Viewing: Change - View All Posts

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS ~William Butler Yeats 



I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

WOODSTOCK by Joni Mitchell 


I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, "Where are you going?"
And this he told me...

I'm going on down to Yasgur's Farm,
I'm gonna join in a rock and roll band.
I'm gonna camp out on the land.
I'm gonna get my soul free.

We are stardust.
We are golden.
And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Then can I walk beside you?
I have come here to lose the smog,
And I feel to be a cog in something turning.

Well maybe it is just the time of year,
Or maybe it's the time of man.
I don't know who I am,
But you know life is for learning.

We are stardust.
We are golden.
And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.

By the time we got to Woodstock,
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song and celebration.

And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky,
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation.

We are stardust.
Billion year old carbon.
We are golden.
Caught in the devil's bargain
And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.

J'ACCUSE! 



A man with the unique ability to create — out of pure energy — literally anything he thinks of!

Whether he chooses to be creative or destructive, the only limits are his own willpower and imagination.

How to ruin the brilliant concept that made this unconventional hero so great?

Have him carry the most banal, conventional weapon there is.

Give him a gun.

AUDIENCE DEVELOPMENT 


“I think we musicians are emissaries.
Every time we go before the public,
we’re there to make converts.”
—Hazel Dorothy Scott

"Developing an audience feels like being a politician.
You've got to stand in front of the subway and
meet people and kiss babies and literally
convert people one after the other."
—Chris Botti

"An audience is the only group I can tolerate, and
the audience wouldn't be a group if it wasn't for me."
—George Carlin

ATTENTION MUST BE PAID 



I don't say he's a great man.

Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog.

Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person. You called him crazy... no, a lot of people think he's lost his... balance. But you don't have to be very smart to know what his trouble is. The man is exhausted. A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man. He works for a company thirty-six years this March, opens up unheard-of territories to their trademark, and now in his old age they take his salary away.
Are they any worse than his sons?

When he brought them business, when he was young, they were glad to see him. But now his old friends, the old buyers that loved him so and always found some order to hand him in a pinch--they're all dead, retired. He used to be able to make six, seven calls a day in Boston. Now he takes his valises out of the car and puts them back and takes them out again and he's exhausted. Instead of walking he talks now. He drives seven hundred miles, and when he gets there no one knows him anymore, no one welcomes him.

And what goes through a man's mind, driving seven hundred miles home without having earned a cent? Why shouldn't he talk to himself? Why? When he has to go to Charley and borrow fifty dollars a week and pretend to me that it's his pay? How long can that go on? How long? You see what I'm sitting here and waiting for? And you tell me he has no character? The man who never worked a day but for your benefit?

When does he get the medal for that?


~From Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller


RSS