The xx - VCR

Local Natives - Airplanes

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

- Maya Angelou

Baaria

There's Only One Sun [Wong Kar-Wai]

Bowery Blues by Jack Kerouac

The story of man
Makes me sick
Inside, outside,
I don't know why
Something so conditional
And all talk
Should hurt me so.

I am hurt
I am scared
I want to live
I want to die
I don't know
Where to turn
In the Void
And when
To cut
Out

For no Church told me
No Guru holds me
No advice
Just stone
Of New York
And on the cafeteria
We hear
The saxophone
O dead Ruby
Died of Shot
In Thirty Two,
Sounding like old times
And de bombed
Empty decapitated
Murder by the clock.

And I see Shadows
Dancing into Doom
In love, holding
TIght the lovely asses
Of the little girls
In love with sex
Showing themselves
In white undergarments
At elevated windows
Hoping for the Worst.

I can't take it
Anymore
If I can't hold
My little behind
To me in my room

Then it's goodbye
Sangsara
For me
Besides
Girls aren't as good
As they look
And Samadhi
Is better
Than you think
When it starts in
Hitting your head
In with Buzz
Of glittergold
Heaven's Angels
Wailing

Saying

We've been waiting for you
Since Morning, Jack
Why were you so long
Dallying in the sooty room?
This transcendental Brilliance
Is the better part
(of Nothingness
I sing)

Okay.
Quit.
Mad.
Stop.

La Jetee part 1

La Jetee part 2

La Jetee part 3

"Women wish to be loved without a why or a wherefore; not because they are pretty, or good, or well-bred, or graceful, or intelligent, but because they are themselves." -- Henri Frederic Amiel

Dreams by Lisa Zaran

Dreams  

It is later than late, 

the simmered down darkness 

of the jukebox hour. 

The hour of drunkenness 

and cigarettes. 

The fools hour. 

In my dreams, 

I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette. 

It's okay, I'm dreaming. 

In dreams, smoking can't kill me. 

It's warm outside. 

I have every window open. 

There's no such thing as danger, 

only the dangerous face of beauty. 

I am hanging at my window 

like a houseplant. 

I am smoking a cigarette. 

I am having a drink. 

The pale, blue moon is shining. 

The savage stars appear. 

Every fool that passes by 

smiles up at me. 

I drip ashes on them. 

There is music playing from somewhere. 

A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know 

any of the words to. 

There's a gentle breeze making 

hopscotch with my hair. 

This is the wet blanket air of midnight. 

This is the incremental hour. 

This is the plastic placemat of time 

between reality and make-believe. 

This is tabletop dream time. 

This is that faint stain on your mattress, 

the one you'll discover come morning, 

and wonder how. 

This is the monumental moment. 

The essential: look at me now. 

This is the hour. 

Isn't it lovely? Wake up the stars! 

Isn't it fabulous? Kiss the moon! 

Where is the clock? The one that 

always runs ahead. The one 

that always tries to crush me with 

its future.

 -Lisa Zaran