Jeg skrev tidligere i dag i en mail til Erik Skyum, om noget helt andet, arrangementsmæssigt, at vores søn er
formfuldendt,
hvilket er fuldstændigt rigtigt, men, hey, Erik, han er jo for fanden også
en hybrid,
der i mixet af C's og mine gener er blevet sin helt egen skabning, som det nemlig er reglen med vellykkede hybrider,
og lige før sad vi sammen, han og jeg (nu spiser han hos dig, hans mor), og hørte David Byrnes nye plade
American Utopia FRA I DAG og nærmere bestemt sangen "Every Day Is a Miracle", hvilket også er sandt og føles særligt sandt lige nu, her er teksten, der sørme starter med en konstatering af (rosers) formfuldendthed, og senere taler i første person som Vorherre himself (eller hende selv), synes det som, akkurat som i din roman):
[Verse 1]
The rose is pruned to a perfect shape
Perfect for whom, I wonder
The chicken thinks in mysterious ways
But beauty is not what we're after
Now the chicken imagines a heaven
Full of roosters and plenty of corn
And God is a very old rooster
And eggs are like Jesus, his son
[Chorus]
Every day is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your supper
Love one another
[Verse 2]
Cockroach might eat Mona Lisa
The pope don't mean shit to a dog
And elephants don't read newspapers
And the kiss of a chicken is hot
The brain of a chicken
And the dick of a donkey
A pig in a blanket
And that's why you want me
What does it feel like
To be your tongue
Moving around in your mouth
To be free in the forest of your love
A cockroach in the cosmos of your house
[Chorus]
Every day is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your supper
Love one another
I'm a blond, a brunette and a redhead
I thought up the birds and the bees
My software is famous all over
My money is crawling on trees
The mind is a soft boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart dear
With memories and beautiful smells
Every day is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your supper
Love one another
