Rusted Angel [week 21]

Rusted Angel - Darkane

Assembled from bits of other creatures
Created not born
Not having to age beyond recognition
I have no soul
Arrogance and ignorance
A useful tool to destroy those with faith
I despise everything. And will annihilate you all
Crucify and justify. The ones who won't follow
In your eyes I see your demise
I am the superior sovereign. Creator of pain
Dressed in sin. Filled with wrath
Vengeful is my vein
Floods of hate boiling distress
Follow the journey to my dark side
See the human remains cover the ground
I feel no guilt for this genocide
Praising true evil with blooded thoughts
Swearing faithfulness to the dishonest
Nourish my lust for immolation
I represent your devastation

Assembled from bits of creatures
Created not born
Not having to age beyond recognition
I have no soul
In this chaos no one is free to do what he pleases
Watching the sky above. But praying to those below
Hunting for my daily rage. See the rising slavement
Using lies to fulfill my dreams
I am the superior sovereign. Creator of pain
Dressed in sin. Filled with wrath
Vengeful is my vein
Floods of hate boiling distress
Follow the journey to my dark side
See the human remains cover the ground
I feel no guilt for this genocide
Praising true evil with blooded thoughts
Swearing faithfulness to the dishonest
Nourish my lust for immolation I represent your devastation
I am the superior sovereign. Creator of pain
Dressed in sin. Filled with wrath
Vengeful is my vein
No compassion for the mortal

Bathwater [week 20]

Bathwater - No Doubt

You and your museum of lovers
The precious collection you've housed in your covers
My simpleness threatened by my own admission

And the bags are much too heavy
In my insecure condition
My pregnant mind is fat full with envy again

But I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn't love another
I can't help it...you're my kind of man

Wanted and adored by attractive women
Bountiful selection at your discretion
I know I'm diving into my own destruction

So why do we choose the boys that are naughty?
I don't fit in so why do you want me?
And I know I can't tame you...but I just keep trying

'Cause I love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn't love another
I'm on your list with all your other women
But I still love to wash in your old bathwater
You make me feel like I couldn't love another
I can't help it...you're my kind of man

Why do the good girls always want the bad boys?

So I pacify problems with kisses and cuddles
Diligently doubtful through all kinds of trouble
Then I find myself choking on all my contradictions

'Cause I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn't love another
Share a toothbrush...you're my kind of man
I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Make me feel like I couldn't love another
I can't help it...you're my kind of man

No I can't help myself
I can't help myself
I still love to wash in your old bathwater

Harpies Bizarre [week 19]

not finished.. this is just a rough. it'll be a month or so before i'm all caught up i think.



Harpies Bizarre - Elvis Costello

He selects the plainest face form a spiteful row of girls
Elegant insulted women, a flaw of cultured pearls
He drops a name or two, she fails to catch
At last he's met his match
Unspoiled and unaffected, he wants her so much
She puts up half-hearted resistance, like she was taught to do
She's heard some of those small town playboys but this is
something new
His promise seems dangerous, she'd like to believe
He says "You'd better leave"
"You've only got yourself to blame, shame, or deceive"

The waiting lines are long
They never get too far
Everyone wearing that medal with pride
Harpies Bizarre

I looked on but hesitated
I failed to interrupt
You're so hard to tell the truth to
So easy to corrupt
I'll memorize your face
Your tragic smile
The hurt look in your eyes
As you betrayed yourself to the part of him that dies

The waiting lines are long
They never get too far
They're shining up their shoes to kick a falling star
You think you should be somebody
But you don't know who you are
Everyone wearing that medal with pride
Harpies Bizarre

invece il cento c’è [week 18]

this is a little change of pace. not a song, but a poem, by Loris Malaguzzi. There is an english translation below, but if you dont understang italian, i still recommend you read the original as it has a great pace. if you're alone or not self conscious, try reading it out loud, the words slip readily off the tongue.

this is a rough, i'll have the final one up when the midterm heat cools a little.



invece il cento c’è

Il bambino
è fatto di cento.
Il bambino ha
cento lingue
cento mani
cento pensieri
cento modi di pensare
di giocare e di parlare
cento sempre cento
modi di ascoltare
di stupire di amare
cento allegrie
per cantare e capire
cento mondi
da scoprire
cento mondi
da inventare
cento mondi
da sognare.
Il bambino ha
cento lingue
(e poi cento cento cento)
ma gliene rubano novantanove.
Gli dicono:
di pensare senza mani
di fare senza testa
di ascoltare e di non parlare
di capire senza allegrie
di amare e di stupirsi
solo a Pasqua e a Natale.
Gli dicono:
di scoprire il mondo che già c’è
e di cento
gliene rubano novantanove.
Gli dicono:
che il gioco e il lavoro
la realtà e la fantasia
la scienza e l’immaginazione
il cielo e la terra
la ragione e il sogno
sono cose
che non stanno insieme.
Gli dicono insomma
che il cento non c’è.
Il bambino dice:
invece il cento c’è.





The Hundred Languages of Children

No way.
The hundred is there.
The child is made of one hundred.
The child has a hundred languages
a hundred hands
a hundred thoughts
a hundred ways of thinking
of playing, of speaking.
a hundred, always a hundred
ways of listening
of marveling, of loving
a hundred joys
for singing and understanding
a hundred worlds to discover
a hundred worlds to invent
a hundred worlds to dream.
The child has a hundred languages
(and a hundred hundred hundred more)
but they steal ninety-nine.
The school and the culture
separate the head from the body.
They tell the child to think without hands
to do without head
to listen and not to speak
to understand without joy
to love and to marvel
only at Easter and Christmas.
They tell the child
to discover the world already there
and of the hundred
they steal ninety-nine.
They tell the child
that work and play
reality and fantasy
science and imagination
sky and earth
reason and dream
are things
that do not belong together.
And thus they tell the child
that the hundred is not there.
The child says
“No way – The hundred is there.”

Loris Malaguzzi
(translated by Lella Gandini)