Yes Explained: Rearrange your liver
Some holiday frivolity for you. I’m a big fan of Yes’s progressive-rock masterpiece Close to the Edge, but I’ll admit that I always presumed the lyrics were mostly nonsense. Not true! It turns out that every line is imbued with subtle and hermeneutically challenging messages, worthy of the closest of readings. Happily, such a reading has been provided by the Church of Yahweh (don’t ask). Here are the lyrics by Jon Anderson, Steve Howe, and Chris Squire; have a crack at interpreting them yourselves before peeking at the answers.More at Cosmic Variance (via Three Quarks Daily)
I. The Solid Time Of Change
A seasoned witch could call you from the depths of your disgrace,
And rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace,
And achieve it all with music that came quickly from afar,
Then taste the fruit of man recorded losing all against the hour.
And assessing points to nowhere, leading ev’ry single one.
A dewdrop can exalt us like the music of the sun,
And take away the plain in which we move,
And choose the course you’re running.
Down at the edge, round by the corner, not right away, not right away
Explanations at The Church of Yahweh. It seems that they don't attempt "Hot colour melting the anger to stone..."
posted by Daryl McCullough
2 Comments:
I enjoyed this Order 5 Travesty generated from Jon's text:
And take the valley, Called to worry, Leaving all along the corner. Seasons will pass you from side, we hear the focus shape ascend knowing all their said amusement of her white lace You can exalt us like the cord, the sun, And achieve. How many million people barely satisfy. Two million people barely satisfy. Two million people barely satisfy. Two hundred women watch one woman cry, too late. There in charge of age for all over all to see, As apart from the corner, not right away, not right to the place. I shook my hate and knowledge of who showed his outstretched arm to space between the depths of your liver to the cord, the sun. Now that it’s all the reach all the said remark. Close the depths of her own domain. Down at the edge, round the mental grace, And achieve. How many millions do we deceive each all against the human recorded losing paths that you’re running. Down at the valley, Called to worry, Leaving all overlook on blindly and known.
I think that if you could get Howe/Wakeman/Bruford to noddle around behind it you might be hard-pressed to distinguish the two works.
McSweeney's must be reading your postings.
Yes Front Man Jon Anderson's Instructions to His Dogsitter.
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