Everywhere I go.

It's Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah."





(L. Cohen)
Originally contained in Leonard Cohen's Various Positions

I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this :
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah...

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrough ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do ya
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Well, maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah...




So there they are. I've just read them for the first time. I feel like a plane's crashed into me. How fitting they are. I rarely watch TV, but twice these last few days-- once in the season 3 finale of West Wing in a montage, and once in whatever it is that precedes West Wing these days, again in a montage. An ongoing theme, whether I like it or not.

But it's far better than the wretched Rod Stewart ballad that's grinding my brain like low-quality corn meal.

Still. Still....


I got more done today than I usually do on my days off, though it still feels like very little. I talked to the lovely people at Dharma Trading, and ordered two burn-out velvet ruana blanks, and enough dye to go to town on them. I'll have to take pictures as I go; I have such lovely visions. One blue, one green. Well, mostly. We'll see how it actually goes. Sometimes, I have no faith in myself-- I need to work on that. Relentlessly, if need be. Dyework can be intricate and difficult, but it's not brain surgery. I have so many ideas-- will I be able to get them all down on the fabric? Can I ombre velvet? Will the pile take it? Can I salt it from the inside, and will it show up in the pile? If I dye and overdye and paint, how will the soda ash work? This is going to be interesting. I did a sketch for Nicki Jaine, and the figure looks so hideous I can't believe I drew it. I'm out of practise-- unforgiveably so.

Stress, stress. I will never understand my parents, they'll never understand me. If only I weren't so damned stubborn, I'd get that. I'm such an idealist, however, that I can't. How many times do we see THAT theme in my life?

And Josh Lyman could make me rethink my stance on guys in suits.