⎡So there was this woman and she was on
an airplane, and she was flying to meet her fiancé seaming high above
the largest ocean on planet Earth. She was seated next to this man, who... she
had tried to start conversations, but the only thing she had really
heard... him say was to order his Bloody Mary. She was sitting there and
she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world
country that she couldn’t even pronounce the name of. And she was
feeling very bored and very despondent. And then suddenly there was this huge
mechanical failure and one of the engines gave out, and they started
just falling thirty-thousand feet, and the pilots on the microphone and
he’s saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh my god... I'm sorry” and
apologizing. And she looks at the man and says “Where are we going?” and
he looks at her and he says “We’re going to a party. It’s a birthday
party. It’s your birthday party. Happy birthday darling. We love you
very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.” And then he starts
humming this little tune, it kind of goes like this: 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4.
We must talk in every telephone, get eaten off the web. We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read and in the face of every criminal strapped firmly to a chair we must stare, we must stare, we must stare. We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell. Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell, and in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream we must sing, we must sing, we must sing.
It’ll go like this: while my mother waters plants, my father loads his guns. He says death will give us back to God, just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean. And then they splashed into the deep blue sea. Oh it was a wonderful splash. We must blend into the choir, sing as static with the whole. We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul and in this endless race for property and privilege to be won we must run, we must run, we must run.
We must hang up in the belfry where the bats and moonlight laugh. We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past. And in the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge. And then we’ll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything. And then we’ll see it, oh we’ll see it, we’ll see it, we’ll see it. Oh my morning's coming back. The whole world’s waking up all the city buses swimming past. I’m happy just because I found out I am really no one.⎦
*North by Northwest, Alfred Hitchcock, 1959. Sean Trubidy, 2011 [más aquí].
We must talk in every telephone, get eaten off the web. We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read and in the face of every criminal strapped firmly to a chair we must stare, we must stare, we must stare. We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell. Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell, and in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream we must sing, we must sing, we must sing.
It’ll go like this: while my mother waters plants, my father loads his guns. He says death will give us back to God, just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean. And then they splashed into the deep blue sea. Oh it was a wonderful splash. We must blend into the choir, sing as static with the whole. We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul and in this endless race for property and privilege to be won we must run, we must run, we must run.
We must hang up in the belfry where the bats and moonlight laugh. We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past. And in the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge. And then we’ll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything. And then we’ll see it, oh we’ll see it, we’ll see it, we’ll see it. Oh my morning's coming back. The whole world’s waking up all the city buses swimming past. I’m happy just because I found out I am really no one.⎦
*North by Northwest, Alfred Hitchcock, 1959. Sean Trubidy, 2011 [más aquí].
*South by Southwest Music and Media Conference [SXSW], Austin, 2012.
* At the bottom of everything. Bright Eyes, 2005.
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