funeral music

[audio:igaer.mp3]
(Sigur Ros – í gær)

Yes, long time, blah blah…ten dollar doesn’t get you far these days.

I was listening to Sigur Ros and thinking what great stuff it would be to play at a funeral. Is that morbid? I think not….funerals are generally sucky things, and made all the more sucky by the pallid, and uninspired crap that gets played as the bodybox is shunted behind the curtain.
Think about it, Sigur Ros… gentle, contemplative, with a thrumming edge of possibility, building to a crescendo of RAHHHHH-ness.
I’d like to think death is like that.

It probably isn’t. It’s probably very disappointing.

A thought that often crosses my mind, randomly, is that life may well be all we have, and death may be total shite. A gobbet of thought that as inspired countless movie plots, and erm, soap operas. Generally, it provokes someone to a new lease of life. That realisation that what we have, here now could be it, so why not seize it? Fear nothing…

Trouble is…I think that, and then just, well, can’t be arsed.

Life. It is not like the movies.
If anyone would like to volunteer to be my scriptwriter, it would make things easier.

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the divine mockery of words

Its quite a moon. I am a little lost in it. Not in a bad way, although the line between good and bad is a little blurry on nights like these… things just, are…

This is what I am drinking to keep the ghosts away:

Its the key ingredients of the Darkarita!

Viz:

The Darkarita

  • A jigger of Sauza Tequila Blanco
  • A small jigger (pony) of Cointreau
  • A splash of Blue Curacao (for the darkness you know, plus drinking blue stuff makes me smirk)
  • A healthy squoosh of fresh lime (about a third of a small lime but go with your tastebuds)
  • A smidgen of lemon juice (just a brief squeeze)
  • half teaspoon of palm sugar
  • Coarse ground salt

Chuck everything but the salt in a blender, with ice, blast the hell out of it.
Rub lime juice around the rim of the glass, grind the glass into a saucer of salt so the rim is coated. Pour tasty goodness into glass. Sit back and be endarkened.

So now you know the secrets of my success. Ignore. Avoid. Hide in the cellar until they go away. Scraping fingers at handle, whispers, curses.
Its a waiting game. Its only when you’re relatively sane that you know that they do go away, eventually, and you just have to let it play out. The ghost dance in your head. Some of you will understand what I’m talking about, some of you won’t. It doesn’t matter. The divine mockery of words…