause I’ve seen, oh, blue skies
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realize, I’m going home.

I’m going home.

Everywhere it’s been the same…


…like I’m outside in the rain…


…free to try and find a game…


…cards for sorrow, cards for pain.

`Cause I’ve seen, oh, blue skies
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realize, I’m going home.
I’m going home.
I’m going home.
I’m going home.




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Excerpt from “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” by J. K. Rowling ~~Sorting Hat~~

picture-HarryPotterPhilosophersStone-Rowling‘Potter, Harry!’
As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
Potter, did she say?’
The Harry Potter?’
The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the Hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.
‘Hmm,’ said a small voice in his ear. ‘Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting … So where shall I put you?’
Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, ‘Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.’
‘Not Slytherin, eh?’ said the small voice. ‘Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that – no? Well, if you’re sure – better be GRYFFINDOR!’
Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole Hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily towards the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, ‘We got Potter! We got Potter!’


Filed under Fiction, Literature

Excerpt from “The Comedians” by Graham Greene ~~Pool~~

picture-Comedians-GreeneI mounted the steps again to the Hotel Trianon. ‘A centre of Haitian intellectual life. A luxury hotel which caters equally for the connoisseur of good food and the lover of local customs. Try the special drinks made from the finest Haitian rum, bathe in the luxurious swimming-pool, listen to the music of the Haitian  drum and watch the Haitian dancers. Mingle with the élite of Haitian intellectual life, the musicians, the poets, the painters who find at the Hotel Trianon a social centre . . .’ The tourist brochure had been nearly true once.
I felt under the bar and found an electric torch. I went through the lounge to my office, the desk covered with old bills and receipts. I had not expected a client, but even Joseph was not there. What a homecoming, I thought, what a homecoming. Below the office was the bathing-pool. About this hour the cocktail guests should have been arriving from other hotels in the town. Few in the good days drank anywhere else but the Trianon, except for those who were booked on round tours and chalked everything up. The Americans always drank dry martinis. By midnight some of them would be swimming in the pool naked. Once I had looked out of my window at two in the morning. There was a great yellow moon and a girl was making love in the pool. She had her breasts pressed against the side and I couldn’t see the man behind her. She didn’t notice me watching her; she didn’t notice anything. That night I thought before I slept, ‘I have arrived.’
I heard steps in the garden coming up from the direction of the swimming-pool, the broken steps of a man limping. Joseph had always limped since his encounter with the Tontons Macoute. I was about to go out on the verandah to meet him when I looked again at my desk. There was something missing. All the bills were there which had accumulated in my absence, but where was the small brass paper-weight shaped like a coffin, marked with the letters R.I.P., that I bought for myself one Christmas in Miami? It had no value, it had cost me two dollars seventy-five cents, but it was mine and it amused me and it was no longer there. Why should things change in our absence? Even Martha had changed her scent. The more unstable life is the less one likes the small details to alter.
I went out on to the verandah to meet Joseph. I could see his light as it corkscrewed along the curving path from the pool.
‘Is it you, Monsieur Brown?’ he called up nervously.
‘Of course it’s me. Why weren’t you here when I arrived? Why have you left my suitcases . . . ?’
He stood below me looking up with a sick expression on his black face.
‘Madame Pineda gave me a lift. I want you to drive back with her into the town. You can return on the bus. Is the gardener here?’
‘He go away.’
‘The cook?’
‘He go away.’
‘My paper-weight? What’s happened to my paper-weight?’
He looked at me as though he didn’t understand.
‘Have there been no guests at all since I left?’
‘No, monsieur. Only . . .’
‘Only what?’
‘Four nights ago Doctor Philipot he come here. He say tell nobody.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I tell him no stay here. I tell him the Tontons Macoute look for him here.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He stay all the same. Then the cook go away and the gardener go away. They say they come back when he go. He very sick man. That’s why he stay. I say go to the mountain, but he say no walk, no walk. His feet they swell bad. I tell him go before you come back.’
‘It’s the hell of a mess for me to come back to,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to him. Which room is he in?’
‘When I hear the car, I call to him – Tontons, get out quick. He very tired. He not want to go. He say “I be old man.” I tell him Monsieur Brown he ruined if they find you here along. All same for you, I say, if Tontons find you in the road, but Monsieur Brown he ruined if they catch you here. I tell him I go and talk to them. He go out then quick quick. But it was only that stupid taxi-man with the luggage . . . So I run tell him.’
‘What are we going to do with him, Joseph? Doctor Philipot was not a bad man as government officials go. He had even during his first year of office made some attempt to improve the conditions of the shanty-town along the waterfront; they had built a water-pump, with his name on a stamped cast-iron label, at the bottom of the Rue Desaix, but the pipes had never been connected because the contractors had not received a proper rake-off.
‘When I go in his room he not there any more.’
‘Do you think he’s made for the mountain?’
‘No, Monsieur Brown, not the mountain,’ Joseph said. He stood below me with his head bowed. ‘I think he gone done a very wicked thing.’ He added in a low voice the inscription on my paper-weight, ‘Requiescat In Pace ,’ for Joseph was good Catholic as well as a good Voodooist. ‘Please, Monsieur Brown, come with me.’
I followed him down the path to the bathing-pool in which I had seen the pretty girl making love, once, in another epoch, in the golden age. It was empty of water now. My torch lit the shallows and a litter of leaves.
‘Other end,’ Joseph told me, standing quite still, not going any nearer. Doctor Philipot must have walked up to the narrow cave of shadow made by the diving-plank, and now he lay in a crouched position below it with his knees drawn towards his chin, a middle-aged foetus ready dressed for burial in his neat grey suit. He had cut his wrists first, and then his throat to make sure. Above the head was the dark circle of the pipe. We had only to turn on the water to wash the blood away; he had been as considerate as possible. He could not have been dead for more than a few minutes.

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Excerpt from “Letters of the Great Artists” by Richard Friedenthal ~~Matisse – Painting~~


 Vence, 14 February 1948

. . . The few exhibitions that I have had the opportunity of seeing during these last years make me fear that the young painters are avoiding the slow and painful preparation which is necessary for the education of any contemporary painter who claims to construct by colour alone.
The slow and painful work is indispensable. Indeed, if gardens were not dug over at the proper time, they would soon be good for nothing. Do we not first have to clear, and then cultivate, the ground at each season of the year?
When an artist does not know how to prepare his flowering period, by work which bears little resemblance to the final result, he has a short future before him; or when an artist has ‘arrived’ no longer feels the necessity of getting back to earth from time to time, he begins to go round in circles repeating himself, until by this very repetition, his curiosity is extinguished.
An artist must possess Nature. He must identify himself with her rhythm, by efforts that will prepare the mastery which will later enable him to express himself in his own language.
The future painter must feel what is useful for his development – drawing or even sculpture – everything that will let him become one with Nature, identify himself with her, by entering into the things – which is what I call Nature – that arouse his feelings. I believe study by means of drawing is most essential. If drawing is of the Spirit and colour of the Senses, you must draw first, to cultivate the spirit and to be able to lead colour into spiritual paths. That is what I want to cry aloud, when I see the work of the young men for whom painting is no longer an adventure, and whose only goal is the impending first one-man show which will first start them on the road to fame.
It is only after years of preparation that the young artist should touch colour – not colour as description, that is, but as a means of intimate expression. Then he can hope that all the images, even all the symbols, which he uses, will be the reflection of his love for things, a reflection in which he can have confidence if he has been able to carry out his education, with purity, and without lying to himself. Then he will employ colour with discernment. He will place it in accordance with a natural design, unformulated and completely concealed, that will spring directly from his feelings; this is what allowed Toulouse-Lautrec, at the end of his life, to exclaim, ‘At last, I do not know how to draw any more.’
The painter who is just beginning thinks that he paints from his heart. The artist who has completed his development also thinks that he paints from his heart. Only the latter is right, because his training and discipline allow him to accept impulses that he can, at least partially, conceal. . . .

Seated Odalisque, Left Knee Bent, Ornamental Background and Checkerboard, 1928

Seated Odalisque, Left Knee Bent, Ornamental Background and Checkerboard, 1928

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The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde released by Georgie Fame

Bonnie and Clyde were pretty lookin’ people
But I can tell you people
They were the devil’s children,
Bonnie and Clyde began their evil doin’
One lazy afternoon down Savannah way,
They robbed a store, and high-tailed outa that town
Got clean away in a stolen car,
And waited till the heat died down,
Bonnie and Clyde advanced their reputation
And made the graduation
Into the banking business.
“Reach for the sky” sweet-talking Clyde would holler
As Bonnie loaded dollars in the dewlap bag,
Now one brave man-he tried to take ’em alone
They left him Iyin’ in a pool of blood,
And laughed about it all the way home.
Bonnie and Clyde got to be public enemy number one
Running and hiding from ev’ry American lawman’s gun.
They used to laugh about dyin’,
But deep inside ’em they knew
That pretty soon they’d be lyin’
Beneath the ground together
Pushing up daisies to welcome the sun
And the morning dew.
Acting upon reliable information
A fed’ral deputation laid a deadly ambush.
When Bonnie and Clyde came walking in the sunshine
A half a dozen carbines opened up on them.
Bonnie and Clyde, they lived a lot together
And finally together they died.



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Excerpt from “Ball of Fire” by Fred Trueman ~~300~~

picture-BallOfFire-TruemanI was held responsible and got dropped for the next Test – three short of the 300. They picked Fred Rumsey and John Price for Old Trafford and the Aussies set about them with murderous ease. Bobby Simpson scored 316 at the head of a queue of happy Australian batsmen. As for me, I had a quiet laugh wondering what was going through the minds of the selectors.

They couldn’t blame me that time. But I was furious when a newspaper printed a picture of me, pint in hand, laughing my head off. I don’t suppose the selectors bothered to check, but it had actually been taken three years earlier in Australia. Largely because they had no option, they recalled me to the Oval.

England batted first in that match, and our batsmen failed once again. And when I tried to get amongst the Aussies nothing went right. Two or three catches were put down off me, I was taken off and I thought that I might not make it after all. Just before lunch on the Saturday I saw Ted Dexter standing at the wicket looking a bit vacant, ball in hand. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he was thinking of putting Peter Parfitt on to bowl. I said, ‘No, you’re not,’ took the ball off him and put myself on. There was time for one over before lunch and with the fifth delivery I knocked back the middle stump of Ian Redpath. With the sixth and last I had Graham McKenzie caught at slip.

Just two balls had brought me out of disgrace. Now they were all clapping and cheering as I went back to the pavilion, on a hat trick for my 300th Test wicket. The news was spread by radio and television (which broke into its scheduled programmes to stay with the match) and the Oval was packed when we came out again. When my turn came I remembered that occasion twelve years previously when I so desperately wanted to take a wicket with my very first ball in Test cricket. The same feeling swept over me, only multiplied ten times.

Neil Hawke, an old pal, faced up to me. Before he did so he said: ‘Well, F.S., I wouldn’t mind being the 300th I suppose.’ I tried like hell to make the fairy story come true, but I hadn’t bowled for forty minutes, which didn’t help. The ball went just wide of his off stump. I’d aimed at off and middle. The suspense went on until we took the new ball when, in my first over, I whipped down an outswinger – my favourite delivery – and Neil edged it into the hands of Colin Cowdrey at slip. Neil was the first to congratulate me. To mark the event I gave him a bottle of champagne and it’s still on his sideboard in Adelaide, untouched.

A lot of people have asked me what went through my mind at that moment and they are always surprised when I tell them: the next wicket. There was another one to get, and I wanted it. I took it in the next over.

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Excerpt from “Ordinary Heroes” by Barry Dickins ~~Ray Wheeler~~

picture-OrdinaryHeroes-DickinsWe worked around the docks for a while. We actually met up with a German submarine that came in, and they were quite free with us, talked all about the war. They wouldn’t believe us when we told them how we’d been treated. They believed the propaganda – they’d been shown some propaganda films. I took part in two of those films up the railway. They issued us with new clothes and filmed us in a room with a table full of fruit. Then, as soon as we went out of the room, we had to give the clothes back, and even the fruit. We weren’t allowed to eat it. So I ate my banana as I walking past the camera – they couldn’t stop me then! (Triumphantly.) Another time the Japs issued us with good-quality utensils like shovels, and we had to march past out the gate singing cheerfully. And the song we sang was the unexpurgated version of ‘Bless Them All!’ About two days later they were back for a re-shoot, and they were hopping mad . . .

Anyway, one day one of the German officers came over and looked at what we were eating at lunchtime – it was about half a cup of rice with a bit of dried fish, complete with various insects that were around in the rice – and he just tipped it over the end of the pier, went back and came back with dark bread, brown bread, coffee – stuff that we hadn’t tasted for years. They fed us for about two or three days while we were working unloading ships for the navy.

Then this day one of their crew members was sitting on the mooring bollard down near the submarine, just dressed in a shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, and down the wharf, coming towards us, was a Japanese major – only a little bloke; his sword was that long it was nearly draggin’ on the ground – and he goes up to this German bloke and tells him to get to work! He said about twenty or thirty words in Japanese, but this bloke off the submarine didn’t understand what he was saying. He just sat there and looked at him. He said. ‘Perdon? I’m on the sub!’ And the Jap went whack! whack! on both his cheeks. And the German stood up and let one punch go and decked ‘im! It was beautiful to behold (beams) but the next day the sub was moved somewhere else, and we had to go back to our old rations.

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