Found myself singing Morrissey's Pashernate Love as I took my constitutional stroll today in the wind and rain:
Pashernate love
In any form
Whether real or a dream
Pashernate love
Could make your sister erupt
Into wild blisters and boils
Oh, as for me
It still doesn't understand me
It wouldn't lay one single finger on me
Pashernate love
Could make your grandmother zoom
Roller-skating back from the grave
Pashernate love
Could make your old daddy feel
Like he may have a reason to live
Oh, as for me
It still doesn't understand me
And it wouldn't lay one single finger on me
I'm always there
It's always elsewhere
Whoah, pashernate love
Oh, where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Where are you ?
Does he really sing that about your grandmother rollerskating back from the grave? I'll have to listen to the song again. It's never sounded like that to me, but then, I could never quite make out what he sings at that point.
I've been having intense conversations with a pack of Eno's oblique strategies cards that I am currently looking after. I asked what love is and the answer was very poetic:
"Always first steps".
I've also been trying out 'the headless way' since reading a book called On Having No Head. At zero distance my body is surmounted not by a head, but by space, and specifically by the entire sensual world that fills that space. And that is 'who I am'. Still, in all the trees and the wind and the river and clouds and sky that replaces the lie that was my head and becomes who I am, where, exactly, is love? This has become a question of keen interest for me. Is it something or is it nothing?
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
