A great song should ache. It should reach the deepest
corners of the soul and give voice to the hidden truths the heart cries out to
speak. It is human nature to counterfeit our feelings since it is in that very nature to resign the sincerest ones to
solitary confinement. We should not be ashamed, then, of our idolatry for those
that can and do express these aches in ways we only wish we could, and
yearn to... And Kate, my dear, this is you.
Rather than turning away from the primal drives and evil that lie at the core of humanity, Madame Bush has taught us to face and accept this part of our soul. The pain of the past, the foolishness of the present, and the dumfoundedness of the future all coexist within her work; no element in the balance is neglected. And yet she is one of us and simultaneously not. That voice - how its dreamy splendour tells us nothing about her. Where is it from? Who are its parents? Lacking the indefinable charmlessness of heritage, it is both alien and beautiful. How deep in my heart I wish I knew her. And yet how deep in my heart I never want to.
Rather than turning away from the primal drives and evil that lie at the core of humanity, Madame Bush has taught us to face and accept this part of our soul. The pain of the past, the foolishness of the present, and the dumfoundedness of the future all coexist within her work; no element in the balance is neglected. And yet she is one of us and simultaneously not. That voice - how its dreamy splendour tells us nothing about her. Where is it from? Who are its parents? Lacking the indefinable charmlessness of heritage, it is both alien and beautiful. How deep in my heart I wish I knew her. And yet how deep in my heart I never want to.
I imagined I said
I loved you,
And you to me (which wasn’t true),
But how I’ll roar from the
stalls,
I'll gurgle from the
circle,
Yes the balcony fool
was me, you fool.
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