by Rochelle Del Borrello
There have been better days than now,
felt less lost and confused
not so sad or deflated
I wish for one of those
better days instead of smack
bang in one of the worst ones.
Nothing going right
love went to waste
efforts all worthless
and so, so far away
from everyone I love.
The hurt comes in tears
that bastard blows up in
your face,
whether you like it or not
that emotion's going to come
knock you over and make you
I wish for better days.
They will come; be patient.
I blew you a kiss even though I wanted to give you a real one.
I turned around and walked away.
Heartbroken.
I wish you’d followed me.
I never wanted to hurt you, but I think I did.
I was so stupid and naive, I never saw you.
Actually I thought you didn’t like me.
It is frightening to bare your heart,
declare your feelings.
Most people are afraid
when it comes to big feelings.
Was I really that intimidating?
Couldn’t you have said something.
Why was I so blind?
Why did I have to fuck up my life so much?
Now we are so far from one another.
I don’t know if I can pull myself out of the hole I’ve dug.
I need to get out of this pit because no one is coming to rescue me.
And you don’t even know how much I ache for you.
I’m surely damned.
I prefer talking to myself rather than talking about other people.
It's nice to see others doing well, but the rest of someone's life is none of my business.
Gossip is the home of people who do too little and criticise too much.
That little green-eyed monster
filled with venomous envy
leave it in its own poison.
It's best to avoid talking about others.
I converse with myself, pen and paper or fingers and keyboard
a tête-à-tête with lense and aperture or paint and brush.
An opinion expressed to the full is the most fulfilling
element to life,
completing thoughts that steadily tick over in the mind
these are the things that interest me.
When it comes to music I have a clumsy knack of accidentally discovering things by mistake. I come from a working-class family of Italian migrants whose main concern was work. The most precious gifts my parents and grandparents gave me was the freedom to experience art, music and words. I never had anyone telling me what to listen to, read, or watch, I’ve discovered everything with blissful randomness.
I came into contact with opera and classical music one Sunday afternoon as a bored twelve-year-old channel surfing on the t.v during school holidays in Australia. I stumbled upon a live Met opera broadcast on the ABC network and it has never left my memory ever since. Twirling through the radio channels on my old stereo made me find ABC Classic FM, a radio station dedicated to classical music, which educated me on all sub-genres of this complex type of music, up until my mid-twenties when I moved to Italy and sadly lost this soundtrack to my life.
I first heard the American beat poet Allen Ginsberg performing his Ballad of the Skeletons on Australian Triple J radio station, the year that he died, which lead me to Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith and an entire generation of artists I didn’t know existed.
I heard Roy Orbison when his final album came out in 1988, warbling out You Got it, I fell for his ephemeral voice and slowly worked my way backwards through the catalogue of one of the founding fathers of Rock and Roll, gathering an understanding of everyone from Elvis Presley, to Charlie Perkins, Johnny Cash and the Grand Old Opry.
The Travelling Wilbury’s lead me to the songbooks of Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, George Harrison and Jeff Lynn. Which led me to Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello and Tom Waits all in a natural organic progression through American and British rock.
I discovered musicals also from the t.v watching Sunday afternoon re-runs of classics from Gene Kelly’s American in Paris, Singing in the Rain to Mary Poppins, the Sound of music, Carousel, Seven brides for seven brothers, Brigadoon, The Wizard of Oz and a whole universe of stories.
I’m eternally grateful for late-night classic movie re-runs which gave me the joy of witnessing Fred Astair’s fancy footwork and amazing works of art performed by amazing actors like Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall, Peter Lorre, Charles Laughton, Peter Ustinov, Charlton Heston, Kurt Douglas, James Stewart, Vivien Leigh, Bette Davis and the endless stars in a galaxy who shone so brightly in the now classic Hollywood style. But then that’s a whole other story.
Today my playlist is a motley succession of artists from Icelandic princess Bjork, to the hauntingly addictive voice of Thom York, the beautifully retro sound of Amy Winehouse, the original power of Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and equally powerful Florence Welch. And this will change according to my moods, the seasons and whatever else I may be thinking of, consuming or witnessing in the world.
There is precious little pop in my listening unless, despite the best of my ability, I find something too catchy to ignore or become transfixed on a chorus or a tune, but it soon works its way out of my system.
I’m Australian so I grew up with some great lyricists playing on my radio including Nick Cave, Paul Kelly, Missy Higgins and Gotye.
The haphazard habit of discovery continues today when I am suddenly struck by the unique sound of someone like Billie Ellish or Grace Vander Wall.
There was a period of my life where I forgot about music. As is the case with grief, loss or trauma, your body goes numb and you kind of phase-out of the world completely as you take time to heal your heart and slightly damaged soul. For a moment listening to music was painful. But eventually, the music came back, it eventually does as you begin to live again. Music has helped me immensely to keep going despite great sadness and holds up many of us.
Words and music have been the two things that have helped me through life. Music reminds us we are never alone, that we are each a part of a wonderful story which is, in turn, a part of ourselves. Our emotions are the same as everyone's, and our experiences contribute to this collective knowledge which grows and continues beyond us. Music is a part of the universal language of love, compassion, emotion and humanity which sustains us all.
I live in Italy now and I’m fascinated by the sounds of contemporary Italian music which has developed along the same line as Britain, America and Australia. I love the sounds of Italian rap artists like Fabri Fibra, Fedez and Jovanotti or the trendy almost K-pop sounds of Maneskine or the Kolors and the soul singer sounds of Noemi and Fiorella Mannoia.
It is truly fascinating to think of how we each have a unique relationship with music and song. For me, it's about finding a unique sound or story which sticks to my mind. It may be something which gives me pleasure, helps me to forget, laugh or cry, but above all it’s a unique connection to an emotive universal language.
I want to write more about music so I’ll be publishing occaional posts here about my electic listening habits and share some visseral reactions to different sounds I’ve heard. Be sure to listen and read along here on A Babel of Words as words and music cannot exist without one another.
My listening playlist is uniquely connected to me and my personality, we each have a personal soundtrack which accompanies us through life.
I see right through you
and into your wild madness
like a transparent teardrop
a bubble that bursts and dissipates
trickling down my leg
and into the ground
drying up in the sun
an anticlimax, all but forgotten.
I dreamt of two thick red devils
with grotesque heads
who were at the edge of hell
one was eating a baby
the others throbbing penis
dragging on the ground
they were babbling to one another
I knew I was in hell
I was so sad
I did not know what to do
I was being tortured for my sins.
Love is still here for you
as I light a candle
in front
of your photo
I remember how your grandson and I
smothered you with hugs and kisses
the last time we said goodbye
Our love for you remains
here suspended in the air
you are intertwined in these
three words.
Sometimes I get tangled up with everyday life.
One fine, straight cotton thread becomes entwined
around my family, work, children and economic situation.
Once it was easy to thread a needle and get to work as I please
now the loop is twisted and turned upon itself around others
and then back to me.
The more I try to pull away from it the tighter it becomes.
Like those poor sea lions and marine animals caught up in plastic
fishing lines cutting into their own skin
around mouths, restricting movement until they starve to death
Could I cut myself out?
What would be left of me?
The thread is cutting off chunks of flesh
surely there won't be much of myself left
the tangle is too tight to be unthread.
Vagrant dressed in dark rags
he walks with his dead limbs against his side,
his face shrouded by unexpressed suffering.
What woes has he seen?
To make him become this sketch of a man.
He takes off his crown and kisses the ground
no one sees him but me
no one to call him mad,
his boots heavy, shuffle upon his holy land
he walks towards the infinite sea his dark face glaring blankly
acting out a pagan salute to the gods of the earth
his rite of passage before departure.
