All This & Heaven, Florence + the Machine.

And the heart is hard to translate, it has a language of its own.  It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, in prayers and proclamations, in the grand days of great men in the smallest of gestures, in short shallow gasps.  But with all my education, I can’t seem to command it.  And the words are all escaping me and coming back all damaged.  And I would put them back in poetry, if I only knew how.  I can’t seem to understand it and I would give all this and heaven too, I would give it all if only for a moment that I could just understand the meaning of the word, you see, because I’ve been scrawling it forever, but it never makes sense to me, at all.  And it talks to me on tiptoes, and sings to me inside, it cries out in the darkest night, and breaks in the morning light.  But with all my education, I can’t seem to command it.  And the words are all escaping me and coming back all damaged.  And I would put them back in poetry, if I only knew how.  I can’t seem to understand it and I would give all this and heaven too, I would give it all if only for a moment that I could just understand the meaning of the word, you see, because I’ve been scrawling it forever, but it never makes sense to me, at all.  And I would give all this and heaven too, I would give it all if only for a moment that I could just understand the meaning of the word, you see, because I’ve been scrawling it forever, but it never makes sense to me, at all.  No words, a whole language, doesn’t deserve such treatment, and all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling.  All this heaven… never could describe such a feeling as I hear… words were never so useful so I’m screaming out a language that I never knew existed before.

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Blinding, Florence + the Machine.

Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state.  A tourist in the waking world never quite awake.  No kiss, no gentle word, could wake me from this slumber, until I realize that it was you who held me under.  Felt in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids; shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs.  No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone.  No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden.  No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like girl so in love with the wrong world.  And I could hear the thunder and see the lightening crack, and all around the world was waking, I never could go back cuz all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open, and finally it seemed that the spell was broken.  And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open; and all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open.  No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone.  No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden.  No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.  Snow White’s stitching up the circuit board, synapse slipping through the hidden door, Snow White’s stitching up the circuit board.  No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone.  No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden.  No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love; no more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.  Snow White’s stitching up the circuit boards, synapse slipping through the hidden door, Snow White’s stitching up the circuit boards, synapse slipping through the hidden door.

Florence.

I am listening to Florence + the Machine and feel as if the music is pouring through my body.  I can imagine the notes tumbling out of the speakers and falling head first into my ears.  Each note gracefully makes its way through my ear drums and causes a nervous reaction in my brain.  Small circuits of electricity fire as the drums from “Cosmic Love” pound; the twinkling ignites images of blue static and soft glows behind my corneas; the harp sends spiraling shivers through my extremities.  It registers in my emotional center, and a part of me wants to dance a tribal rhythm out, pounding my bare feet upon the floor, but then the controlled self that simply harnesses that energy and focuses it into an intellectual dance as my fingers fly across the keyboard pounding out alpha numeric steps.

It is intriguing that the two songs that I crave are “Cosmic Love” and “My Boy Builds Coffins.”  Both songs have strong percussion.  Each song, though, uses percussion in different ways.  One is the heartbeat to the song, giving life to the experience.  The other drives the lyrics swiftly forward, leaving little room for breath or acknowledgement, almost as if she is singing these words in the last moments before eternal sleep.  I cannot help the shivers that run through my spine as each of these songs progress to a climatic moment.  Florence Welch, with soulful voice and devastating honesty, belts out secret truth, an unknown puzzle come together, from deep within me: “The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out, you left me in the dark.  No dawn, no day, I’m always in this twilight, in the shadow of your heart.”

“Cosmic Love” has been a favorite of mine since first listen.  The music echoes what I feel; the words wrap around my head and my heart, responding to a deep knowledge, something intrinsic, unintelligible, inexplicable.  “My Boy Builds Coffins” has poetry in the music, with plucking guitar rhythms and constant percussion, it spins circles in my mind, answering thoughts with confusing roundabouts and circular wordplay.  It is these features that have led me to Florence’s altar of beauty.  Her words, her music, her heart and soul that manifest itself; these call to me like a lonesome song in the midst of a dark night.  (“I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too, so I stayed in the darkness with you.“)  And the beauty reminds me again and again that I need to let go of my ghosts.  Her boy builds coffins, he makes them all day, he made one for himself, and one for her, and one day he’ll make one for me.

SUGGESTIONS XV.

Florence + the Machine, He is We, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and Patrick Stump…

Florence + the Machine.

Those who know me know that I am stubborn.  For example, when the Harry Potter books began circulating, and people were beginning to consider them as one of the greatest series in literary history, my friend tried to get me to read them.  She had read them and loved them and expressed to me that I would fall head over heels for the books, the characters, the adventures.  My mom and my sister were also on board, and trying to pull me up out of the water constantly saying how much I would love J.K. Rowling‘s writing.  I balked, I backed away, I shook my head no, and ran from the idea of picking something up just because everyone on the planet was reading it.  I had no interest in it before, so why should I read something just because the world was turning page after page of something?  Despite being relatively self-aware and not really caring if people think I am a pretentious poser, I still fall into the trappings of having low self-esteem.  Did I want people thinking that I was doing something just because of the rest of world was doing it?  Hell no.  I held off for as long as I could before casually picking up the first book and devouring it in a day.  Thus started my obsession with Harry Potter.

What does this have to do with Florence Welch and her machine?