R's rue

I found myself singing this song yesterday. It was a minor hit in 1965. Written and performed by Johnathan King, there was something quite entrancing about "Everyone's Gone To the Moon". Here are the rather mysterious lyrics:- Streets full of people All alone Roads full of houses Never home Church full of singing Out of tune Everyone's gone to the moon Eyes full of sorrow Never wet Hands full of money All in debt Sun coming out in The middle of June Everyone's gone to the moon Long time ago Life has begun Everyone went to the sun Cars full of motors Painted green Mouths full of chocolate Covered cream Arms that can only Lift a spoon Everyone's gone to the moon Everyone's gone to the moon Everyone's gone to the moon It reached Number 4 in the British charts and Number 17 in the US Billboard charts. Anyway, it turns out that Johnathan King was a cunning paedophile who molested several boys and spent two years in pr...

 Taking a walk on the wild side. An early morning sweat as I walk down the driveway. Worship music flowing as I say not one word. Sometimes being still is being silent. I don’t need to ask anything. Simply be one with what is seen. The gravel moves along with my cadence. The sound as sweet as the music in my ears. I look around and see cut limbs that will dry out and maybe become firewood. I take a look at the trees swaying in the breezes that my hair get brushed by with every move.  I look for the lone rose or the lone weed that shows me both are needed. The rose has its outward. The weed not so much. The weed teaches more than the rose. The weed is resilient no matter how much of a nuisance it is. I’m the weed. I may be told I’m as pretty as the rose, but to live with CP, becoming the weed is imperative.  Being pretty gets me nowhere most days. The exterior is just the door opener. To keep the door open, the feisty weed you must morph into. The truth isn’t so pleasant...