Song

20th Century Box

Lyrics by Terry de Castro & Jo James · 1996

© 1996 Astrid Williamson/Incarnation · All rights reserved

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The road sounds like footsteps
There are mouths opening all around us
Mouths mute and urgent and ears twisting and listening
Ans the road tramples patterns in the leaves
The litter and the oil stains
The rain beats at the windshield

Catching the colours in the headlights
Sometimes my reflections sometimes your face
Your face is a calendar
You face the pages and on every page you are naked
You’re flooded with an endless stream of images
And ideas that don’t belong to you
These page turn words turn
Images of images
Sign of more signs

Behind all the roads signs is nothing
And as the memories grow further and further between
It all starts coming faster
You’re eating up the miles
As the road force feeds you
Cramming in pictures, cramming in words
Leaving no chance of a taste of the present
Drowning out your moment

Ooh….

Subtitle all your memories
Now that the past speaks in unfamiliar voices
There is no context with a shape for your memories to fit
The place keeps shifting
And words keep slipping in and out of place
And from everywhere remembering falsehoods whispering lies
We sneak up on the last thing we believed
You try to close i in your hand and feel it with your fingers
But it just crumbles in between them
And you try to close it in your hand
You begin to take on all of the characteristics of somebody you admire

When you look over your shoulder
You can’t trace which is your shadow and which is the phantom
Try to conjure up a moment of unity
An all of it comes up
The connections the confessions the contradictions
As you cough out more pictures
And spit out the injections and consonants

Ooh….
Face is a calendar
Face is a calendar
Face is a calendar

Your memories your bulimia
And the past is a object that’s stuck in your throat
You learn things you never ask to be taught
That’s what you get for living in this 20th century box
Your face is a calendar
You face the pages and on every page you are naked
There is no context with a shape for us to fit
Take away the lines
Take away the shading
Every word subdivides and spirals
And crashes into pieces
Take away the frame
Take away the faith
All you have are fragments
We can’t fit into this shapeless centre
Language perfects all propose
All talk is pointless
You have reached a disconnected number
Your face is a calendar
Subtitle all your memories
Know that the past speaks in unfamiliar voices
Drowning out your moment your quiet object

Ooh….
Face is a calendar
Face is a calendar
Face is a calendar