I discovered Pomplamoose Music first, and while I never really liked Michael Jackson’s music I really love this cover version of Beat It. Pomplamoose Music are multi instrumentalists Jack Conte and Nataly Dawn, who (see second video) collaborate as a pop/jazz band when not doing covers.

Jack Conte and Nataly Dawn also produce music solo. Jack Conte (who, I guess, invented the VideoSong idea) is in the Radio Electro/Accoustic corner; Nataly Dawn more of a traditional singer/songwriter.

And then there’s Lauren O’Connell …

Do explore their channels (links above)!

1. There are videos here. If you read this through LiveJournal/Facebook these might not turn up. Please DO go to the webpage if you have even a passing interest in music and watch them there.

Contrast that to the experience of being a postman in Germany, which means management far removed from the actual workers and whose “staff training” consists of telling it’s delivery operative that they are nothing more than glorified advertising dispensers, a largely abusive public and having to meet strict averaged delivery times (1 second per letter, 3 seconds per package plus a blanket travelling time added). These are so tight that, in the depot that I worked at for a while, some of the older postmen physically didn’t manage. The rest of their family helped out, unpaid, unofficially, just so that their spouse/parent met the targets set. In Germany the family name of whoever occupies a house is displayed on the outside in addition to the house numbers. The expectation is that postmen must have memorized the first name of who lives where in their district, but also that they know/remember if some member of a family that used to live in a particular house has moved elsewhere. If you don’t remember, but post a letter, there will be complaints. Here in England houses only have numbers and there’s no indication who lives where; that alone makes the job so much more enjoyable. It is a good transitional job. Which is where I am. Stability. I am not quite sure where I’ll go next, yet.

Today is the last week I am on anti-depressants after a two-year period. Over the last three weeks I have stepped down dossage in agreement with my GP. I have graduated from my BsC in Outdoor and Environmental Education degree with a first (but will miss the graduation cermony as I am in Sweden at that time) and am half-way through my MA in Writing. The first feels like the biggest achievement among the three. I’d like something big to happen next, somehow.

What is the purpose of an online journal? I am not really sure. This one turned out to be a form of public diary. I don’t keep any note of the things I don’t want to share though, so these are all the (sporadic) notes on my life I do keep. Keeping a diary is, I guess, a lot about the implied promise of being able to turn back pages somewhere at a non-descript future moment in time looking back and rediscovering what one had forgotten. Excuse me while I sum up some recent and not so recent events. Right now Iceland is shutting down modern transportation for the second time this year, as volcanic ash-clouds endanger fragile air-plane turbines. The biggest recession since the 1930′s has arrived in the UK, but no-one really seems to give a damn; some traditional shops that were part of “British culture died”, but live goes on. There’s been one of the wettest and one of the coldest periods in England since weather records began. Cue this amazing satellite image that made it’s rounds. I am listening to PJ Harvey’s The Whores Hustle and the Hustler’s Whore, not through my headphones for a change, but through the computer speakers that my mother gave me on an extended loan and that are, mainly, usually, in the lounge for our frequent film nights.

We can’t decide on films most of the time. We use a roundabout method instead. There’s a pile of about 30 DVD’s in the lounge, with a tupper-ware style small plastic container on top containing an adequate amount of paper cut into roughly equal squares with numbers written on them then folded over. Our own random-number generator. With smaller decisions (like – do we have Pizza today or not? Who’s first to put up washing?) a simple coin flip is enough. We is P., my flat mate, and me. P.’s an Outdoor Ed. Student, in his last year. And, incidentally, a postman, too. I feel like having some vanilla icecream.

The apartment. I’ve meant to introduce it months ago. We are in the middle of the town. There’s a photo of the view from my desk below. We are living among seagulls¹. Quite frequently one of them lands on the windowsill infront of my window. They don’t seem to be overly aware of their surroundings when landing. Only after their landing do they look up, see me, hesitate for a moment startled((These are massive birds. Their wings span extends beyond the width of my window.)) and flying off again. Just as frequently one or the other is (not very happily?) pecking at one of the cut out cardboard fishes we stuck to the lounge window (aka our aquarium). Other notable happenings include another completed headsound project. The first was an exploration of Liverpool through sound, the second a stop-motion animation (this is a rough and incomplete cut) and the third a VJing/DJing performance where we plugged in and used as many devices as we could [two laptops, a portable play station, a wii-mote, a set of digital-turntables, a light-board and a smoke machine]. We weren’t actually allowed to use the smoke-machine within FACT and set off the fire alarm during practise. There’s a fourth project in the plans for this summer.

And the rest, as they say, are photos.

View from my desk

Spraypainting Fishes for a Liverpool Studen Amnesty protest agains Shell

Justin and Julie

Well hello there! (A mannequin in some clothing shop in Liverpool.)

. It's a tie.

1. Cue P.J. Harvey’s Seagulls track on her Uh Huh Her album.

And Liverpool – for me – comes alive not through its architecture, but its people. An openness and acceptance of just being, just as you are, that I find unique among the cities I lived in. So this is what I’ll focus on here, a few select encounters, all recent, that stuck to memory. I’ve had these experiences of people sharing a lot about their lives to me, as a stranger, at times in the past, but it happens more often and more consistent here. I may be asking for it, of course, making a point of looking at people and making eye-contact while walking through town, but still. These being from memory by definition means they are inaccurate.

It is around 8:50 in the morning. No rain, but partially cloudy. I am on my way to work. I’m also in the middle of moving. My parents are over, visiting, primarily and officially to bring my new passport and ID card. I’d travelled to Germany late June to fill out the paperwork required to renew these, and returned using a temporary passport. I am carrying all my music instruments, planning to drop them at the apartment this afternoon. My train leaves at Edge Hill, now a tiny train stations with either an energetic and friendly employee or, in the evening, a lethargic, grumpy one, with dark rings under his eyes, on duty. It used to be one of the major stations in Liverpool, before that last hillside was cut through to the centre of the town, allowing for Lime Street Station to take over. When I enter the station building the more energetic of the two was in a discussion with a man (carrying two plastic bags) who’d just missed his train. The customer trailed off, I got my tickets, went out to the tracks, rounding the back of the station building to catch the train toward Warrington, which would drop me off at Broad Green.

Plastic-bag man eventually made his way over, asking about all the music instruments I was carrying. He thought that electric guitars have a nicer sound then acoustics. Asked if I am in a band. Then told me that he’d walked all the way from Wavertree (I didn’t ask why, there’s a train station close-by there) to Edge Hill, and just about missed his train. That he could see it depart. And that he’d wanted to kill himself by standing on the train tracks a few days ago. That he was staying with two women, but loved another, whom he was on the way to, but who had thrown him out not long ago. As far as I’d gathered they are back together. He also told me that he couldn’t sleep, and that’s the reason he wanted to die, seeking reaffirmation that it really is the best thing to just go to the doctor. He told me that they were taking his clothes at night, locking them away, so that he wouldn’t dare going outside, naked. My train arrived, eventually, and we said goodbyes. He told me to join a band. And that he’d be on the look out to see me on TV, should I become a famous musician (I never told him I am not really aiming to make music professionally, or, really, consider myself a musician. He didn’t ask.). He walked back to the bench, sitting down, waiting patiently for the next train, that would take him back to life, I hope.

This time it’s sunny. Bright light, few clouds. I don’t remember what exactly I’d come to town for, that day, but it wasn’t anything urgent. This was before the episode above. Maybe two weeks earlier, maybe more. I’ve passed the bus stands in front of St. John’s just about to walk down the steps in the middle of town, close to the BBC’s big TV screen. A woman stops me, as I am just about to pass her. Middle-aged, stepping out of a crowd of people, with a man of indiscernible age, his head shaven, obviously belonging to her, struggling to keep up. “Hi. Do you know where one can find an adult shop here?” I don’t, really. I send them to Bold Street area, suggesting they might find some there, or that at least someone might know around that area. I’d never been on the lookout for shops like these, since I’ve moved here. Now, of course, the way my mind works, weeks after, I notice how many there are, and in how many different places. There actually are a few not that far off of Bold Street.

K. needs a favour. Someone stole her passport and credit card in Athens. She never changed her address with the bank. So I am off to see if someone in that house I lived in, temporarily, for those two weeks waiting for my apartment to be ready, is in. No-one is. I am to ask the people in that student house to hold onto any letters for her. She used to live there, for a while, too. I sit down on the porch to write a note for them. A black man walks past, stops, and asks me where he has seen me before. I don’t really know, but I don’t really negate that I might have met him somewhere before, either. I am no good with faces, not quite as bad as with names, but I tend to pass people I should know, easily. He tells me he has been in jail, that one learns to remember faces whilst there. He sits down on what is the wall that used to fence in the front-garden. He tells me he’s hit hard times. He’s been released from prison not long ago. They put an electronic tag on him. He lifts his trouser’s leg to show me. People treat him badly. Distrust him. He ain’t ever asked for anything. His loneliness, his desperation of not being able to get a sure footing seeps out. Of well – being treated with disdain. The police gave him a house to live in after prison. He ain’t ever asked for anything. Six years he’s been in. He’d had a girlfriend, been faithful to her, cared for her. She is with someone else. Has been already while he was in prison. That broke his heart. A police car comes round the corner, passes by. (I’d guess they are able to track these electronic tags, right?). He watches them pass. He ain’t ever asked for anything. He tells me that he has to be home by seven, or that there’ll be problems. That he hadn’t had anything to eat today, nor a cigarette. He asks if I smoke, watching the police car all the time, noting it had slowed down, turned into a side street. I think they’ll come back to look at me, he says, they do. He says he remembers the riots in the 80s. Everyone screaming murder, including the Police. How his brother was beaten up. His brother has a scar all the way down his head. He ain’t ever asked for anything. There might be jobs on the weekend, but during the week, no-one needs him. I give him the two pounds he’s been waiting for. I get a promise that he’ll pay me back, once he has money. Tells me that he’s often walking along this street. I don’t care if he lied or not, he was genuine enough. I haven’t a lot of reasons to be in that area of town often, but who knows. He may really do remember faces well and I might meet him – somewhere – once more.

The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own.

- Susan Sontag

My tele lens died. Well – at least I have the feeling it is beyond fixing now. I managed to repair the shutter when it collapsed a while back, but this is more serious. The problem is I can’t check – I haven’t found a way to access the part of the lens that I’d need to look at. Without knowing how it is constructed I’d describe it as it having broken apart – the focus ring at the back no longer moves the front part. Rather – the two have become seperate. But this is no good description and I can’t offer a better one. But I think I got one last good use out of it. All, but one, of the lenses I have have do not have modern features like auto-focus and the like. It became a bit of an extra challenge getting things in focus as the tele was already begining to fail, badly. That is I had to press the lens backwards to get it to focus (ouch, nose), and even that only worked occasionally. I am rather happy with the results, however.

On Saturday a set of free concerts in the Docks started, focusing on African Music. Liverpool-based Zimbabwan ‘Hohodza Band‘, ‘Groupe Lolou’ from Senegal and ‘Oumou Sangaré‘ (Mali). Here some photos in no particular order; more can be found in the gallery:

Also: I have a deadline to move out of the apartment I am in, now. The next tenant needs to be out of his old apartment by the 17th. I agreed to try to find a new place by then, but – given that the landlady has another house in the same street – I could temporarily stay there until the end of August (when my contract for this apartment officially runs out) if necessary. I am fine with that. Not least given I might need my current landlady to provide a “reference” for anything I’d rent through an agency.

Yes, that.

I restored confession-box to a different webhost awhile ago, but struggled finding ways to resume where I’d left. It’s been four months since my last post. And no matter what I do, some of what follows will be a repetition for those that follow me on facebook – which is likely the majority. I’ll only brush surfaces here. I finished my degree programme at LJMU. Except for a work-based learning assignment that I’d carried over from last year. I had wanted to complete this by June, but it didn’t quite work out. I hope to have a place settled by the end of next week though – and this time things are more definite. My brother was over for a while in May, I was back home for a week end June/begining July. I moved at the end of June. Which means I have – for now – my own appartment, while only paying slightly more than I used to, before, for a sinle room.

Yes, all the houses surrounding it are boarded up, the one to the left obviously having been on fire once. Both neighbouring houses are occupied by birds and no-one else. And yes, it is in Kensington, though barely, and in one of the nicer parts. I tried finding something perfect before. And still only signed a contract for two months … but then. Ever since I left Sweden I’d wanted a place for myself again, only not being able to afford one. I have the option to extend the contract and well – maybe I should. The two rooms used to be rented out as two bedsits, so the appartment has two kitchens. The kind of slightly odd thing befitting me. Oh and K. lives upstairs from here.

And there’s things happening, have happened, will happen. Like. Last Monday: I extended my family.

Family (extended)

I saw it in a second hand shop for £79, and given the accoustic guitar I have is a Höhner, whose sound I love, I was more than just interested. Reading the only reviews available on the web I went for it. There’s not a lot of info around – all I know it’s been built in Korea sometime between 1988 and 1992. I tried it in the tiny store of Smithdown road that mostly sells second hand records from the mid 90s. They produced a small amp from somewhere – so I know it works – but I still need to get my own amplifier. I’ve put J. on the case, given she’s involved with the local musician scene. I have an amp back home at my parents, with my other e-guitar, but that’s a long way away.

Walking out of the shop, guitar on my back in it’s carrying case, I took a trip to town, buying little necessities for my new home, and then to FACT when it started raining, for a tea, and out again over to chinatown, meandering through one of the supermarkets. I am not there often enough. It’s a sensory journey to another place. Upon leaving what was a drizzel before had turned into movie rain. Waiting in the entrance. Joined by a middle-aged Chinese, who barely spoke English, exchanging one-word sentences now and then, waiting, waiting, echos, silence, patience. Grace? One of the supermarket employees stepped out eventually telling us – first in Chinese, then in English, that they do sell umbrellas for a pound. I’d been walking through the store before, but didn’t spot them. Chinese Man bought two. I got one, but needed to pay with card – to the disdain of the store owner. Back out. The rain had intensified, coming in sideways with the wind. And we both waited. An Englishman stepped out, in suit and tie, turns around with a smile and walks into the inferno. I’d have to. I’d not have bothered getting an umbrella either, except for the guitar travelling with me.

Of course I was over cautious, as was clear once I’d actually made my way to the train station and back home. I own a green and yellow umbrella with a Tsingtao logo now. And I am somewhat sure they were meant to be promotional items rather than for sale.

Or Thursday night. When S. and me spent an evening in St. Lukes, the Bombed-Out Church, for “Ghost Stories: A Night Opera” (samples behind link), starting at sunset, ending two hours later. It rained. And, see above, the church has no roof. They sold plastic overcoats. Which meant close to 240 people were sitting in the rain in what looked like fashion inspired by Twelve Monkeys, listening to classic-style guitar music, set to a 2 hour video-installation, occasionally intersped by the accompaning opera singer “wailing” (as S. put it). That is – the guitar player was good, the singer likely too, but her non-verbal style vocal accompany left her with little to do. Most of the audience didn’t last all the way through.

Onward.

I’ve seconded (more) and lead (less) a few climbs during these three days – and it worked well, at first: No trace of anxieties that hindered me on previous outings and generally just having a good time. I know the basics well enough, by now, can place (protective) gear, construct anchors/belays … even if it’s a little slow and clumsy at times. I still feel that I want to do more of this, that being out there, having those experiences is … well what I search for in life. That by and large Outdoor activities are my thing. I was having fun. But then.

Third day was a visit to Holyhead mountain. This is a sea-cliff like mountain close to the ocean, that requires one to walk up a steep scree slope to the base of the rock face where the climbing routes begin. It looks a little like a minutre version of Ayer’s Rock in as much as it rises out of flat ground surrounding it, quite suddenly. And then … hello darkness my old friend²: Anxiety. Started up on the scree slope where my imagination ran away with me. It wasn’t any more dangerous or difficult or complicated than ground I’ve covered in the past. Even the routes ahead weren’t more difficult than what I’d done the days before, just more exposed. Being afraid of the scree under my feet suddenly slipping away, or me slipping not finding the ground. Possible, yes, probable not very. And even if: Heather with it’s strong roots covering the ground, loads of bolders, things to grab in case. Anxiety persisted. I didn’t climb that day. Needed to tie myself in just to belay at the ground of the climb. And (remember this is part of the assessment days) the suggestion by Duncan (the lecturer with the small group of four that day) that I descend back to a ledge and call it a day.

And – as so often that coldness that comes with that, a chill down to the bones, where no amount of sunlight is warm enough. But then. It was a glorious day and it is an amazing place. I rested on that ledge, high enough to see the ocean curve on the horizon, no cloud, blue sky (a first hint of tanned skin, now days later). I built a minature stone circle on that ledge that was eventually crushed by a rope from the sky. I’d wished I’d packed my camera, which I had considered while packing, but didn’t in the end.

It was in that moment’s flight between the picture and the canvas that the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child. Such she often felt herself – struggling against terrific odds to maintain her courage; to say: “But this is what I see; this is what I see,” [...] “It suddenly get’s cold. The sun seems to give less heat,” she said, looking about her, for it was bright enough, the grass still a soft dreep green, the house starred in its greenery with purple passion flowers, and rooks dropping cool cries from the high blue.”

-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Foghorns in the distance, as mist was over the ocean and this is a shipping lane, including those high-speed ferries crossing from Ireland to Wales and England. There were dolphins playing out in the ocean. And later in the day six sea-kayaks, quite likely other OEE students as they were supposed to be out there that day. There are sea cliffs in that area, which rank among the most scenic but also most difficult climbs in the UK – as the tide comes in you can’t escape other than climbing all the way. These cliffs are closed for climbers during the summer as they are the nesting place of some 10.000 birds or so. And then, there’s what I imagine Virginia Woolf’s Lighthouse to look like. I doesn’t require a boat – there’s a bridge, but still:

If she finished it tonight, if they did go to the Lighthouse after all, it was to be given to the Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, who was threatened with a tuberculous hip; together with a pile of old magazines, and some tobacco, indeed, whatever she could find lying about, not really wanted, but only littering the room, to give those poor fellows, who must be bored to death sitting all day with nothing to do but polish the lamp and trim the wick and rake about on their scrap of garden, something to amuse them. For how would you like to be shut up for a whole month at a time, and possibly more in stormy weather, upon a rock the size of a tennis lawn? she would ask [...]

-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Mind you – it is a beautiful place, but that’s the first description of the lighthouse I came across browsing the pages. I will have to use other’s photos instead of mine for illustration, below³. I’ve scrapped just below the passing mark for the assessment (35%) based on my climbing the first two days. It’s only part of the module mark and I can compensate that. But the point is … as I said in the review discussion later, what I need is people to go climbing with, but it’s so hard to find people that I don’t hold back, on those days I can’t, but that choose to climb to a level that’s challenging as well. I hope it’ll fix itself some day.

South Stack Lighthouse

South Stack Lighthouse & Sea Cliffs

Holyhead Mountain

And that was the last big field trip with the course I’ll be part of. No-one, unlike those other days, felt like returning home. We usually just focused on going back quickly, everyone yearning for their home after a week or so out. No … it was a holiday like feeling these days, for everyone, I think. I’ll miss them days.

1. in translation – Species of Spaces and Other Pieces
2. I was nicknamed “the sound of silence” back in high school.
3. Click on them to go to the source pages

I don’t know. I am not motivated – the topic feels superflous. I know the general answers, but will have to fill it out with details and find actual examples & references. The usual scientific drag. And I am still listening to the eels. But I also want to finally work through my backlog of photos. I haven’t really shared any I took in Liverpool these last two and a half years with anyone. I want to pick up my writing again. It’s just … not quite there yet, and I need my blanket more often.

Thursday: A fieldtrip to a waste water plant close-by. As ever so often I am surprised by the contrast between studying Outdoor Education and the leather-seated way too posh coaches we are put in at times. We were booked in for an hour long tour, but ended up spending two hours there.

Saturday: A visit to the tate. This was with Headspace but only K. turned up. Some of William Blake’s paintings and drawings on display. As with anything about him these are focused on christian motives, exploring spirituality and – no matter what you think about these topics – very well crafted. Particularly the way background and foreground work together, his obvious keen sense of human faces and expressions. My favourites, however, are an incredible goofy Cerberus and that fascinating creature in The Six-Footed Serpent Attacking Agnolo Brunelleschi².

Illustrations by William Blake

Walking back home on my own I passed The Olive Tree, one of those general esoteric and spirituality shops that smell of holyness and that everyone (including employees) whispers in. I walked in because they had Moroccan cooking books on sale (and picked one up eventually). A good ethnic cooking book is more than just recipies but also an exploration of a different country – and this one is a particularly nice example. I’d walked in wearing my headphones, smiled briefly at the person on duty, and turned them off just in the (unlikely) case they might leak sound and upset. Not eels. Artery³ Now … if I’d only lose my anxieties about cooking in shared housing. I dislike having people watch, especially when trying new things. Which means I stick to simple, quick and what I know.

1. That is – I’ve looked for some articles yesterday night. Past midnight.
2. Image slightly enlarged. And blurry, thus
3. Bulgarian-Dutch Balkan Underground Folk Metal. Try Rubber Moon, Take it from me, Control and Electricity for the whole width of their sound and please (mostly) ignore the lyrics.

I handed in my dissertation

And yeah, there was something I wanted to say.

...

Never mind.

Also – up & down mountains loads, micro & night navigation, river crossings, emergency procedures, steep ground², rope work, an overnight camping trip to Sprinkling Tarn (frozen at the time), pointless evening lectures, and many, many stories about Landrovers from my room mate³. Apart from that – my evenings filled with working on my dissertation. I ended up bringing three backpacks to carry all books.

Back home and off to Ambleside with the three that participate in my Adventure Therapy research/dissertation the day after. It was a good day, I think, and I felt – at the time – that it was quite successful. I’d left late though, we missed the first train, but had wonderful weather once there.

I spent a day at home, last Sunday. Then off to Wales for “Mountain Experience Days and Assessment” through uni. The last time to stay at Charmoix Mountain Centre with the course. None of the University Lectures actually could be present, leaving those students that already have gained Mountain Leader Assessed (or more) status to run these days (as members of staff).

Two of the LJMU students were going for their Walking Group Leader assessment, however, and I joined that group (of five total) under Phil George‘s supervision. Marshlands. Welsh wild horses (one dead). More micro navigation. The remnants of local shooting practice (wooden planks, aluminium cans and assorted other material partially pullverized by bullet holes) … and more Landrover stories⁴. I am glad to have had the chance to meet Phil again before the end of the course – he remembered me from back in year one. Phil – and his identical twin Al [suffering from cancer] – is one of the legends of English Mountaineering. Now in their fifties the two left the UK for Italy aged 16, became Alpine Mountain Guides by 21 and completed many first ascends of routes in the UK.

Mostly though – he is one of these awesome personalities that are rare to come by. Highly intelligent, yet humble, full of stories, little facts and knowledge – but always keen to get to know more about the world and the people around him.

1. Unless you paid a fee.
2. Still my main problem – I am less anxious than I used to be though
3. One of the few topics that really excite him
4. He didn’t like the pink one we ran into.

Elsewhere …

I’ve received an extension on my dissertation until March 2nd. It’ll still be tight to finish in time – it’s quite hard to co-ordinate four different people all on a different full-time course. And … well – as dissertations probably always go – it all seems incredibly mundane and not particularly useful while working on it. I’ve also got a transcript of my grades through the mail. It makes for a somewhat interesting read. My mean marks for level one and two where both at around 55%. Level 3 (up to the end of last term) is on a 71% level so far. Given it counts 3/4 for the final mark … I increased my degree classification to 67.1%. I.e. I am on a good path with room for growth. I am not that sure I can keep this up though – the whole dissertation mess up will mean I’ll be pressed for time with other assignments coming up in March. And I’ll not score high on the practicals, as in any of the previous years. Hm … .

I am off to the Lake District from this Saturday on for my Mountain Leadership Training (private arrangment, not part of Uni course), then off for a three day assessment on my Mountaineering skills with uni. Which means I’ll have to work on my dissertation in the evenings.

And meanwhile …

I’ve attended a staff training for my Student Learning Mentor post – “Magic Spelling” – which is basically a NLP approach to assist people in memorizing correct spellings of words. The fun bit … you’ll have to do a bit of “calibrating” by firing of questions and observing the person(s) eye movement for some clues on how their brain works. It’s not unlike the Voigt-Kampff test in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep / Blade Runner.

Also … I love The eels.. The world needs more of them.

there’s a world outside
and i know ’cause i’ve heard talk
in my sweetest dream
i would go out for a walk

but i don’t think i’m ready yet
i’m not feeling up to it now
just not that steady yet
and i don’t need you telling me how

there’s some happiness
and my stone face cracks again
maybe sometime sooner or later

but i don’t think i’m ready yet
i’m not feeling up to it now
just not that steady yet
and i don’t need you telling me how

so if i leave my room
don’t you tell me to lighten up
maybe sometime sooner or later

but i don’t think i’m ready yet
i’m not feeling up to it now
just not that steady yet
and i don’t need you telling me how