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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
 Posted - 06/14/2005 : 10:27:34
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Hell yes, "Creep" is romantic!
"You're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry, you float like a feather in a beautiful world"
and at the end "Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want, you're so fucking special..."
The music's not bad either.
 I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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Coldheartofstone
* Dog in the Sand *
Canada
2025 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 11:42:44
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AAAaahhh... L'amore.
I love that song, whenever I get drunk enough at karaoke I always do either that song or Brass in pocket.
If time is my vessel, then learning to love
Might be my way back to sea |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:15:20
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it's the "I want you to notice, when I'm not around" thats the clincher for me, a feeling everyone who has ever had a mad crush will undersand I think. I remember being mad keen on this guy at school and my whole day being fucked if he didn't turn up, or wasn't sat in his usual seat for biology class... aah crushes I miss them so.
Radiohead though, I love them so.
I get home from work and you're still standing in your dressing gown
Well what am I to do?
I know all the things around your head and what they do to you
What are we coming to?
What are we gonna do?
Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home
The troubled words of a troubled mind I try to understand what is eating you
I try to stay awake but its 58 hours since that I last slept with you
What are we coming to?
I just don't know anymore
Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home
I get on the train and I just stand about now that I don't think of you
I keep falling over I keep passing out when I see a face like you
What am I coming to?
I'm gonna melt down
Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home
This is killing me
This is killing me
.. this song kills me.
and beautiful KSR, just lovely gifts for the thread. |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:17:23
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I think I'm gonna cry.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:29:09
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Smooth, KSR, smooth!
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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Homers_pet_monkey
= Official forum monkey =
United Kingdom
17125 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:29:15
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quote:
Originally posted by starmekitten
it's the "I want you to notice, when I'm not around" thats the clincher for me, a feeling everyone who has ever had a mad crush will undersand I think.
Word sister.
Don't believe the type!
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Coldheartofstone
* Dog in the Sand *
Canada
2025 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:31:03
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quote:
Originally posted by KimStanleyRobinson
i no longer smoke.
she still does.
i always carried an old gold-plated Zippo.
while she was here, i gave it to her - as momento of sorts.
later that night, she was joking around...pushed it towards me lit.
"I'll set you on fire." she said.
"You already have."
she liked that.
Like butta
If time is my vessel, then learning to love
Might be my way back to sea |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:32:32
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buk esque, simple and to the point.
I like it.
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KimStanleyRobinson
* Dog in the Sand *
1972 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:37:19
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thanks. it was a rather buk-esque night actually...especially later on.
i just learned something. maybe i SHOULD listen to some later REM.
Star Me Kitten
Keys cut, three for the price of one.
Nothing’s free but guaranteed for a lifetime’s use.
I’ve changed the locks
And you can’t have one.
You, you know the other two.
The brakes have worn so thin that you could hear,
I hear them screeching through the door from our driveway.
Hey love, look into your glovebox heart.
What is there for me inside? This love is tired.
I’ve changed the locks. Have I misplaced you?
Have we lost our minds?
Will this never end?
It could depend on your take.
You. Me. We used to be on fire.
If keys are all that stand between,
Can I throw in the ring?
No gasoline.
Just fuck me kitten.
You are wild and I’m in your possession.
Nothing’s free so, fuck me kitten.
I’m in your possession.
So, fuck me kitten.
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Homers_pet_monkey
= Official forum monkey =
United Kingdom
17125 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:40:53
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quote:
Originally posted by KimStanleyRobinson
i just learned something. maybe i SHOULD listen to some later REM.
I think 'Up' is an excellent album but it got slated. 'At Your Most Beautiful' is a gorgeous song, with a really nice video too. I am sure that Kitty can recommend Up too.
(Hey Kitty, I own 11 REM albums now. I am catching you up)
Don't believe the type!
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:45:35
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Another song that's too painfully full of memories for me to listen to...
"I read bad poetry
into your machine
I save your messages
just to hear your voice.
you always listen carefully
to awkwards rhymes.
you always say your name.
like I wouldn't know it's you,
at your most beautiful.
I've found a way to make you
I've found a way
a way to make you smile
at my most beautiful
I count your eyelashes secretly.
with every one, whisper I love you.
I let you sleep..."
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:46:12
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Up is a great album, it arrived at the right time in my life, everyone knows the "I count your eyelashes, secretly" is just too sweet.
Daysleeper is ace and the susanne esque Hope is also great, CD change time I think! |
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Homers_pet_monkey
= Official forum monkey =
United Kingdom
17125 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 12:48:14
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quote:
Originally posted by starmekitten
Up is a great album, it arrived at the right time in my life, everyone knows the "I count your eyelashes, secretly" is just too sweet.
I still love you too Kitty.
Don't believe the type!
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:40:15
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quote:
Originally posted by hawken
You can't truly love someone you don't know.
I disagree. You can be totally passionately in love with someone you don't know.
It's ever better that way.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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Surfer Rosa
> Teenager of the Year <
4209 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:41:48
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| Sometimes it's that you don't know just how much of an asshole they are that makes you love them more. |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:51:16
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And other times, it's how big an asshole they are that makes you
love them even more. This is called masochism and I am so very
good at it.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:54:57
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I'm sensing cynicism in the romance thread!
Looking out the door
I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners
Parading in a wake of sad relations
As their shoes fill up with water
And maybe I'm too young
To keep good love from going wrong
But tonight, you're on my mind so
you never know
Broken down and hungry for your love
With no way to feed it
Where are you tonight?
Child, you know how much I need it.
Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run
Sometimes a man gets carried away,
When he feels like he should be having his fun
Much too blind to see the damage he's done
Sometimes a man must awake to find that, really,
He has no-one...
So I'll wait for you... And I'll burn
Will I ever see your sweet return,
Oh, will I ever learn?
Oh, Lover, you should've come over
Cause it's not too late.
Lonely is the room the bed is made
The open window lets the rain in
Burning in the corner is the only one
Who dreams he had you with him
My body turns and yearns for a sleep
That won't ever come
It's never over,
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's never over, all my riches for her smiles
when I slept so soft against her...
It's never over,
All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It's never over, she's the tear
That hangs inside my soul forever
Oh, but maybe I'm just too young to keep good love
From going wrong
Oh... lover you should've come over...
Yes, (I) feel too young to hold on
I'm much too old to break free and run
Too deaf, dumb, and blind
To see the damage I've done
Sweet lover, you should've come over
Oh, love I'm waiting for you
Lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late.
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Surfer Rosa
> Teenager of the Year <
4209 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:55:10
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I believe I'm familiar with it too - the masochism (and the cynicism most definitely of late).
Back onto the romance though, can anyone here define it? Is it the pain and suffering, is it flowers and chocolates or is it simply just love and how you choose to express it? |
Edited by - Surfer Rosa on 06/14/2005 14:59:23 |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 14:57:05
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Ahh masochism!!
Sorry.
To answer Surfer's question, romance, for me, is expressing love via thoughtful, sweet gestures and doing little things to make the other person happy.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
Edited by - kathryn on 06/14/2005 15:01:29 |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 15:06:41
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d) all of the above?
Sorry non too descriptive, very late very tired, and on top form I could write an essay on this. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the cynicism will have crept back, depends on if the suns out and I have contaminated my culture media and have to start again. |
Edited by - starmekitten on 06/14/2005 15:11:33 |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 15:28:42
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can't... leave..... alone....
My dad bought me a book of stories when I was young and this was the first story, I finished it and never read the rest of the book, I wept like an idiot. I'm sorry for the length of the thing.
SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
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ElevatorLady
= Cult of Ray =
385 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 15:46:18
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quote:
Originally posted by speedy_m
Dude is hurting. Women are a riddle. If we ever figure them out, I think the universe will collapse, and the whole thing will start again.
Men are a fucking riddle. I don't fucking get them. |
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ElevatorLady
= Cult of Ray =
385 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 15:47:38
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Sorry for all the curse words. I'm just so fucking pissed off.
Romance shro- oh, whatever. |
Edited by - ElevatorLady on 06/14/2005 15:48:40 |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 06/14/2005 : 17:48:55
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Bad night in Romance Land, Elevator Lady?
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Catholics |
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Carolynanna
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Canada
6556 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 06:06:16
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quote:
Originally posted by ElevatorLady
quote:
Originally posted by speedy_m
Dude is hurting. Women are a riddle. If we ever figure them out, I think the universe will collapse, and the whole thing will start again.
Men are a fucking riddle. I don't fucking get them.
The riddle is that they are too easy to get...
__________
Don't believe the hype. |
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Joey Joe Jo Jr. Chabadoo
* Dog in the Sand *
1079 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 06:12:04
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Starmekitten.
Men who cry..
Born to be (Oscar) Wilde...
I surrender body and soul to our Lord Saviour |
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whoreatthedoor
> Teenager of the Year <
Spain
2873 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 08:24:53
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quote:
Originally posted by Surfer Rosa
Sometimes it's that you don't know just how much of an asshole they are that makes you love them more.
Remember, you never, listen to me, NEVER fall in love with someone, you fall in love with the little idea in your head about that person, so it doesn't matter at all if it's real or only an illusion.
El amor es la distancia más larga entre un punto y otro |
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Surfer Rosa
> Teenager of the Year <
4209 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 08:29:05
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quote:
Originally posted by whoreatthedoor
quote:
Originally posted by Surfer Rosa
Sometimes it's that you don't know just how much of an asshole they are that makes you love them more.
Remember, you never, listen to me, NEVER fall in love with someone, you fall in love with the little idea in your head about that person, so it doesn't matter at all if it's real or only an illusion.
El amor es la distancia más larga entre un punto y otro
Then my ideas are fucked up. |
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whoreatthedoor
> Teenager of the Year <
Spain
2873 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 08:43:35
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Not necessarily, darling.
El amor es la distancia más larga entre un punto y otro |
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 09:27:05
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| Whilst I believe you are correct there Xavi and that everyone projects ideals onto objects of love you're sounding a little cynical there and if there was ever a thread for sugar coating, it's this one. |
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whoreatthedoor
> Teenager of the Year <
Spain
2873 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 11:39:58
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Nothing cynical in my comment, kittie.
It's the way how love works, and it's a beautiful way, because you're throwing in there part of yourself, of your dreams, your hopes, your imagination. It's wonderful, it's LOVE!
El amor es la distancia más larga entre un punto y otro |
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Surfer Rosa
> Teenager of the Year <
4209 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 13:11:53
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| Good save Xavi. |
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VoVat
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
USA
9168 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 21:46:10
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quote:
Originally posted by jediroller
Wot di fuk?
How fucking romantic!
I think romance is a somewhat relative thing. Different people can see different things as romantic. I can say that I don't see myself as particularly romantic. It's just difficult for me.
I'll endeavor to provide some romance for this thread, though.
I was all out of luck, like a duck that died. I was all out of juice, like a moose denied. |
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floop
= Wannabe Volunteer =
Mexico
15297 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 21:59:44
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 06/15/2005 : 23:08:03
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I despair.
The easiest way to sleep at night is to carry on believing that I don't exist |
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Topic |
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Romance
