spin spin

img_20150328_175623_rewind

Spin spin.

Some of you know, maybe most of you, but maybe not all of you that “djmatticus” is actually, or was actually, “DJ Matticus.”  Once upon a when, I would get behind the decks and drop the needle down, oh so gently.  Okay, I wasn’t always gentle.  Anyway, if you need to hear some energetic music today, check this out:

Dance around your house.  Dance wherever you are today.  Spin spin.

Jesterly Challenge Month – November 16th

I challenged myself today to tackle an idea I’ve had in my drafts folder for more than a year.  While driving to work one more Bad Company’s “Rock ‘N’ Roll Fantasy” came on the radio and I thought, “Hey, I should adapt this for my blog.”  I started it but never finished because it seemed kind of silly.  I wasn’t wrong.  It is silly.  But, give it a read and let me know what you think all the same.

…..
…..

With my sincerest apologies to Bad Company:

Here comes the Jester, hey that’s me.
You’re all part of my fantasy,
I love writing and I love to see the crowd,
Reading all my words and commenting now.

Here comes the Queen, she’s “the one,”
She was dancing and sure having fun.
You’ll find you’re enchanted by swaying hip beats;
Put your feet on the floor and join the eilites.

You’re all part of the Matticus Kingdom.
You’re all part of my blog dominion.
You’re all part of the toddlerocracy.
You’re all part of my blogosphere dream.

Now here comes the Prince, ruling all.
He brings the feels and then lights up your soul.
He giggles so loud you stop, look around,
Expecting it’s a Godzilla made sound.

You’re all part of the Matticus Kingdom.
You’re all part of my blog dominion.
You’re all part of the toddlerocracy.
You’re all part of my blogosphere dream.
Toddlerocracy, yeah, yeah, yeah…

Happy Tribus from The Matticus Kingdom

recite-j0h4u2

Winding through the woods,
The trail disappears ahead,
My heart follows it.

Spells leaping off pages,
Or slight-of-hand tricks and skills,
My heart believes all.

Words plucked along strings,
Strumming triumphant stories,
My heart sings in beats.

…..

Today we are celebrating Tribus – all about the three you love.

You know you want to join in the fun too.  So, write it up, link it up, and tag it #HappyTribus.

And, you may have noticed a few changes around the kingdom, if you want to leave a comment telling me which has been your favorite of my posts over the last 3 years, I’ll feature it in the sidebar.

You are all awesome!

Samara’s Mix-tape Submission

Happy Birthday, Samara!

For my pick in your birthday mix-tape, I selected (the below modified version of) Bruce Springsteen’s “No Surrender.”  The pounding rhythm of the song reminds me of your writing: a driving force that cannot be ignored.  The refrain easily stands in for your show-no-mercy posts.  You tackle sentimental and poignant topics in equal and measured strides, mixing current cultural issues with the experiences of your life.  This song resonates with me in so many ways, from the progression to the content, and for some reason I’m certain it resonates with you as well.  Plus, you are a Boss, too.

I hope you have a wonderful day.

…..

She busted out of class, had to get away from those fools.
She learned more from a three minute record than she ever learned in school.
Tonight she hears the neighborhood drummer sound,
She can feel her heart begin to pound,
She’ll never say she’s tired and never close her eyes to follow her dreams down.

She made a promise she swore she’d always remember:
No retreat, baby, no surrender.
Like soldiers in the winter’s night with a vow to defend:
No retreat, baby, no surrender.

Now young faces grow sad and old and hearts of fire grow cold.
You swore blood curses against the wind.
You’re ready to grow young again,
And hear your brother’s voice calling you home across broken projects.
Well maybe you could cut someplace of your own,
With your words and their effects.

‘Cause you made a promise you swore you’d always remember:
No retreat, baby, no surrender.
Truth writer in the stormy night with a vow to defend:
No retreat, baby, no surrender.

Now on the ‘sphere tonight the lights grow dim.
The walls of your room are closing in.
There’s a war outside still raging,
you say it ain’t ours anymore to win.
You want to sleep beneath peaceful skies in your lover’s bed,
With a wide open country in your eyes,
And these romantic dreams in your head.

Because you made a promise you swore you’d always remember:
No retreat, baby, no surrender.
Blood poet in the stormy night with a vow to defend:
No retreat, baby, no surrender,
No retreat, baby, no surrender.

…..

And here’s the original version for your listening pleasure:

http://new.inlinkz.com/view.php?id=560830

do you dare?

The staccatoed wails and grinding moans haunt the empty street.  The sounds lilt and rend, clawing for attention, purposefully the opposite of the peaceful evening.  And, yet, it is beautiful and harmonious despite the discord.  There is magic in the notes.  There is the soul of a blues-man in the undertones of the harmonicas plaintive cry.

He sits with his back against the graffiti and shit stained bricks, the color of his hair lost in the grease and filth of his time on the street.  His knees are tucked against his chest, and his bare ankles are barely discernible from the darkness regardless of the large gap between the hem of his worn pants and the top of his tattered shoes.  The silver harmonica, however, gleams in the night, catching every stray beam of light that dared wander down the alley and passing it along in spirals of glinting rainbows.

The instrument is cradled lovingly in his tired hands, cupped against his lips, and passed back and forth in meticulous and precise movements.  His hands play the role of conductor and bring the harmonicas orchestral sound to life to such an extent the very night around him seems to pause and take notice.  His soul pours through his lips and gives the song its purpose and meaning.  The music is a story, confusing and wonderful, of struggle and loss and pain and hope.  The music is a story, transformed from misery to joy.

Hours pass, and the man sleeps where he sat, but the mournful vibrations of his blues continue to resonate in echoing calls up and down the alley.  They peek around and corners and tempt passersby to stop and listen and heed the warnings of loss and life.  They haunt the night and all who dwell within it, a constant reminder of all that came before and all that might one day still come, until the hint of day warms the horizon and then they wander into the shadows and quietly find peace.

There, in the forgotten places of brick and concrete, the music rests until night comes and the blues-man brings the harmonica out from his jacket pocket to once again purge the contents of his soul to all those daring enough to listen.

https://i0.wp.com/farm6.static.flickr.com/5576/15102555760_b24639ac7c_m.jpg
Image Credit: Steve Edwards (pootlepod)