Monthly Archives: December 2017

“Running Up That Hill” released by Placebo [Kate Bush cover]

It doesn’t hurt me.
You wanna feel how it feels?
You wanna know, know that it doesn’t hurt me?
You wanna hear about the deal I’m making?
You be running up that hill
You and me be running up that hill

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh…

You don’t want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I’m tearing you asunder.
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.
So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don’t we?

You, be running up that hill
You and me, be running up that hill
You and me won’t be unhappy.

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building,
If I only could, oh…

‘C’mon, baby, c’mon, c’mon, darling,
Let me steal this moment from you now.
C’mon, angel, c’mon, c’mon, darling,
Let’s exchange the experience, oh…’

And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems

If I only could, be running up that hill.



1 Comment

Filed under Lyrics

Excerpt from “The Cowboys” by William Dale Jennings

Anse inspected the trio as they padded toward the bar. They were sorry-looking specimens, greasy and filthy as buffalo skinners, and dressed in an almost clownish mixture of clothes to keep out the Montana winter. The tallest looked stupid and dirty, the young one with the oddly new-looking Stetson looked depraved and dirty, and the little long-haired one looked good and dirty. Leading them to the bar, he said, “You Wil Andersen?”
Wil didn’t look up. Anse asked, “What you want with Wil Andersen?”
“We hear tell he’s looking for hands, Mister Bar Dog.”
Anse’s nostrils quivered. There was nothing wrong with running a saloon. It was the way the little viper said it.
Without looking up, Wil said, “I got all the hands I need.”
Six eyes focused on him. The long-haired one said, “But the man down at the stable said you were in there not twenty minutes ago looking for cowhands, any size, any shape, any age.”
Wil neither answered nor looked at him. The cocky little man waited a moment, with eyes flashing. He shifted his weight to the other foot, put his hands on his hips, and began talking louder than a man should only a couple of feet away.
“Mister, you mean to say you found cowhands in Bozeman right in the middle of a gold strike?”
He smiled over his shoulder at his companions. His teeth were brilliant white.
“Must have got himself some drunk Injuns.”
Still smiling, Long Hair looked up at Wil and began tapping the big man’s arm for emphasis as he spoke.
“Tell you what, old friend, I’ll make you a real good deal. Me and my partners here’ll go on your drive with you, and we won’t ask a cent of pay.”
Wil looked thoughtfully down at the forefinger tapping his arm. The young man continued enthusiastically.
“Honest fact is, we’d take mighty kindly to a couple months of your Charlie Nightlinger’s chuck. Hear tell he’s real good with the pots and pans, and we ain’t had a real meal all winter long. Now, if that ain’t the best offer you had all year, I don’t know what is!”
With a toss of the head, he whipped a strand of hair back over his shoulder. Then his eyes settled fondly on the bottle in front of Wil.
“Now, old friend, we’d be mighty obliged to seal the bargain with a small libation.”
Anse whacked the cork into the bottle with the palm of his hand. It was a familiar gesture.
The short man’s smile vanished. Then suddenly he turned to Wil Andersen with a generous smile, as if nothing had happened. “Well, what do you say, old friend? When do we start?”
Wil spoke to his glass. “I got all the hands I need right now.”
Long Hair refused to let go the smile. “But we’re gonna work for free!”
Wil looked him up and down with his quiet eyes. “Son, I accept the value a man sets on himself. Nobody gets nothing worth having free!”
Long Hair’s smile vanished. It left eyes that glittered like broken glass.
Wil took in all three of them. “I do need hands. Only not that bad.”
Long Hair couldn’t seem to believe his ears. His eyes were blank with rage. He shouted up at the taller man: “What did you just say, old coot?
Wil looked at him quietly. His gray gaze was cool as a cougar’s. He spoke quietly. “I’d feel safer with the drunk Indians.”
Long Hair controlled his range for only a moment. He whipped out his gun. His friends drew, too. They all stood ready, with feet apart.
They looked might dangerous. But nothing happened. The cool gray gaze never wavered.
Wil heard Anse moving behind him. He stepped aside. The three young gunmen found themselves looking into the black eyes of a double-barreled shotgun lying across the bar. It would take in all three of them with one blast.
Long Hair was the last to put his gun away. He glared up at Wil a moment, then suddenly showed all his fine teeth in a glowing smile. “I feel like I just had a real close call, and I don’t mean that old shotgun, neither. I almost tied in with a man that’s too damn old to know when he’s lucky. He ain’t for me, no ,sir!”
Then came the surprise. Wil Andersen stepped back in front of the shotgun and poked his forefinger in Long Hair’s chest. The force of the jab made the smaller man step back to keep his balance. For an instant he looked surprised; then he looked at the floor and gave a little shrug, as if he were smiling at himself.
Wil said, “Get out of Bozeman. Right now.”

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction, Literature

“God of Wine” released by Third Eye Blind

Every thought that I repent
There’s another chip you haven’t spent
And you’re cashing them all in
Where do we begin to get clean again
Can we get clean again

I walk home alone with you
And the mood you’re born into
Sometimes you let me in
And I take it on the chin
I can’t get clean again
I want to know, can we get clean again

The god of wine comes crashing through the headlights of a car
That took you farther than you thought you’d ever want to go
We can’t get back again
We can’t get back again
She takes a drink and then she waits
The alcohol it permeates
And soon the cells give way, and cancels out the day

I can’t keep it all together
I know, I know, I know, I know
I can’t keep it all together
And the siren’s song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can’t erase
All alone on your face

Every glamorous sunrise
Throws the planets out of line
A star sign out of whack, a fraudulent zodiac
And the God of Wine is crouched down in my room
You let me down, I said it, now I’m going down
And you’re not even around
And I said no no no …

I can’t keep it all together
I know, I know, I know, I know
I can’t keep it all together
And there’s a memory of a window
Looking through I see you
Searching for something I could never give you
And there’s someone who understands
You more than I do
A sadness I can’t erase
All alone on your face


1 Comment

Filed under Lyrics

Excerpt from “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Brontë ~~Rochester~~

We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the large fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still, save the subdued chat of Adèle (she dared not speak loud), and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.

Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern—much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

“You examine me, Miss Eyre,” said he: “do you think me handsome?”

I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware—“No, sir.”

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction, Literature

Dialogue from Film – “Amélie” ~~Tin box~~

Every Tuesday morning, Dominique Bretodeau goes to buy a chicken.
He usually roasts it and has it with sauté potatoes.
After carving the legs, the breast and the wings, he loves picking the hot carcass with his fingers, starting with the oysters.
But not today.
Bretodeau won’t buy a chicken.
He’ll go no further than this phone booth here.

Bretodeau is seen walking down the street, and looks to the phone booth wherein the phone is ringing.
He looks around, somewhat bewildered at a phone ringing in a public booth. No one else shows any interest.
He turns back to it, and with some hesitation, moves toward the booth, opening the door and entering within. It rings again, he reaches for the phone and brings it to his ear.
The shot switches to Amélie, who quickly puts her phone down.
Bretodeau is surprised to hear no one there, and puts the phone back on the hook.
He glances down and sees an aged and worn metal box. It is orange in colour and bears the name ‘Bergamottes de Nancy Lefevre Georges’; it is an old candy box.
Amelie looks on from her vantage point.
He gives it a little shake, hearing the sound of some contents within.
Is it familiar?
He opens it, sees a photograph of a football player, and a stunned realization crosses his face.
He looks around quickly, looking outside the booth . . .
Amélie continues to watch, her breath fogging the glass at the window.
He looks back at the box, draws the photo aside, revealing various items, clearly treasures from his childhood. He grabs the toy cyclist, and chokes back sudden tears.

In a flash, it all came back to him.
. . . . . . . . . .

Bretodeau leaves the phone booth and enters the café, where Amélie is standing at the counter.

Cognac, please
It’s amazing, what just happened to me.
It must be my guardian angel.
It’s the only explanation.
It was as if the phone booth was calling me.
It rang and rang.

Bretodeau takes his cognac with vigour.

Same here. The microwave’s calling me.

I’ll have another cognac.

He looks about the bar, somewhat shaken by the events.
He notices Amélie.

Life’s strange.
To a kid, time always drags.
Suddenly you’re 50.
All that’s left of your childhood, fits in a little box, a little rusty box.
Have you got kids, miss?

Amélie, half looking away, shakes her head, no.

I have a daughter.
She must be about your age.
We haven’t spoken for years.
I heard she had a child, a boy.
His name is Lucas.
I think it’s time I looked them up before I’m in a box myself.
Don’t you think?

Amélie quickly drains her drink, as does Bretodeau.

1 Comment

Filed under Dialogue

Excerpt from “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens ~~Past~~

A Retrospect
Sol Eytinge

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.
“It matters little,” she said softly. “To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and, if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”
“What Idol has displaced you?” he rejoined.
“A golden one.”
“This is the even-handed dealing of the world!” he said. “There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!”
“You fear the world too much,” she answered gently. “All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?”
“What then?” he retorted. “Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.”
She shook her head.
“Am I?”
“Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made you were another man.”
“I was a boy,” he said impatiently.
“Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,” she returned. “I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you.”
“Have I ever sought release?”
“In words. No. Never.”
“In what, then?”
“In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us,” said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him, “tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!”
He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition in spite of himself. But he said, with a struggle, “You think not.”
“I would gladly think otherwise if I could,” she answered. “Heaven knows! When I have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl—you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.”
He was about to speak; but, with her head turned from him, she resumed.
“You may—the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will—have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!”
She left him, and they parted.
“Spirit!” said Scrooge, “show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?”

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction, Literature

Excerpt from “Papillon” by Henri Charrière ~~Escape~~

We took the two rafts out of the cave. And straight away all three of us were soaked to the skin. The wind was blowing with the particular howl of a strong gale coming right in from the offing. Sylvain and Chang helped me shove my raft to the top of the rock. At the last moment I decided to chain my left wrist to the rope binding the sacks. All at once I was afraid of losing my hold and being swept away without them. Sylvain got up on to the opposite rock, helped by Chang. The moon was high now and we could see very well.
I had rolled a towel round my head. There were six waves to be waited for. Only a few minutes left now. Chang had come back to my side. He hugged me round the neck and then kissed me. He was going to lie there wedged in an angle of the rock and grip my legs to help me withstand’ the shock of Lisette’s breaking.
‘Only one morel’ shouted Sylvain. ‘Then we’re away.’ He was standing in front of his raft so as to protect it from the mass of water that was about to sweep over it. I was in the same position and in addition I had Chang’s hands to hold me firm – in his excitement he had driven his nails into the flesh of my calf.
Lisette came for us, driving in as tall as a steeple. She broke on our two rocks with her usual enormous crash and rushed up the side of the cliff.
I flung myself in a fraction of a second before my friend: he was in immediately after, and it was with the two rafts tight against one another that Lisette swept us racing out to sea. In less than five minutes we were more than three hundred yards from the shore. Sylvain had not yet climbed up on to his raft. I’d got on to mine within two minutes. Chang had hurried up to Dreyfus’s seat, and he was waving a scrap of white cloth – his last farewell. Now it was a good five minutes that we had been beyond the dangerous zone where the waves formed to drive right in for Devil’s Island. Those that we were now riding were much longer, they had almost no foam, and they were so regular that we drifted along as though we were part of them; we were not tossed about and the rafts did not attempt to capsize. We rose and fell upon these great rollers, slowly moving out into the offing, for this was the ebb.
Once again, as I reached the top and turned my head right round, I caught a last glimpse of Chang’s white handkerchief. Sylvain was not far from me – perhaps fifty yards farther out to sea. Several times he held up his arm and waved it by way of showing triumph and delight.

1 Comment

Filed under Fiction, Literature, Non-Fiction