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Wouldn't you miss me at all?
Jul. 11th, 2006 05:46 pmSurely by now everyone has heard that Pink Floyd legend and drugged out crazy guy Syd Barrett Screamed his last Scream a few days ago. The news story broke today. I cried when I heard it, for I have always loved Syd.
Like many people I know, Syd was moody and difficult to work with. He medicated his otherwise untreated mental illness with more drugs than even I could shake a stick at. He had little capacity to appreciate other people and was sometimes thoughtless, careless, or did downright dangerous shit. One time he crushed up a whole bunch of mescaline and put it in his hair with pomade before going onstage. Yikes!
And he was a creative genius. Funny how that works. But through Syd, people (or at least me, I) learned that so-called creative genius is how people label the ability to look at the world without being daunted by the bindings of normality, societal expectations, or the need to please (or should I say appease) the masses.
THE SCARECROW
The black and green scarecrow as everyone knows
Stood with a bird on his hat and straw everywhere.
He didn't care.
He stood in a field where barley grows.
His head did no thinking
His arms didn't move except when the wind cut up
Rough and mice ran around on the ground
He stood in a field where barley grows.
The black and green scarecrow is sadder than me
But now he's resigned to his fate
'Cause life's not unkind - he doesn't mind.
He stood in a field where barley grows.
Whether he sang about bicycles, fruit, lousy pot, cross dressing, elephants, or all out insanity, Syd was way ahead of his time and too beautiful for this world. I shall miss you Syd, even though I don't feel quite ready to assume the title or craziest drug addled genius who writes all night and sleeps all day. On second thought, maybe I am.
In other news, jobs are coming to town. Hundreds of them. Maybe I can google myself one.
You know what? Here's one more:
IT IS OBVIOUS
It is obvious
may I say, oh baby, that it is found on another plane?
Yes I can creep into cupboards, sleep in the hall
your stars - my stars, a simple cot bars
only an impulse - pie in the sky
mumble listen dolly
drift over your mind - holly
creep into bed when your head's on the ground
she held the torch on the porch,
she winked an eye
Reason it is written on the brambles
stranded on the spikes - my blood red, oh listen:
remember those times I could call
through the clear day
time you'd be there...
'nd braver and braver, a handkerchief waver
the louder you lips to a loud hailer
growing together, they good of each either
no wondering, stumbling, fumbling
rumbling minds shot together,
our minds shot together...
So equally over a valley, a hill
wood on quarry stood, each of us crying
a velvet curtain of gray
mark the blanket where the sparrows play
and the trees by the waving corn stranded
my legs move the last empty inches to you
the softness, the warmth from the weather in suspense
mote to a grog - the star a white chalk
minds shot together, our minds shot together...
Like many people I know, Syd was moody and difficult to work with. He medicated his otherwise untreated mental illness with more drugs than even I could shake a stick at. He had little capacity to appreciate other people and was sometimes thoughtless, careless, or did downright dangerous shit. One time he crushed up a whole bunch of mescaline and put it in his hair with pomade before going onstage. Yikes!
And he was a creative genius. Funny how that works. But through Syd, people (or at least me, I) learned that so-called creative genius is how people label the ability to look at the world without being daunted by the bindings of normality, societal expectations, or the need to please (or should I say appease) the masses.
The black and green scarecrow as everyone knows
Stood with a bird on his hat and straw everywhere.
He didn't care.
He stood in a field where barley grows.
His head did no thinking
His arms didn't move except when the wind cut up
Rough and mice ran around on the ground
He stood in a field where barley grows.
The black and green scarecrow is sadder than me
But now he's resigned to his fate
'Cause life's not unkind - he doesn't mind.
He stood in a field where barley grows.
Whether he sang about bicycles, fruit, lousy pot, cross dressing, elephants, or all out insanity, Syd was way ahead of his time and too beautiful for this world. I shall miss you Syd, even though I don't feel quite ready to assume the title or craziest drug addled genius who writes all night and sleeps all day. On second thought, maybe I am.
In other news, jobs are coming to town. Hundreds of them. Maybe I can google myself one.
You know what? Here's one more:
It is obvious
may I say, oh baby, that it is found on another plane?
Yes I can creep into cupboards, sleep in the hall
your stars - my stars, a simple cot bars
only an impulse - pie in the sky
mumble listen dolly
drift over your mind - holly
creep into bed when your head's on the ground
she held the torch on the porch,
she winked an eye
Reason it is written on the brambles
stranded on the spikes - my blood red, oh listen:
remember those times I could call
through the clear day
time you'd be there...
'nd braver and braver, a handkerchief waver
the louder you lips to a loud hailer
growing together, they good of each either
no wondering, stumbling, fumbling
rumbling minds shot together,
our minds shot together...
So equally over a valley, a hill
wood on quarry stood, each of us crying
a velvet curtain of gray
mark the blanket where the sparrows play
and the trees by the waving corn stranded
my legs move the last empty inches to you
the softness, the warmth from the weather in suspense
mote to a grog - the star a white chalk
minds shot together, our minds shot together...
