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Sylvie and Jack

28 · Aug · 2002

I started writing this song about my own experience of meeting someone who was entirely wrong for me that I found immensely charming and attractive. I am probably equally split in my personality concerning matters of romance.

One side of me imagines a man proposing to me in front of the world because he wants everyone to know about our great love! He miraculously knows me, inside and out; and his kisses leave me feeling happily drugged. But the other half of me is highly skeptical.

I meet men that, as I said, I find attractive in appearance and wit, but I don't even bother to get to know them because I figure I've seen enough of what heartache love can bring. I've left too many parties without even having carried on a conversation with the one man in the room I was interested in.

Anyway, as I continued on with the song, it took on an odd Irish feel. I could picture my great grandmother and my grandfather going through the same things I have. What if we all never took a chance on love? The fear of failure has got to be the most used excuse for single persons who wish they weren't. The only way anyone ever finds romantic love, is if they put themselves out there.

Right. That is my flimsy excuse for this song. I like to think of it as new Irish folk music. Maybe someday, we'll all get together and sing it around an old piano while we smile rosy smiles and slap each other on the back. I can hope, can't I?

_________________________________________

Sylvie & Jack

sylvie was pretty, the dark raven kind
'Twas said her love's more potent than wine
and jack, he was quick with his wit and a smile
though getting the girl, always took him a a while

a friend of a friend, a game and some drinks
enough time to admit what they really think
on the tip of her lips was the truth in a joke
but the hint can't be caught by any old bloke

(chorus)
she sang
i am cool water and you are calm
i could be with you but not for long
just a comfort to know you're not alone
i want to stay, but maybe i'll just go home

he lit a smoke he had tucked by his ear
she was feeling her drink, but what should she fear?
there's no logic sometimes, in desires we feel
and it's hard to say which ones are for real

there was something about the soft tone of his voice
how the cricket's outside were no longer noise
the space between them grew thin and alive
he tried to gain strength by closing his eyes

he prayed
(chorus)
i am cool water and you are calm
i could be with you but not for long
just a comfort to know you're not alone
i want to stay, but maybe i'll just go home

well you know the rest, or you think that you do
cause this little story's familiar to you
they loved and they lost and gave up the ghost
cause in love you think there's no reason to hope

yes, gave up- they did, on running away
dear jack and sylivie found reason to stay
fifty years on, they sing the songs of their youth
altered a bit, for what's now the truth

(chorus)
i am cool water and you are calm
i will be with you forever, for long
such a comfort to know we're not alone
i want to stay, now that i am home

there's no logic sometimes, in the things that we feel
and those who run can't know what's real

fa la la
fa la la la la la
fa la la
fa la la la la la

penny rene'

Posted by Penny Rene at 09:49 PM

A Many Splintered Thing

14 · Aug · 2002

Love.
A many splendored thing.
A many splintered thing.
Many cindered things.
My how it stings.

Today I got a full body massage, a perk of my new job at a Spa. I have never received such a personal service from a stranger, but I was so stressed and in such need of attention, I minded less than I might've otherwise. It so happened that the music playing at the time was of an exotic and somehow familiar nature and the combination of stimuli opened a vault of memory and imagination in my mind. For a while, I thought of my childhood. I imagined my body as a map and tried to think of each body part as a separate entity explaining itself. For example, if my shoulder could talk - where would it say it had been? This was amusing at first, knowing that if my shoulders could talk, there would be serious complaints. And you can guess other things my feet may have said and so on.

But when the therapist began to massage my hand, my eyes flew open in alarm. I can't explain why, but this was a little uncomfortable for me. My hands have rarely ever been touched, held or nudged, without automatically responding back. I had to concentrate to keep my fingers relaxed. The stories that even my eyes could tell, were nothing in comparison to my hands. Memories shot around my head like ricocheting bullets. There were scenes of childhood friends, my father's arms on his recliner, my mother's perfectly manicured nails, the memory of the feel of someone's closed eyes, my niece's hair when she was two, and indentions the cement made while I leaned on my palms in the driveway of a house I haven't occupied in 16 years. But the clincher memories were of other hands reaching to hold mine. Love made and love lost.

This is what my hands said. This is what they believe to be their greatest work: reaching across a table and resting softly with the hand of another. I have made this simple gesture to so few people. And yet, I can remember nearly every time someone has reached out to me. There is something in taking a hand over a table, knowing everyone will see. It reveals a brave vulnerability that clasping hands while walking or sitting side by side cannot.

Sometimes when a person I know is hurting and they sit across from me talking about their worries, they say it with a smile. To joke about our depression is one way we stay sane. And having a lot of young, single friends, a couple or eight drinks are also means of escape. Though I completely get that everybody handles their sadness in their own way, I have suppressed my urge to take their hand or touch their face so many times. Love is either taken too lightly or too romantically these days. I hope that changes so that one day I can sit across from you and say "But I love you, OK?" without even opening my mouth.
penny rene'
__________________________________________
second summer skin

you are my second summer skin
and the one i need when winter begins
snowflake on my tongue, perspiration on my lip
salty and chilled, every part of this
so much better with you than without
just once i need to say it out loud
i love you

you are the ache in my hard heart
so lovingly, you can tear me apart
angel teaching me to give up being right
together alone through the night
you are my second summer skin

and the one i need when winter begins
snowflake on my tongue, perspiration on my lip
salty and chilled, every part of this
i should be with not without
this once i need to say it out loud
i love you

penny rené

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