And connie sums up the likely scenario.
I am chuffed like a chuffed thing, in a sort of weepy way. Just wrote the first song lyrics I've written in nearly a quarter century. Fiddling with guitars acoustic and electric to see what sings.
song lyrics:
CRY FOR MEMORY
Cleaning out my closet, cleaning out my heart
I'd clean out my memory banks but I don't know where to start.
So much dust and mystery all that lovely history
I can't really seem to see a seam to pry apart
Cry for memory.
Once I thought I knew you, once I saved your ass
Fed your cat and loved you, love, believed that we would last
So much back there to regret I can't quite relinquish yet
Thirty years, I can't forget you colour all my past
Cry for memory.
Chorous:
If, if, what if, had I done this or you done that
I don't see a difference in the end we'd both still be gone
How much of us was wasted, how much of us a lie?
How much of what I couldn't keep was 'cause I didn't try?
And when I broke and when I ran I didn't really understand
That when I left behind the man I lost the right to cry
Cry for memory.
If I had a single wish just for old time's sake
I think I'd choose just one more day a clean whole heart to break
Maybe someday I can say "I got it back, and it's OK:
You never loved me anyway"
Just one lie for both our sake
Cry for memory.
"You're not...opposed to dry-cleaning or anything, right?"
"No, Senator, not in the least..."
"You have five minutes."
erika, at least I have enough fashion sense to not show up in a Gap dress and cheap thong knickers.
I mean, really.
edit: and if it takes me five minutes, I'm losing my touch.
Heee, deb. But, seriously, beautiful lyrics. I can't wait to hear the actual song.
I had an old memory float up at me in the dentist's chair today. Can't even place it, but I spent the years before school in many evaluations and stuff...could be any of them. But some part of me said "I'll be good. Just let me go home." which is not a grown thought. Still a little confused/upset.
ETA: Ha, Deb.
erika, memory is the fucking Wicked Witch of the West, as far as I'm concerned.
I thought I didn't really remember those things except for, if I am at the doctor, I probably passed a frog or something.
Something did(remember, not spit frogs)
Memory is a bitch and a bully and sadist, and I mean none of those words in a porny way.
Memory, right now, is like Jerry Garcia's song, "The Wheel":
The wheel is turning and you can't slow down
you can't let go and you can't hold on
you can't go back and you can't stand still
if the thunder don't get you, then the lightning will
Memory can kiss my arse. Not saying it can bite me, since it's been tearing huge gobbets of flesh out of me for awhile.
Rant over. Someone write something.
Something called for me in the night,
Something dark, something with bite.
It took me and held me and gave me great pain,
Until I held it and matched it and gave it a name.
Memory.
