Have you seen this FB challenge: ten albums that changed/ influenced my life – actually you can remove ‘album’ & replace it with books, movies, poems, paintings, sex partners (for those of us who are willing to admit they’ve had enough sex partners to pick ten from) & finally: ten lists that have changed my life.
I’ve been tagged on some of these but never play along. It’s not that I don’t have favourites or that there aren’t things that have changed my life. I’m just sure what ‘changed my life’ means anyway. It’s not as if I can name a movie, book etc that turned me gay – there have been some that have confirmed that fact but none that are responsible.
Some things have unconsciously affected my tastes but this I only see in retrospect. Always wonder how, say, Hercules’s junk stayed under his tunic even when he was wrestling a lion – certainly had an affect 🙂 How it was that women would be naked for sex while the men often were fully clothed? No fly opens wide enough to actually fuck pleasurably. Stuff like that is where movies changed my life.
oh yes – 10 albums/musicians that influence my music tastes: 1. Stanley Black’s recording of Rhapsody in Blue; 2. Pizzicato 5; 3. Yes: Tales From Topographic Oceans; 3. John Coltrane: Blue Train & 4. A Love Divine; 5. Miles Davis: Kind of Blue, 6. Bitch’s Brew; 7. Beatles: Revolver & 8. Sgt. Pepper; 9. Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies; 10. Meco: Star Wars. Oh wait I forgot ….
I have blogged here about many of my inspirations: writers, composers, painters. There’s a post in the archives of movies I watch over & over. There’s a difference between inspiration & pleasure. Not everything has to have some sort of emotional, creative weight to bring me joy. In fact nothing everything has to be ‘good’ either, it can be fun. I freely admit my shallowness 🙂
Or perhaps this list itch is a way if people exercising some sort of control in a time when we fear the world is spinning out of control.
sticky on my fingers
quick to cool
iron on my tongue
red black thin
not enough to feel warmth
enough to know I have cut
not where anyone can see it
I don’t cut for attention
no marks along my arms or wrists
no mesh of scars to explain
to haunt me years later
I don’t remember how it started
was it to see some blood
or a need to make me hurt
a grounding in shame
take that you stupid idiot
teach my body a lesson
teach my heart a song
let it sing that small drip refrain
I wash my hands when I’m done
watch the healing
then forget the ceremony
even for years
before I am compelled once more
to feel my blood
sticky ripe between pale fingers
it smells the same
tastes the same
still comes as eagerly when called
by the blade
as I evoke
a few confirming drops of my self
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