That Strawberry Wine (Deana Carter)

Language: Portuguese

The husband and I went to my childhood home (from age 2 to 11) on the 4th of July. It wasn't the first time we'd been there; the first time was maybe two or three years ago, which is when I found out that the house I grew up in had been (briefly) a methamphetamine lab, then was bought and demolished by the neighbors. Now, you can't really even tell where it used to be. These neighbors had two daughters, considerably older than I, and one son who was a year younger, and who was, for all intents and purposes, my nemesis when I was a kid. We didn't ever actually hurt one another that I can recall, but we weren't friends, and there were fights. Unpleasantly, it turns out that he, the son, is still living in town there somewhere, which means that he's probably the one who's going to inherit the land when his folks kick, which seems grossly unfair to me. Not only does the neighbor family get to buy and knock down my old house, but then they give the land it used to sit on to Jared?

So but anyway. The town isn't much to look at -- it had about 150 people in it when I lived there, and is now down to about 125-130, depending on whose numbers you believe. But our old property used to be nice. There was a row of walnut trees along the west side of the property, and then a gigantic, ancient weeping willow in the front yard, in the northwest corner. A small patch of rhubarb in the middle of the back yard that we never did anything with, though I occasionally broke off a leaf to taste the stems, which tasted good. Sour-appley. A bunch of raspberry canes ran wild in the southwest corner, and were very very good when they got ripe -- I remember we used to collect bowls and bowls of them, and they were awesome. One or two mulberry trees on the southeast corner, which Dad cut down before we moved away, because when birds eat mulberries and then sit on Mom's clothesline, which birds are wont to do, they get purple bird poop all over whatever clothes are on the line.

There was also a crabapple tree by the rhubarb, which wasn't any good for eating, but provided things to throw at Jared (they had a tree in their yard too), and a few smallish lilac bushes on the east side of the house -- my main memory of the lilacs is that at some point, for reasons I maybe didn't even know at the time, Mom took me with her to break into a neighbor's house (oh yeah -- nobody locked their doors, but you should have guessed that) to leave a giant vase of lilacs on the neighbor's table. I don't even remember it being a neighbor we were especially friendly with, so it was kind of weird, and stuck in my mind. As far as I remember, it only happened the one time, too.

There was also a strawberry patch in the back yard, sort of in the center along the south side of the lawn. Like with the raspberries, when they ripened, they all ripened at once, and we used to have strawberries morning, noon and night for a week or so. They were awesome. Strawberries are bigger now than these were -- the huge mutant strawberries you can get in the grocery stores actually alarm me, sometimes -- but they're not any better. And God, I miss that kind of stuff, just having edible stuff just out growing in the yard, instead of getting them at the store. We didn't even have to work for the strawberries and raspberries, as far as I remember. They were just there.

What pisses me off is that none of this is still around: the neighbors not only bought the house to tear it down (which I understand it wasn't in the best shape anymore: despite what you may have heard, meth users aren't really fastidious house cleaners), but everything else got torn down at one time or another. The loss of the willow tree still pains me to think about, but that wasn't the neighbors, that was my uncle, who we sold the house to when we moved away, and he destroyed the tree rather than clean up the fallen branches. And Dad did the mulberries. But the rest -- the lilacs, rhubarb, walnuts, crabapples, raspberries, strawberries -- gone, at the neighbors' hands. I guess just so it would be easier to mow.

It makes the place kind of depressing to go back to, but there was also a little marker in the ground by the elementary school (where I went to kindergarten and first grade before they closed it for lack of students) saying that a time capsule was buried there. They'd put it in the ground in 1976 sometime, I forget the date, and they were going to open it on July 4, 2007. Which, growing up, I must have seen that marker hundreds of times, and 2007 would have been kind of abstract, but I figure I must have thought about it, what would I be doing in 2007, where would I be. I know I had to have done the math to figure out how old I'd be, though that would have been abstract, too -- when you're eleven, it's hard to visualize yourself much older than fourteen. I figured I owed it to my younger self to try to get back and see what was there, even though the objects in it wouldn't have had anything much to do with me -- my parents didn't contribute to the time capsule, so it would have just been some random 70s crap, other people's tastes, other people's memorabilia.

We got there too late, though. It was like 4 PM, and it had all been over some time before. Nobody around, no indication where the items might have been. A big area in the vicinity of the time capsule marker had been dug up; apparently nobody knew where it had actually been located. Which is funny. But otherwise, nothing. Just the neighbors, on a swing out in their back yard, which I could have gone and asked -- he used to be the mayor, and they knew the town, they would have known what happened. But I didn't feel up to dealing with them.

So in the end, there's just one more thing from my childhood that's not there anymore. All the plants are gone, the house is gone, and now the time capsule marker. It's not that there's nothing left, but even the things I remember are different -- I haven't been in the elementary school in maybe 20-25 years, and I don't know what they're doing with it now exactly but I think somebody's living in there. Maybe multiple someones. Also, there's a horse penned up in what used to be the school's back yard, right about where the slide used to be, which feels surreal.

I know you can't go home again, but still. Gosh. So much of the rest of the town is just like it was: only the stuff that was specific to me seems to be different.

This seemed like a good song for the occasion. It'll also be the beginning of a strawberry trilogy, even though I liked the raspberries better. (People don't write songs about raspberries so much.)

Possibly I should also note that slightly more liberties than usual have been taken with the song: normally I restrict myself to a fairly small number of changes¹, and it's still not like I rewrote it all from scratch or anything, but it's less like the lyrics that came back from Babel Fish than usual. Not that you'll notice.

-Jessi

¹rearrangement of word order; pluralization/depluralization; change of verb tense; deletion of words that just can't be made to fit into the song; addition/subtraction of articles (a, an, the); addition/subtraction of helping verbs and forms of "to be;" occasional reversion to the original word; changes of gendered pronouns. Most of these things are effectively randomized by the Babel Fish code to begin with.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The college worked it out through
grandpa. In my farm,
I thirsted for knowledge and had a car
stopped someplace. Yeah, I was agitated, in between a woman and summer --
a child finding the love of a wild one. We grow
in the banks of the river, in a well-beaten passage.
Those memories lasted; they were as funny as we were.

[a]
Seventeen: as the strawberry wine and
the hot moon of July capsizes everything,
my first taste of love was bitter candy,
as was the strawberry wine in the green grapevine.

I remember the thirty distillers well. When the elderly were
to go (when they had that mine), they were "Great September!" The fears
were absent: some cards, and letters, and an inter-urban call
that drifted. We were like fall foliage in the
place, but in the year after the year I came back to this,
only the taste of the strawberry wine was remembered.

[a]

The fields have grown an excess now, in the years since
the plough capsized them. That -- is not that,
that is nothing. The time didn't touch
my innocence, really, or -- is it that the loss of it is
so very lacking to me?

[a] [a]

Song of the Superman (Crash Test Dummies)

Language: Portuguese

The year 2007 is halfway over, as of today. I'm not a huge fan, but it's been a better year so far than some.

Grumpy at the moment because I was just out riding my bike, and a couple was jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and they didn't get out of my way so I had to get out of theirs. Rode off the sidewalk into some grass, and then when I went to get back on the sidewalk again, I didn't make a hard enough turn, so the front tire of my bike skidded along the edge of the concrete until the whole bike tipped over on its left and scraped up my left arm and both hands. I'm okay, but pissed all the same. Also the bike wasn't working quite right on the return trip, though that may or may not be major, or permanent.

Anyway. What we've got here is the bonus fourth song in the Superman trilogy. I probably like this song better than the other three; not that those ones are bad or anything, but I like the Crash Test Dummies aesthetic, and especially on the album this song is from (The Ghosts That Haunt Me), I think the CDT were doing a good job. Later on, they got a little less interesting to me, but that sort of thing happens.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tarzan wasn't a man of the ladies:
it would only come longitudinally, and it would excavate them.
Under his arm quickly as that one, as a cat in the forest above.

Now Clark Kent had a real gentleman.
Wouldn't be stopped around in junglescape seat; none is as dumb as a monkey
that doesn't make nothing.

[a]
Superman never made all the money
that conserves Solomon Grundy's world, and at times I despair of the first world: never
will we see another man as he does.

Hey Bob, Supe had straight work,
that could've torn it into pieces through all the banks in the United States –
he had the force, but not.

The family said its peoples were all inoperative.
But Superman, he forced that disintegrated planet to continue,
to forget it and keep going to Krypton.

[a]

Tarzan was king of the forest, and the excess gentleman of all the monkeys,
but he could badly moor together four words:
"I Tarzan, You Jane."

The times when Supe stopped crimes,
I'll bet that the man was tempted to stop and turn his back part in,
join Tarzan in the forest.

But he remained in the city, and he remained in the clothes.
The change in dirty old telephone cabins finished its work; it didn't until
the rest had nothing to do but go in completely.

[a]

It Really Makes Me Want to Wound It (Culture Club)

Language: Portuguese

Moderately upset right now, because I just found out that the ongoing indoor pest problem I've been having since February or so, which had been limited to a small set of about six plants, has moved on to two new ones, a couple gigantic cacti that I've had for over three years and am kind of attached to.

The pests in question are called mealybugs, for those of you who aren't into indoor gardening. I thought that I had them more or less under control -- in fact, I hadn't even seen any of them get big enough to be positively identifiable; I only knew that gray-white oval spots appeared on my plants sometimes and that they were way too symmetrical not to be insects of some kind. Now, there are some bigger ones, big enough that I can see some details.

The problem doesn't seem to be serious yet, but the gigantic cacti in question are big enough that they're hard to move -- over six five feet tall, with, of course, spines, so you can't just grab them and move them, you have to do it really carefully, and sooner or later the spines get you anyway, which is generally surprising, which if you're me often results in reflexively jerking away from whatever caused the pain, which if it's a six five-foot cactus is just going to result in more problems. No serious injuries yet.

So there has been a pretty hard-core shower (blasting them with water from a detachable shower head will physically knock off a good portion of the problem), followed by insecticide (which may or may not have given me a slight headache), and we'll see how well that worked. Even if it does, it was kind of a bummer to find out about this. Mealybugs are not supposed to be among the easier pests to get rid of, and it'll be some time before I know if they're gone or not.

This seemed like an obvious enough song to choose, given the circumstances, and it only got more appropriate after being run through Portuguese.

-Jessi

(Edited: the cacti are five feet tall, not six.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It gives me to the hour
to carry my crime through to itself.
Left me to love and steal,
its eyes had danced inside of me; they
can be as real as I.

It really makes me want to wound it;
it really makes me want to make a shout.
The precious words
of the kisses that burn me
never ask the loving ones that.
Because in my heart, if the fire is burning
(my choice),
finding the color of a star
is a stage. The precious people always say to me that it
is the stage of the much-too-distant one.

[a]
It really makes me want to wound it;
it really makes me want to make a shout.
It really makes me want to wound it;
it really makes me want to make a shout.

The few words
that I have said myself
could waste a thousand years.
I'm involved in symbolic words of sorrow.
Come inside, and stop my rips: I'm to
believe you have spoken, but to me,
you will be yourself. True,
you didn't know that
this boy loves without a reason.
Are you prepared to leave it? I'll go.

If you want love of me, it will be
moved away. Then the examination makes
everything. That's not what
you saw that on today.

[a]

I'll be Its Shelter (Taylor Dayne)

Language: Portuguese

Well. The interview was better than I expected, though I was expecting there to be some twitching and drooling, so that doesn't say as much as it might. I have no idea how I did, and even less idea whether I want the job or not than I did going into the interview. But it's over.

Meanwhile, Iowa City expects to have weather later on today. Damaging 75 mph winds, maybe some large hail, possibly a tornado or two (there have already been some tornadoes to the west and north). I wouldn't mind a tornado. The last one was entertaining, and almost nobody¹ died. And I do, after all, need something to take my mind off of the employment thing for a little bit. I guess we'll see how it goes. Nothing visible going on at the moment.

-Jessi

¹Mobile homes really are, when there's a tornado about. Consequently, there was one death in Muscatine County, to the east of Iowa City.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When I have one, hanging clouds in its sky of
light, and I'm not leaving, no, right inside,
and you'd like to give it that sensation, as inside yourself
(above?), don't give so soon.
You're in a friend. What you need to count
(what started somebody, baby) is yourself. It starts
when rain is falling, and will remain that way.
And you're not leaving it to fall in
completely; I'll see that you
cover it with a love. Thus, I'll be deep and warm and true;
oh, I will be there.

[a]
Honey, I'll be its shelter, that's
always this to you. I'll make an examination of the night, with
the shelter that you need.
I'll make everything all right to you,
yes. Everything to everyone! Make in the one, of the one, in the one,
of the nana, of the one, in the one, of the one, in the right one.

I arrested you. You sufficiently started the strong arms.
Anything that you cross with it starts to
move away; any thing that you need, it's only a touch, you know.
When a heart needs a heart from the side, it
must be mine, in keeping with the times (if that's
the inside of love). So I started
it. I stroke for you each day, cousin.
I'll be giving this to it for the love.
Oh, when mine just isn't sufficiently there, it'll be as it seems.

[a]

I'll see that you completely
cover me with a love. So, that'll be deep and warm
and true: oh, I'll be there.

[a]

(I Had) The Time of My Life (Bill Medley/Jennifer Warnes)

Language: Portuguese

Okay. Well. I don't want anybody to get the impression that I'm going to start putting up new posts all the time again, but today I ran into two pieces of information that I thought was important enough that Sammie, in particular, would want to know. And, rather than just sending her an e-mail like a normal person, I Babelfished a song and turned it into a post.

The two pieces of information are:

1) The video game, The Sims, a game to which I am somewhat addicted (if the sequel, Sims 2, counts as the same thing), which has no English-language dialogue, and which has no real plot whatsoever (though it's flexible enough that one can impose a plot on it from without, if desired), is being made into a movie. Which was weird enough, but then I read about . . .

2) The movie, Dirty Dancing, which I have only seen once (if even that -- I may have missed some of the beginning and ending, plus I saw it on TV, not in a theater, so some of it may have been edited out) but which I don't recall having any car chases or gunplay or flesh-eating monsters, is being turned into a video game.

I'm sure there are other examples of ridiculous merchandising crossovers. But still. I think "Dirty Dancing: the Video Game" has got to take the prize for something or another.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

[a]
Now I 've had the time of my life, that
none felt before. I'm never like,
"Yes, I swear that it's the truth,
and I must owe all."

('Cause I had the time of my life,
and I must owe all.)

I've waited so long that
I've now, finally, found somebody
to be that for me!
We saw the writing in the wall
while we felt magical. This is a fantasy.

Now, with passion in our eyes,
we don't have a disguise; thus: we've no way that could be --
private.
Because of the hand examination, we became that which
we seemed to understand.
We remembered only that urgency.

[ b ]
You are a thing that
I cannot start sufficiently.
So who says that I, you, it, something
could be loved? Because this is

[a]

With my body and soul,
I want one more of it than you do. He'll always know.
So we only go to leave, that's it --
we lose the controls, are distrustful.
Yes, I know what that is, in his mind.
Today when you say, "Sojourn the night with me,"
I can only remember. . . .

[b]
***
[a] [a] etc.

The Super Shuffle of the Basin (Owens and Meyer)

Language: Portuguese.

We reluctantly interrupt the epic poem that is Jessi’s employability tango to bring you this increasingly-ubiquitous-as-we-approach-Sunday “rap” from 1985. Not much to say here, other than maybe it didn’t need to be seven minutes? Maybe cut the saxophone solo? We note, helpfully: a song already laden with double negatives in its pre-Babelpopped state begins to buckle under the weight of triple negatives post-op (“We are not here, not to start no problem”), so we hasten to add that if you want to skip ahead, line six of Steve Fuller’s verse might be the one to hit and get out.

Interestingly (I guess), D.T. Dan Hampton declined to participate in the performance, so we’ll have to imagine what could have been. If I could, just for a moment, step into the shoes of Mel Owens and Dick Meyer (and why would I; read this sad-ass article from the Sun Times about Owens, holy crap), I think it would go a little like this:

I’m Dan Hampton; something something “defensive tackle”
Here is the call of the common grackle
Um, I don’t actually know anything about this position
But I am a sucker for McSweeney’s Limited Editions
I don’t like Superbowl commercials; they all kind of suck
Do that many Americans really need trucks?
If you have severe combined immunodeficiency syndrome
You have to live in a bubble
Which would preclude you from doing
The Superbowl (&c.)

“The Superbowl Shuffle”, N.B., was nominated for a Grammy for “Best Rhythm & Blues Vocal Performance” (so I was wrong when I said “rap” up above, mea culpa), but lost to Prince’s “Kiss”, which means, sometimes, there is justice (yay!). Prince is actually performing at halftime on Sunday. Do I smell a rematch?

If so, all due respect to Walter Payton, who, it is said, runs the ball like he’s making romance, but “Kiss” remains about the sexiest damn thing I can think of right now, and it’s sort of late, and that’s when I think of sexy damn things.

I don’t want to step on Dimetrios Georgos Synodinos’ toes (What? He’s dead? Are all the heroes gone?), but I’m going to call it:

Game: Blouses.

-Samantha

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

CHORUS:
We are the bears
That group that mounts in confusion
On for low, making for you.
We are, thus, that bad.
(We know that we are good.)
To cast its mind as we know in them .

You know that we are to support, just for the amusement,
Whom we support our material. For all,
We are not here, not to start no problem.
We are right to make the super shuffle of the basin here.

Of Walter Payton:
Well, call me sweetness, and I taste to dance.
To function the sphere is as to make romance.
We had the objective since that encampment of training
To give to the Chicago a super possibility of the basin.
We are not making this because we are greedy.
The bears are making it to needily feed.
We did not come here to look the problem.
Us? We only came here to make the super shuffle of the basin.

Of Willie Gault:
That is: Willie, Speedy, and I am classroom of the world.
I taste to function, but I love starting the ticket.
I practice the entire day and dance all the night,
Me, I started to start soon for the Sunday fight.
Now I am so smooth. How much a whirlwind of the chocolate?
Me, I dance a little funky.
Thus, he gives the Attention Girl to me.
He does not have one here that he makes likes it.
My super shuffle of the basin will adjust it exempt.

Of Singletary of the Microphone:
I am Microphone of the Samurai;
I stop them cold.
Part of the defense? great!
And bold me has bogged for completely one, when,
Making what he is, right and adjusting the style,
they give a possibility to me.
It will balance it good.
Nobody that messing in my neighborhood.
I did not come here looking the problem.
Me? I only came to make the shuffle that super of the basin

CHORUS

Of Jim McMahon:
I am the QB punky, known as McMahon.
When I beat turf, I not have got no plant.
I game only my body, all on the field.
I cannot dance, but I can play “pill”.
I motivate the cats, me, exasperate, taste.
I game thus that cool, I point (please!).
This is because you all here in the double started to stop me.
That it makes the super shuffle of the basin.

Of Otis Wilson:
I am Otis! Boy of the breast, one of a type!
Mrs. All, the love for me, my body and my mind.
I am smooth in the wooden floor, as I cannot be,
But not to sucker he that goes to start me after.
Some guys are jealous of my style, and the classroom.
That one is because some extremity above in its donkey
did not come here looking the problem.
Me, starts only for low, to the super shuffle of the basin.

That Fuller of Steve:
They say that Jimbo is our man.
If Jimmy will not be making, certain can of I.
This is Steve. And it is not no wonder
That I function, I eat the lightning and step as the thunder.
It brings thus in Atlanta, bring in Dallas.
That is, for the Halas bear of the microphone and the Pope.
I am not here to feather its ruffle,
Me, I only came here to make the super shuffle of the basin.

Of Richardson of the Microphone:
I am L.A. Microphone, and I cool game it.
Not sneak for me. Because I am not no fool,
I fly in the field and start on for low.
All know that I around not mess.
I can break them, agitate them, in any height of that day.
I taste to steal it and to make the payment to them,
Thus satisfied, I do not cry out to beat to mine hustle.
Because I am just to make the super shuffle of the basin here.

CHORUS

Of the Tooth of Richard:
The man of sack: that he comes, I am its tooth of the man.
If quarterback to be late, he is going to start bending.
We stop the functioning, we stop the ticket,
Me/we like to pour guys in its donkey.
We love playing for the better fans of the world;
You, we improve the start that makes its super plants of the basin.
But he does not start soon, nor does not go to no problem
(Unless you practice the super shuffle of the basin...!).

Of Gary Fencik:
Is Gary here? I am Mr. Limpo.
They call me “beaten man”.
I do not know what they mean.
They play it for much time, and they give attention
To me to function (me, are in my man, a-in-one).
Guys of the Comrade Covers! It for low to the bone, that one.
Because in them, they call “Zone 46”.
Come in! All he leaves us to cry out and to cry out,
“We are going to make the shuffle! To follow, we sound its bell!”

Of William Perry:
You are looking at the coolant. Me, you are rookie.
I can be great, but I am not no cookie (dumb).
You, he saw to beat me, you saw me to function,
When I start to ticket us, he will have more amusement.
I can dance. You, I will see
the other (they who all learn of me).
I do not come here looking the problem.
Me? I only came here to make the super shuffle of the basin.

CHORUS

The Army (Ben Folds Five)

Language: Portuguese

So yesterday was the actual last day I worked, and I was the last person not related to the owner to work, and that was all kind of interesting, in a way, but it's beside the point now, since now I have to come up with something else to do. Hence the song.

So far, the only place that I've found that I would actually like to work in is a greenhouse / garden center which is . . . well, not too far away from my place, and I'm pretty sure I could handle the work, and I think I'd probably even enjoy it some, a little, but unfortunately they put up the sign saying that they were hiring and then the person in charge of hiring went on vacation for a week. Or so I was told on Saturday. Which means I'm in limbo.

It might even have been two weeks, actually, since I didn't get called about it yesterday, and I'm pretty sure nobody's called my references either.

Late January is a very bad time of year to be looking for work in a college town: all the students are back, so every place is back up to their normal amount of business, but on the other hand, they have all already hired the people they need in the last couple weeks, and it is going to take a while for the various employers to find out that they hired some jerkoffs, which means that people will be hiring again in a month, but for right now there's almost nothing. So the greenhouse thing is all I've even seen since the announcement came that the grocery store was folding. It might yet work out for me, since it's at least a job I really want, and I only need the one job, but there's some waiting to experience first. And probably some more looking. And thinking.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Well I thought Dad said,
"The army is rising, son; you are high,"
and I thought, yeah, a first time for everything.
So I made an examination of my old man's advice,
over three semesters, where "sad"
was the only thought in the fifteen great bed expenses.
I left the army to fall for itself
and joined a band instead.

I grew one moustache, and one mullet, and
started a work in the Chic-Fil-A.
Citing differences, that band broke: inside it, that artistic thing.
And in June, without me, it remodelled
and started a different name. I nuked
the apple pie of my other grandma, and
hung my head in the shame.

Very much thinking today.
Thinking very much today.

Oh! I think I will write one screenplay.
Oh, I think I will examine the make of LA.
Oh, I think that I will start it yesterday. (Done!)

At this time of introspection,
in the eve of my election,
I say to my god of the reflection,
"please cause more rejection." For the care of
my pairs, I criticize myself,
and my former wives all despise me.
Behind me, it's all for the attempt,
but my jumps are pinching my rednecks.

I have thought
I have thought today, very much.
I have thought that today, very much today --
I thought on the army.

The Butterfly Flies (Machines of Loving Grace)

Language: Portuguese

I don't know if this one counts as "pop" for our purposes or not. I pretty much never see anything about the Machines of Loving Grace anywhere anymore; I don't know what this means. Wikipedia says they broke up in 1997. But still. People still talk about Elastica from time to time, and they aren't the same band they used to be either.¹

Anyway. So the actual song is some of your basic home-use kind of cynicism, dilute 10:1 with water for cleaning, do not mix with other attitudes, etc. Which when this song was current and popular and everything, was more or less the degree of cynicism I found appealing. Plus it's energetic and does the soft-loud-soft thing like everybody did in the 90s, and I like the electronic stuff, and it's pretty tightly-produced, so, you know, whatever.

In the years since, cynicism has continued to be appealing to me, mainly because the main alternative is so obviously wrong². And I don't think it's wrong or bad or depressing to stop and consider, every once in a while, whether one is expecting too much from other people. But even so. I'm mellowing out in my old age, I guess, what with having found a husband I trust. And it's not unpleasant.

-Jessi

¹Wikipedia says a band of that name still exists, but the line-up hasn't been the original one since 1997.

²Like, maybe if you dance like nobody's watching, you're pretty much guaranteeing that everybody's going to be watching. If you love like you've never been hurt, then you're loving in the exact same way that got you hurt previously -- this seem smart to you? Small groups of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world for the better, true, but it does not necessarily follow that every group of same actually does change the world, or that it's for the better if they do. Sometimes, God actually does give a person more to cope with than they can bear, and then they go crazy or kill themselves or do awful things to other people. Etc.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You cannot place the faith in material things:
the material things, they will fail you.
A hurricane provoked a butterfly; the wings of
its conspirators are betrayed.

[a:]
Don't you put the faith in human beings:
human beings are the unreliable ones.
Don't place faith in human beings,
of human beings, or in the wing of the butterfly.

You cannot place faith in a new regimen of
fascists; that will kill the faith.
A hurricane provoked a butterfly; the wings of
its conspirators are betrayed.

[a]

I know that that deep interior burning has something.
That has something, inside of this puncture.

(Today I will pursue the dragon into the night
for its fruits: you'll know them.)

Don't place the faith,
don't place the faith.
When I, myself, decide to live in my mind,
the heart dies.
The superior mothers in the sky --
the heart dies,
the data of the heart dies.

[a]

My Breath Makes Examination Absent (Berlin)

Language: Portuguese

Not a lot to say about this one; I have the same associations with it that everybody else does (1986, Top Gun, Tom Cruise), and the outcome here of the Babelpopping isn't especially noteworthy, except insofar as it's resulted in more polysyllabic words than usual.

Keep Babelpop in your thoughts as we move towards Thanksgiving: this is no week for ordinary mortals to be working in retail grocery stores.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Giving attention to each movement in the foolish game of my loving,
one finally doesn't know shame. In the infinite loving of this ocean, no
one turns inside to some private place. It returns, and that
slow turnaround gives you attention as you say (with the movement),

"Remove my breath;
the absent ones are taking my breath."

Giving attention to you, I remain, still anticipating the love. Waiting on yourself
is never fated: that hesitation will change that.
They return to some private place for hiding, and they turn that (the
slow movement says to turn). And all the while, you give attention to

the absentee examination of my breath.

I moved away through the hourglass; the time slid
when all function left me. They called it "the mirror,"
and it turned. I heard it ask
if I was only unafraid for today.

"Remove my breath;
the absent ones are taking my breath."

Attention to each movement of this fool-loving game
haunted me, for the notion that I'm someplace in flames --
I return to some private place inside. They turn that there, and that
gave attention in the slow movement. As you turn me, he says

"To remove my love,
I remove my breath."

Ave Maria (traditional)

Language: Portuguese

This third song in the virgin trilogy was of course a bit more translated than usual: I was working off of what I'm told was a relatively literal English translation of the song. So the chain is, Latin to English to Portuguese to English.

My primary association with this song, not having been raised Catholic, is a pop-cultural one: I don't recall the context particularly, but I remember that Nell Carter, on "Gimme a Break," once took a ridiculous (considering how much airtime costs) amount of show time to sing it once, and it was very pretty the way she did it. That may well have been the first time I'd heard the song, and it's still kind of the way I expect to hear it, when I hear it, which is not very often.¹

The photo is from the Ugly Duckling car dealership in Clearwater, Florida, in 1996. There were apparently similar streaks on the building's other windows, but only this one looked like a figure in a hooded robe. The likely explanation is that the sprinkler system was throwing oil from the palm trees adjacent to the building up onto the glass, building up over time and forming rounded interference patterns. I think it's pretty, in an odd way, though not supernatural.

-Jessi

¹Carter's is kind of a tragic story, by the way. Check out the Wikipedia link.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They hail Mary of grace,
Mary, completely full of grace.
Hail Mary, full of the grace:
hail you, Sir. You are blessed with
women; you enter,
and bless, and bless,
the fruit of its womb
(of its womb).

Hail Mary de Jesús! Pray
so that we will pray for them (sinners).
Pray for us sinners
now, and in the hour of death,
and the hour of our death,
and the hour of our death,
and our hour of the
death of Mary. Hail!

It Inscribes the Sandman (Metallica)

Language: Portuguese

Bought a plant yesterday. Actually it was two plants, but now, because I potted two plants into the same pot, most people would call it one plant. So in some ways you could say that I made a plant disappear yesterday, by buying it.

I've also recently read Wittgenstein's Mistress, by David Markson, which may show up in the style of this entry.

Although in some ways Wittgenstein's Mistress is "by" its narrator, Kate.

It occurs to me that Kate, despite being fictional, is now known to quite a few people, probably more people than I, Jessi, am known to, and is therefore, overall, more "real" than I am. If by "real" one means things that can be talked about among people.

Certainly one made two plants disappear, from the perspective of the other plants in the greenhouse, who would not be aware of places outside the greenhouse. And from the perspective of my other plants, I made either one or two plants appear, in my home.

Metallica, of course, is known to even more people than Kate or myself, and would be even more "real" by the definition that things are real when people know about them.

But maybe this is not the definition one should be using, then.

Certainly a thing could be real even if it were never discussed at all. A particular cloud, perhaps, could go completely unremarked from the time of its formation until the time of its dissipation, and yet it could still block sunlight and possibly rain and do all sorts of other real, cloudly things. Even without anybody ever saying, "Look, there is a cloud."

The point being, obviously, that things do not need human observation in order to exist.

There being a good deal of evidence of this from astronomy, where one can infer that planets and the like existed even before human beings noticed them.

Although we are told that sometimes in physics things are in indeterminate states until detected by a human observer.

On my honor, people sometimes say this.

Like Schrodinger and his cat, which was both russet and non-russet, depending on the outcome of an atom's radioactive decay.

By which I hardly mean that the cat was, say, streaked with russet, or russet-spotted. One was given to understand that the cat was of a uniform color, even if the non-russet alternative was never specified.

One feels that surely this whole emphasis on human observers to determine the states of things has been exaggerated somewhat, however. Or misunderstood. Which is frequently the case when dealing with quantum-mechanical things.

The plant that I made to disappear was a Monstera deliciosa.

Sometimes I felt that Metallica in general, and this song in particular, was a bit over-played. On the radio.

I suppose Metallica wanted to be as real as possible.

I did not like their songs about Napster and file-sharing and how musicians deserve to be able to make a living, however.

Though possibly these were not songs, but were press releases.

Also yesterday, I saw another episode of "Metalocalypse," a show which I've mentioned previously on this blog.

James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica, has done a guest voice at least one time on "Metalocalypse," and possibly more times than that.

One could argue that James Hetfield's hair could be called russet, if that were the sort of word one used for hair.

One could also say that James Hetfield can make a Monstera deliciosa disappear, though, even though one has never seen him do so.

The point obviously being that one can say a great many things.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The small one says its prayers:
don't forget, my son,
to include inside
you all the warm folds, inside
you the sin of free sustenance.
Until the sandman comes, he
sleeps with the one
eye firmly open, arresting his rest.

The exit light
enters, taking my hand: the night
fills with earth. We must never, never be outside.

We're closed today: something's wrong.
The night clears the heavy thoughts,
and they aren't white.
The war dreams, dreams of the snow, dreams of liars,
of the fire of dragons
and the things that will bite --
the sleep opened firmly, with one
eye arresting its rest.

The exit light
enters, taking my hand: the night
must never never fill with earth. We're outside the

sleep place, now. We ourselves bring
Mr. Soul, and remain to pray.
I've woken up, if I die before
the examination. Pray, Mr. Soul: to make my
small babies hush, to say the word. We never do the
noises, and not if he (who you heard) occupies that
bed. It's the crossbows under that, it's
the closet in his head.

The exit light
enters. The grain of the night
exits the sand. The light
enters, taking the night.
We must never, never fill my hand with the outside earth.

Of Jaque, and of Diane (John Cougar Mellencamp)

Language: Portuguese

Just so you know: this is the first picture that comes up when you do an AOL picture search for "Jack and Diane." They look like nice folks. He might want to consider shaving, though. Amish beards are so 1998.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A little song on Jaque and Diane.
The heartland grew two small Americans, who were above it:
Jaque, who's gone to be a backseat debutante; and
Diane, the star of Jaque's football car.

Sucking in freezing chili dogs is tasty;
Diane sits that down in Jaque's lap.
Jaque's words have her on hands and knees;
Diane left us outside. (Hey! The functions
of the tree are: to be shady, and to dribble behind.)
Bobby has those brooks outside, that
leave me to make what I please,
and Jaque says,

Go in the life of the oh-yeah;
later, that emotion of livin' is long gone.
The life of the oh-yeah goes in;
later, that livin' emotion is with them, on a long walk.

Jaque sits down backwards, stops, risks his thoughts for a moment, reflects:
his head and his dean made James better. Well, more of that --
that . . . Diane. You know, we ought to be the whole function of the
city! Diane says, "Baby, you aren't lacking nothing, you
word of Jaque."

You go in the life of the oh-yeah;
later, that emotion of life is long gone.
Oh yeah, it goes in;
later, that emotion of life is long gone.

I'm left balancing,
left rolling.
The leather strap of the Bible left me
low, came on to
my soul. Hold the exceptions
for much time as you can, so the sixteen
changes that come in return soon. The real
in them make the women and men.

A little song on Jaque and Diane:
two small Americans who can make more, better.

I Want Myself Sedated (Ramones)

Language: Portuguese

Stayed home from work today because I've been having some unusual stomach stuff this week, which I won't describe. It wasn't what you'd call incapacitating, but it was unpleasant, and it certainly made my life better to not have to stand up for eight hours on top of that. I had a sneaking suspicion that maybe it was stress-related (because it often is), and this might still be the case, though I'm not, when it comes down to it, aware of anything that's stressing me out particularly at the moment.

But possibly some sedation might be helpful. Either I'd relax and it'd go away, or I'd sleep through it.

I don't really have any personal memories associated with this song. It's one of those songs that I somehow just "know" without ever having been introduced. There are people like that, too, who are just kind of always around in the background somewhere, and eventually they're familiar enough from seeing them around all the time that you have some sort of vague friend-ness happening with them.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go:
I want myself sedated.
Nothing to make,
no part to go into --
I only want myself sedated.
The airport started it
and set a
plan: the haste of the haste of the haste,
before I go insane.
I cannot control that finger: oh me, oh my.
I cannot control my brain.
Oh, none of the hos
put me in a wheelchair. I only
started. ("To me, and not to me.")
Before I go, the lease shows the haste of the haste of the haste.
I cannot control my fingers;
I cannot control my foot-fingers.
Oh, oh, none of the hos.

Widow of the Professional (Tori Amos)

Language: Portuguese

And here we have another case where the lyrics didn't make all that much sense to start out with. The resulting lyrics are probably more grammatical than Tori Amos's original lyrics, but it's still tough to get much information from them. I do like the idea of a "business hit," like a "Broadway hit" or "hit TV show." Business seems to me to be exceptionally prone to fads, like six-sigma or just-in-time-manufacturing, but I don't think you'd call any of these a "hit," exactly.

In any case, I would probably go see a show called "Sensation Who Makes it as a Congressman," though. Especially if it were about an interesting sensation, like the feeling that something bad is about to happen to somebody you don't like, or the feeling of stepping on a dead mouse in your closet, which happened to me once.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The deer excrement, the honey,
the slag well of
my edges: to bring it close to
those brains (yes) doesn't establish
how we start to be great.
Boy, we only start to be great.

My Daddy as a starfucker
that's only mine. Daddy sells his baby, as
that's only mine. As daddy goes
to that business hit,
"Sensation Who Makes it as a Congressman." It's
functioning in the family.
(Who goes to hit a business?
It makes a sensation, as the congressman
functions in his family.)

He rests his shoulders, cream, and peaches
in all parts. How much can you see in such a Judas way?
That pretty angel calls it "that
Muhammad Ali re-run we started." Each one the prism of that
perfect honey, brings it close to the edges.
What ratio of the boy (Yes, the one of the landslide)
is called the great principle? One boy started to be . . . .

Mary of China, there
can be more candy. The white, the brown, the mother
will supply it, will supply it,
will supply it, will supply it.
A hard tap on it gives me peace and love.

I Finish it More Closely (Indigo Girls)

(looking at the doctor and the mountains simultaneously, to save time)

Language: Portuguese

The first time I heard the real version of this song, I was in Woodway Baptist Church, in Waco, Texas, which is not the sort of place where you'd expect to hear it, as there is some Doubting going on. I would normally explain the discrepancy by noting that the person leading the college-age Sunday School class in question was a philosophy grad student, except that one of my good friends from school has subsequently gone on to be a philosophy grad student. He may or may not like the song, but he'd never try to claim that anything important or philosophically meaningful could be learned from it.

It's possible, I suppose, that teaching Sunday School in a Baptist church is what happens when philosophy grad students go bad. Though I think my friend may have done that too, at some point.

In any case. It's no "Hey Jesus," but it's a pleasant little song, and some nice things happened in the Babelfishing of it.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I am trying to say something: on my life, who is
between white color and black introspection? Perhaps she gives the
better things that you've done: to me, and always for me.
My life must help me, seriously: to make less examination of
everything is only the afterlife, yeah.

He is insatiable. Hunger that has a good blackout
is hard of hearing, and lightness has a call that
involves fear. I mine blankets around myself as
security. I sailed until I sank my ship:
I'm down in, tracking its coasts.

I was the doctor; I was the mountains
that looked at the children. I drank of the sources.
I'm more than a reply to these questions here,
that point me in a bending line.
I look to my source, less for some definitive, more than . . .
(I look to my source, more or less.)
I'm next to the fine; I'm
next. I'm next to the fine.

I was to see the doctor of philosophy next,
with a poster of low Rasputin. One beard for his knee, and
that never married. See a film in the b-classroom, or if
he could see through my performance, then that classified me.
I said, "I spent four more years prostrate: to the raised mind,
I was free when I started my paper."

I was the doctor; I was the mountains
that looked at the children. I drank of the sources.
I'm more than a reply to these questions here,
that point me in a bending line.
I look to my source, less for some definitive, more than . . .
(I look to my source, more or less.)
I'm next to the fine; I'm
next. I'm next to the fine.

3 A.M.: I stopped at the bar for
a bottle to look into. A friend, or solace,
woke me up, and one headache (possibly)
met my head. With one above a plate of
times, I was more cloudy. The two nights before had been
in clarity, and I was looking for it.

I was the doctor, I was the mountains
that looked at the children. I drank of the sources.
We go to the doctor, yeah, we go to the mountains.
We look at the children, I drink our sources.
Yeah we go to the cross, we work out the Bible,
we over-read in the revival, and we are on the lookout for ourselves.
Are we more than a reply to these here questions,
that point me in a bending line?
I look a little to my source for some definitive:
(I look to my source, more or less.)
I am next to the fine,
I am next to the fine,
I am next to the fine.

Ascending the Stack of Life (Talking Heads)

Language: Portuguese

Spent most of the last two days being held hostage in the new apartment's "office" by a couple guys who were in to put down vinyl in the kitchen and bathroom, and laminate in a hallway. This is unpleasant by itself, but it's even more unpleasant to have to take everything out of the kitchen, bathroom, and hallway every day and then put it back again after they leave. I've gotten better at stacking things, but it's depressing, too, because there's no net progress from all of this work: always previously, when I've taken stuff from one place and stacked it up somewhere else, there was an overall net increase in the amount of usable space.

They're not done; they haven't actually even started on the bathroom yet, so there'll be more of the same on Monday.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I tried that marijuana:
each time I start, I'm nervous
that he'll come to beat in the door,
because he's all, the eyes make that in me?
I don't want to know that he forgives,
and for me, pardon is
a sojourn for one.
Perhaps we never will, when that
finds another time.

I can see my stack of life, above that
return of the days. I can see the nights; I
can see that people in the street
open those windows.
One hundred wooden floors below me,
he piles up more of those houses. Above that,
they stack highly, higher, higher --
I can feel a back and forth
balancing. Building it more highly,
learning higher on this tower.

I started the harm:
pierced my eye (a pencil in that).
I can start for home backwards, or wait badly for
all that, because he is paranoid.
I only had the Scumbags' amusement,
and superstars say that their names
will make an appositive. That one
is the same as both.

I can see my stack of life above:
my bedroom reaches to the stars.
I can see the house where I was loaded.
When I was growing above that,
they say that I could never keep my trousers.
I remember that the days and nights were insane.
Are all the pirates in this ship? The people there
(if they're sober) are ascending;
the rest will have us shout, per the morning.

Shout, it cries out,
it's just you and I.
The taste of an automobile
with nobody in the wheels:
that control turns outside of the
road we are all on.
In our sexy machine
all the passengers shout of the shouting;
shout!

I can see the stack of my life above.
I can see that it is torn into pieces. That
was not an accident. It is all in.
I laugh to hear it opens its window above.

To go, "two, three, four, five,"
perhaps they go to the high one (the deep one?).
I am arresting too firmly on much of that,
and now I am growing above myself.
I started feeling funny.
Those houses pile up more highly,
they are higher, higher above the stack of
buildings. The stars of that road
turn music up . . . and
hey! I started earning a number.

Nightswimming (R. E. M.)

Language: Portuguese

This is very likely my favorite
R. E. M. song ever, and it's up there in the top 50 songs period, probably, unless I think of others. (I've never sat down and tried to come up with a list, which is strange, since it's totally the kind of thing I would do.) Though as soon as I say that, I'm going to think of another song of theirs that I think is better.

(Well, "Belong" is nice. Though I'm not sure it's better. And I probably couldn't get away with using a picture of a bioluminescent squid for "Belong." It'd depend on what you envision for the "those creatures jumped the barricades" lines.)

In any case. I like it, a lot of other people like it, and if you're still reading this, then odds are good that you think it's at least okay.

-Jessi

Squid photo by Dany Weinberg, found through Pharyngula

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
The photograph in the dashboard:
the years have made an examination,
the lathe stops, turned in backwards, thus the windscreen shows.
Each streetlight discloses the reversed picture.
Still, it is very clear.
I forgot myself, my shirt, in the edge of the water.
The night's moon is low today.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I am not certain I understand all these people.
He isn't, as he has years. He stopped the fear to start, of recklessness and the water.
They cannot see me undressed.
These things, leave, substituted for daily.

Nightswimming, remembering this night.
Septembers that come soon. I pine for the moon.
Two, side by side in the orbit around the sun. Will that be more just?
That shining drum, pressed forever,
could not describe nightswimming.

I thought that you knew it.
I cannot judge who you
thought that you knew: me, you, him. Quiet,
this laughing at my breath, underneath.
Nightswimming.

The photograph reflects that, each streetlight is a reminder.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.

God (Tori Amos)

Language: Portuguese

This is possibly the only song I've posted so far where I actually got out the CD and listened to it to get the words. Occasionally, I've listened over and over to a song here or there just because I enjoy listening to it (for example The Rabbet is in the Heart), but that wasn't to get the words, that was just to hear the song again.

My lyrics lined up just fine with those in the CD cover except for two places: one, there's a bit that's spoken, just barely loud enough to be audible, which I'm told on reasonably good authority is Tori quoting Proverbs 31:3 ("Give not thy strength unto women, nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings," in the KJV) and which she declined to include in the published lyrics.

The other is that there are a number of occasions where it sounds to me like she's singing "God, sometimes you just don't come through" with a "babe" on the end. She may not be, but it seemed to me like an improvement on the original even if she's not saying it, so I included some possibly-extraneous "babes" in the choruses. Which were promptly swallowed and eaten by the Babelfish Gnome, (mythic beast which resides in the Babelfish code and eliminates potentially interesting things from the text that's returned.) but oh well. Possibly this is the origin of the "dribbling," which is otherwise inexplicable, though turning babes into dribbling is kind of inexplicable itself. We may never know.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely; only in the pretty times.

You make pretty daisies, daisies. (Say that you'll come for the lower half of me.) You started to love to find me, to find, to find.
What you're making of the things (You, who make that.)
starts short, if I'm toasty.
Here – whom to burn? Some witches, while you're here? (What do you know of them?)
I started to find finding, for finding,
because you always go when she establishes the wind.

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time; you dribble.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely in time.

Perhaps you say that you are wild:
I'll understand that, then. (Say it low, that you'll come for me.)
You started its nine-iron in the back seat; nine
just in case the
South heard you. Oh, good: it dribbles.
I know you love their new four-wheel. (What they know of you: what you know.)
I started because you always establish the wind, when you find it's gone.

(Spoken: Until a woman forces your elasticity,
it will destroy your kings that way)

You decide if you make the sky fall: it says to itself, exactly that.
Now you will decide to make the sky, if it says "exactly" to you and to itself.

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time; you dribble.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely in time.

Isle of Gilligan (Sherwood Schwartz)

You might have thought with lines like “The first one kills and skipper too much” this was the theme from Lost, but nope. TV Theme Song Friday, which should be moved to Thursday for the alliteration if we plan to stick with it, and which is being published Saturday this week because I can't get my act together at all, introduces the Theme from Gilligan’s Island by Sherwood Schwartz, as performed by The Eligibles.
N.B. The Wellingtons sang the version that didn’t namecheck the Professor and Mary Ann, whom everyone I know were hoping would fall in love with each other. This never happened, a lesson for all of us, I think.

-S

It feels right, only for the back. And you will hear one tale,
Tale of the one of a trip fateful
That it starts on board of this port of this very small ship.
Sailing kills! It was a powerful man, to skipper brave and certain.
Five passengers had adjusted the sail that day for an excursion of three hours,
An excursion of three hours.

To start, started rough time,
A very small ship was launched,
If not for the courage of the group
That fearless minnow would be lost,
Minnow, either.
Lost.

The adjusted land of the ship in the coast of this uncharted isle of the desert
With Gilligan
Skipper too much,
Millionaire and its wife,
The Star of Film
The professor and Mary Ann,
Here in Isle of Gilligan.

Thus, this is tale of castaways, they is here for a long, long time,
Them will have that to make more better of the things, it uphill is a scaling.
The first one kills and skipper too much,
Will make it much more better,
To make the other comfortable one,
In the nest of the console.

No telephone, neither light neither engine cars,
Not an only luxury,
As Robinson Crusoe, so primitive!
How much it can be?

It, thus, joins us here each week, my friends,
You are certain to start a smile,
Of seven castaways run aground,
Here in Isle of Gilligan.

House Doesn't Come to Drink (With Lovin' in Mind) (Loretta Lynn)

Language: Portuguese

Fans of the TV show "House" should be especially pleased by this entry, which is very nearly even factually accurate within the confines of the show. There's a random and uncorroborated bit of homoeroticism at the beginning, but otherwise it more or less confirms what we know: Dr. House doesn't go places to drink, probably because places where people go to drink have, you know, people in them, plus he's probably already drunk most of the time and therefore doesn't need to go anywhere.

Also, when he does drink, he doesn't do so because of love. 'Cause that would involve loving someone in the first place. And don't even talk to me about Sela Ward. He doesn't love her. You know it, I know it, the comotose patient in room 449 knows it. He doesn't even love himself, and if I've learned anything from all my years of television-watching, it's that If you don't love yourself, then nobody else can love you. So Q.E.D.

I assume the "she" who types a lot during the song is Dr. Cuddy, but I'm not sure we've ever actually seen her typing anything, so I'm calling this unconfirmed for the time being. Anybody who has any information about typing during the show should e-mail me.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Well you thought that I'd be above waiting,
the last night you loaded that home. When you
been with all the boys, it's finished for you,
and you're partially firm.

But liquor and love
don't only mix:
behind the license, the bottle, or me,
House don't come to drink, and he
loves within his mind.

None come to drink. House does not
joust in his sojourn of the mind,
for he loves the city. Back in with
what you can find: she doesn't see.
Because if you want that, she will type the
needs (the well, the mine).
None of the love: you don't
come home to drink, thus,
loving's not within your mind.

You never examine me anywhere.
Because you're always gone,
I woke up one night, and placed many
up here, where I cried out all alone.
And then he comes inside, kissing in me –
it happens at all times.

House doesn't come to drink;
none of his number do. With loving in mind,
House doesn't come to drink.
In his joust of the mind, loving it, with a sojourn
in the city, he's back
and he doesn't see what you found,
because if you want to type this up,
well, you don't need no love of mine.

Thus, House doesn't come to drink
with loving in his mind.
No, House doesn't come to drink
with loving in his mind.