Thursday, August 14, 2014

Something in You Strains to Remember, Could Almost Narrate Incinerated Bits of Prior Lives

Serendipity: Friend anne mentioned Mike Scott in a comment yesterday. I didn't know who she was referring to, what band she was referring to. I know a lot of music, there's way more music I don't know. I went to WFMU and typed Mike Scott into their search engine and came up with this which linked to this. I have heard of Mayfield's Mule, and I have heard these songs though if I heard them without knowing prior who the band is I don't think I could have pulled the name out of my head. Mike Scott was the bassist for Mayfield's Mule. I don't know if this is what anne was requesting, I'm actually pretty sure it isn't, but... I then clicked to the WFMU schedule to listen to Julie's Thursday morning 3AM-6AM show and discovered she's away, Micah filled-in, and in his second set he played the above. Blessed Serendipity, an aargh-free post.

UPDATE! Here is the song anne requested, it was obvious in her comment but I was dense.


Amy Gerstler

Let the dogs run the wet meadow.
Don't grumble unmapable sadness
at scouring pads of grey cloud abrading
the night sky. Quit fretting about the end
of everything while it's unfolding. Whining
turns the brain to molasses. Regret clogs
arteries. Born empty-handed, we gawk
at circling hawks, stuff ourselves
with bread and sex. Maybe we scream
or sing. Philosophers say we're made
of fire and smolder all our lives.
Then ash provides the most elegant
last transport imaginable. No need
for granite slabs or satin-lined coffins.
You'll waft over your old haunts
as key scenes play out below. Something
in you strains to remember, could almost
narrate incinerated bits of prior lives.
The dogs blazing across the drenched
meadow were once you and you them,
avid, chasing rabbits, as the garrulous
world drawled on and on and on. 


  1. poem is titled 'stoics'

    here are some wikiquotes from epictetus:

    Some things are in our control and others not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our own actions.

    Men are disturbed, not by things, but by the principles and notions which they form concerning things.

    It is the act of an ill-instructed man to blame others for his own bad condition; it is the act of one who has begun to be instructed, to lay the blame on himself; and of one whose instruction is completed, neither to blame another, nor himself.

  2. that's a different haunt , a different mike scott . /the inflection/voice was of mike scott,the waterboy in the band the waterboys , try - paris in the rain - waterboys - " beautiful is rain .. ", said sh' is not ..a loved one ..

    1. , i removed those comments of the two posts back that i was trying to comment on someth. of , too not complete, so clearly unclear in that not .., /i try to work and.. have the pleasure of looking in a little at a few links here ,all the odds of language links , then just comment to let you know that i was here , sometimes the comments get lost ,and i get distracted by work , then try to re write them ..and they come out too short ..not telling .. .

  3. perhaps if i had encountered mike scott/waterboys earlier in my life trajectory i would have become a big fan

    at youtube one finds a number of videos made for waterboy songs by metalgurumessiah

    right now i am enjoying another of his video creations to accompany a song - driver's seat - by sniff 'n' the tears' - a song from 1978 - very kinetic and saturday night

    1. i have no idea what you are on about with metal guru messia h ,?, charley . but we are all so different here aren't we , the charm of those from jacob's way .. was write well ,in varying ways ,but all so very different , of the boys , / one day i'll get to mentioning what links here move me the most ,in the little able to.. look ins .. , between disabled and work ,

    2. He came down to Paris
      in his seventeenth year
      high on himself
      in the numb dead of summer

      Looking for something
      realer than real
      richer than riches
      louder than thunder

      When he came to Paris in the rain
      high on the harvest
      of his beautiful brain
      how beautiful his brain

      September time
      trees full of leaves
      slowly turning gold
      and Arthur free

      he came down south
      high on the train
      summoned by the poet
      Paul Verlaine

      He slept in the squares
      sang in the rain
      rapped on doors
      and knew no shame

      Carrying lice
      he changed his name

      though the women were disgusted
      and the men damned his name

      But the boy was untouchable

      He came down to Paris
      singing je m'appelle voyant