Showing posts with label Sailor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sailor. Show all posts

Tuesday, 12 February 2019

The Sailor



The song is Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) 
by Looking Glass.




“ I tend to think that what fame has done is to replace The Sea as the element of choice of adventure for young people. 

If you were a dashing young man in the 19th century you would probably have wanted to Run Away To Sea, just as in the 20th century you might decide that you want to run away and form a pop band. 

The difference is that in the 19th century, before Running Away to Sea, you would have had at least some understanding of the element that you were dealing with and would have perhaps, say, learned to swim ... 

The thing is that there is no manual for how to cope with fame. 

So you'll get some, otherwise likeable young person, who has done one good comic book, one good film, one good record, suddenly told that they are a genius, who believes it and who runs out laughing and splashing into the billows of celebrity, and whose heroin-sodden corpse is washed up a few weeks later in the shallows of the tabloids. ”

- Alan Moore 



160. EXT. CITY STREET - LATE AFTERNOON/EVENING

Sailor walks down the street pretending hard not to care.

 CUT TO:

161. INT. LULA’S CAR - LATE AFTERNOON/EVENING


Lula climbs in behind the wheel - sobbing. Pace sits sadly, staring out the window.

 CUT TO:

162. EXT. CITY STREET - LATE AFTERNOON/EVENING


Sailor continues walking down the street. A GANG OF INSANE KILLER TEENAGERS on PCP appear and come towards Sailor. They circle around him, coming in closer for the kill.

 SAILOR 
What do you faggots want?

That’s all it takes. The gang is on him. Sailor tries to defend himself, but one big punch to his nose sends him down and out. Blood begins to pour from his swelling nose.


162A. EXT. CITY STREET - LATE AFTERNOON/EVENING

CU OF SAILOR’S FACE - a bright light illuminates it.


In the sky above Sailor, a large glowing bubble holding the beautiful Good Witch of the North [ Laura Palmer ] comes floating down above him.
 

The GOOD WITCH Laura Palmer :
Sailor Ripley...

Sailor’s eyes suddenly see the Good Witch through his closed eyelids. His mouth speaks through closed lips.


 SAILOR 

The Good Witch...

The GOOD WITCH Laura Palmer :

Sailor... 
Lula loves you.

 SAILOR 

But I’m a robber 
and a manslaughterer 
and I haven’t had any parental guidance.
The GOOD WITCH Laura Palmer :
She has forgiven you of all these things ... 
You love her... 
Don’t be afraid, Sailor.

 SAILOR 

But I’m Wild at Heart.
 

The GOOD WITCH Laura Palmer :
If you are truly wild at heart, you’ll fight for your dreams... 

Don’t turn away from love, Sailor...
Don’t turn away from love... 
Don’t turn away from love.

The Good Witch disappears.

162. EXT. CITY STREET - LATE AFTERNOON/EVENING

Sailor opens his eyes and drags himself and his giant swollen nose up on his feet. The gang still stands around him.


GANG MEMBER

You had enough, asshole?



SAILOR

Yes, I have...

And I wanna apologize to you gentlemen for referring to you as homosexuals.

I also want to thank you fellas - you've taught me a valuable lesson in Life. 

(lifts his head high

LULA!!!!

Sailor turns around and starts running back. The gang watches him go.





There's a port on a western bay
And it serves a hundred ships a day
Lonely sailors pass the time away
And talk about their homes

And there's a girl in this harbor town
And she works layin' whiskey down
They say, Brandy, fetch another round
She serves them whiskey and wine

The sailors say: "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"Yeah, your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea"


Brandy wears a braided chain
Made of finest silver from the North of Spain
A locket that bears the name
Of the man that Brandy loved

He came on a summer's day
Bringin' gifts from far away
But he made it clear he couldn't stay
No harbor was his home


The sailors say: "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"


Yeah, Brandy used to watch his eyes
When he told his sailor stories
She could feel the ocean fall and rise
She saw its ragin' glory
But he had always told the truth, Lord, he was an honest man
And Brandy does her best to understand
At night when the bars close down
Brandy walks through a silent town
And loves a man who's not around
She still can hear him say
She hears him say "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"

It is, yes it is,
He said, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"










FULL QUOTE : " I believe that this is why an artist or writer is the closest thing in the contemporary world that you are likely to see to a Shaman.

I believe that all culture must have arisen from cult.  Originally, all of the faucets of our culture, whether they be in the arts or sciences were the province of the Shaman.  

The fact that in present times, this magickal power has degenerated to the level of cheap entertainment and manipulation, is, I think a tragedy.  

At the moment the people who are using Shamanism and magic to shape our culture are advertisers.   Rather than try to wake people up, their Shamanism is used as an opiate to tranquilize people, to make people more manipulable.  

Their magick box of television, and by their magick words, their jingles can cause everyone in the country to be thinking the same words and have the same banal thoughts all at exactly the same moment. 

In all of magick there is an incredibly large linguistic component.  The Bardic tradition of magic would place a bard as being much higher and more fearsome than a magician.  A magician might curse you.  That might make your hands lay funny or you might have a child born with a club foot.  If a Bard were to place not a curse upon you, but a satire, then that could destroy you.  If it was a clever satire, it might not just destroy you in the eyes of your associates; it would destroy you in the eyes of your family.  It would destroy you in your own eyes.  And if it was a finely worded and clever satire that might survive and be remembered for decades, even centuries.  

Then, years after you were dead people still might be reading it and laughing at you and your wretchedness and your absurdity.  

Writers and people who had command of words were respected and feared as people who manipulated magic.  

In latter times I think that artists and writers have allowed themselves to be sold down the river.  

They have accepted the prevailing belief that art and writing are merely forms of entertainment.  

They’re not seen as transformative forces that can change a human being; that can change a society.  

They are seen as simple entertainment; things with which we can fill 20 minutes, half an hour, while we’re waiting to die. 

It’s not the job of the artist to give the audience what the audience wants.  

If the audience knew what they needed, then they wouldn’t be the audience.  

They would be the artists.  

It is the job of artists to give the audience what they need. "

- Alan Moore