{"id":7931,"date":"2010-10-29T06:15:12","date_gmt":"2010-10-29T10:15:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7931"},"modified":"2010-10-29T06:09:27","modified_gmt":"2010-10-29T10:09:27","slug":"et-ce-nest-pas-bon-ma","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/10\/et-ce-nest-pas-bon-ma\/","title":{"rendered":"Et \u00c7e N’est Pas Bon, Ma<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/p>\n

[Image taken from a full photographic composition<\/a> by Brandon Voges of the Bruton Stroube<\/a> studio; see the note<\/a> at the bottom of this post for more information.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

Picnic, Lightning<\/strong><\/p>\n

My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident<\/span>
\n(picnic, lightning) when I was three.<\/span>
\n— Lolita<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

It is possible to be struck by a meteor
\nor a single-engine plane
\nwhile reading in a chair at home.
\nSafes drop from rooftops
\nand flatten the odd pedestrian
\nmostly within the panels of the comics,
\nbut still, we know it is possible,
\nas well as the flash of summer lightning,
\nthe thermos toppling over,
\nspilling out on the grass.<\/p>\n

And we know the message
\ncan be delivered from within.
\nThe heart, no valentine,
\ndecides to quit after lunch,
\nthe power shut off like a switch,
\nor a tiny dark ship is unmoored
\ninto the flow of the body’s rivers,
\nthe brain a monastery,
\ndefenseless on the shore.<\/em><\/p>\n

This is what I think about
\nwhen I shovel compost
\ninto a wheelbarrow,
\nand when I fill the long flower boxes,
\nthen press into rows
\nthe limp roots of red impatiens —
\nthe instant hand of Death
\nalways ready to burst forth
\nfrom the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.<\/p>\n

Then the soil is full of marvels,
\nbits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,
\nred-brown pine needles, a beetle quick
\nto burrow back under the loam.
\nThen the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,
\nthe clouds a brighter white,<\/p>\n

and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge
\nagainst a round stone,
\nthe small plants singing
\nwith lifted faces, and the click
\nof the sundial
\nas one hour sweeps into the next.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins, from Sailing Alone Around the Room<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Expectations of goals and rewards (such as Enlightenment) are recognized for what they are: last-ditch attempts by the ghostly self to subvert the process to its own ends. The more we become conscious of the mysterious unfolding of life, the clearer it becomes that its purpose is not to fulfill the expectations of our ego. We can put into words only the question it poses. And then let go, listen, and wait.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stephen Batchelor, from Buddhism Without Beliefs<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Everything is disappointing to those who read a lot. There’s no question that at no time in my life have I ever thought that life was as good as reading. And I haven’t had a bad life. What’s unusual about me is that most people I know who read to the extent that I do aren’t as precarious as I am.<\/p>\n

I am additionally a lounge lizard of tremendous proportion. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy life, I do. But I would rather read than have any kind of real life, like working, or being responsible. Reading prepares you for other reading, and possibly for writing, but, I’m happy to say, it certainly has nothing to do with real life. All the things that I never did because I was reading, so what? If someone said to me, how did you spend your life? I’d have to say, lying on the sofa reading.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Fran Lebowitz [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Your Punishment in Hell<\/strong><\/p>\n

Someone will douse a cobra in gasoline,
\nlight the sucker, and shove it headfirst
\ndown your throat. It’ll speed straight
\nthrough your esophagus, unfurl
\nits hood to fill your stomach
\nthen begin to strike and strike and strike
\nand strike and strike: fangs pierce
\nyour stomach, venom pours in,
\nthe little burn of incipient ulcers
\ngrows quick, paralysis sets in.
\nYour lungs stop before your brain,
\nbefore your hand, which lifts
\nto your mouth the plastic-lidded
\npaper cup holding the caramel
\nmacchiato cappuccino with a double
\nshot of espresso and frothed soy milk
\ntopped with two shakes of cinnamon
\nand no, NO (yes, you said no<\/em> twice)
\nsugar that was made for you
\nslowly, while I, already running late,
\nwaited behind you for a simple,
\nalready-made black coffee.
\nYou will lose all motion before
\nthat drink reaches your mouth,
\nbut you recover and the drink,
\nstrangely, has vanished, and barista
\nand cobra-douser-slash-lighter do it all again
\nand again. I know this because,
\nfor my angry impatience,
\nI am behind you in line in hell
\nforever, the pot of black coffee
\nbehind the counter steaming,
\nturning, I know, bitter.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Gary Leising)<\/p>\n

Wikipedia says<\/a> that Melanie Safka (or just plain “Melanie”) is “an American singer-songwriter,” which gets me off the hook for how to characterize her. (Left to myself, I was groping about in the murk of verbiage like “rock-folkie.”) Her 1971 “Look What They’ve Done to My Song” has a feel to it of a throwaway rinky-tink music-hall ditty, but it’s not a bad meditation on the horrors of clumsy, sometimes deliberate, misinterpretation. (Heck, expand the word song<\/em> to a metaphor for anything, including a whole life, and it even plays well with whiskey river<\/em>.)<\/p>\n

I had my choice of a gazillion videos here. I just liked the way the images in this one seem to invite connections to the lyrics, without forcing anything. (Lyrics below.)<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/p>\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

Look What They’ve Done to My Song<\/strong>
\n(Melanie Safka a\/k\/a “Melanie”)<\/em><\/p>\n

Look what they’ve done to my song, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song
\nWell it’s the only thing I could do half right
\nAnd it’s turning out all wrong, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

Look what they’ve done to my brain, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my brain
\nWell they picked it like a chicken bone
\nAnd I think I’m half insane, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

I wish I could find a good book to live in
\nWish I could find a good book
\nWell, if I could find a real good book
\nI’d never have to come out and look at
\nWhat they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

La la la…
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

But maybe it’ll all be all right, Ma
\nMaybe it’ll all be OK
\nWell, if the people are buying tears
\nI’ll be rich some day, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

Ils ont chang\u00e9 ma chanson, Ma
\nIls ont chang\u00e9 ma chanson
\nC’est la seule chose que je peux faire
\nEt \u00e7e n’est pas bon, Ma
\nIls ont chang\u00e9 ma chanson<\/em><\/p>\n

Look what they’ve done to my song, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song, Ma
\nWell they tied it up in a plastic bag
\nAnd turned it upside down, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p>\n

Ils ont chang\u00e9 ma chanson, Ma…<\/em><\/p>\n

Look what they’ve done to my song, Ma
\nLook what they’ve done to my song
\nWell it’s the only thing I could do all right
\nAnd they turned it upside down
\nLook what they’ve done to my song<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And boy howdy, if anybody knows how a song can get twisted around, it’s Melanie — as I realized not just in viewing the myriad YouTube covers of this song, but in reading about the “controversy” surrounding her biggest hit: “Brand New Key<\/a>.”<\/p>\n

_____________________________________<\/p>\n

<\/a>About the opening image:<\/strong> Photographer Brandon Voges took photographs of several people hanging upside-down by their ankles, and printed the images “right-side up.” I first read about this project here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

[back to top<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image taken from a full photographic composition by Brandon Voges of the Bruton Stroube studio; see the note at the bottom of this post for more information.] From whiskey river (italicized portion): Picnic, Lightning My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three. — Lolita It is possible to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1393,74,250,5,50,36,251],"tags":[1099,1141,2036,2037,2038,2039,2040,2041],"class_list":{"0":"post-7931","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","7":"category-music","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-language-writing_cat","11":"category-reading","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"tag-stephen-batchelor","14":"tag-billy-collins","15":"tag-brandon-voges","16":"tag-fran-lebowitz","17":"tag-gary-leising","18":"tag-melanie","19":"tag-melanie-safka","20":"tag-look-what-theyve-done-to-my-song","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-23V","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7931","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7931"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7931\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7934,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7931\/revisions\/7934"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7931"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7931"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7931"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}