Knot Lyrics Quotes

Get up, get out, get away from these liars 'Cause they don't get your soul or your fire Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time

Straighten up your posture and walk ‘Cause in the end you’re unstoppable Stand up wherever you go You’ll make it with no trouble

So if the ties that bind ever do come loose Tie them in a knot like a hangman's noose Cause I'll go to heaven or I'll go to hell Before I'll see you with someone else.

Writing about race is a polemic, in that we must confront the white capitalist infrastructure that has erased us, but also a lyric, in that our inner consciousness is knotted with contradictions. As much as I protest against the easy narrative of overcoming, I have to believe we will overcome racial inequities; as much as I’m exasperated by sentimental immigrant stories of suffering, I think Koreans are some of the most traumatized people I know. As I try to move beyond the stereotypes to express my inner consciousness, it’s clear that how I am perceived inheres to who I am. To truthfully write about race, I almost have to write against narrative because the racialized mind is, as Frantz Fanon wrote, an “infernal circle.

The knot which first my heart did strain, When that your servant I became, Doth bind me still for to remain Always your own as now I am. And if you find that I do feign, With just judgment myself I damn, To have disdain. If other thought in me do grow But still to love you steadfastly, If that the proof do not well show That I am yours assuredly, Let every wealth turn me to woe And you to be continually My chiefest foe. If other love or new request Do seize my heart but ony this, Or if within my wearied breast Be hid one thought that means amiss, I do desire that mine unrest May still increase, and I to miss That I love best. If in my love there be one spot Of false deceit or doubleness, Or if I mind to slip this knot By want of faith or steadfastness, Let all my service be forgot And when I would have chief redress Esteem me not. But if that I consume in pain Of burning sighs and fervent love And daily seek none other gain But with my deed these words to prove, Methink of right I should obtain That ye would mind for to remove Your great disdain. And for the end of this my song, Unto your hands I do submit My deadly grief and pains to strong Which in my heart be firmly shut, And when ye list, redress my wrong, Since well ye know this painful fit Hath last too long. - Poem LXX from "Songs and Lyrics

Vain is the effort to forget. Some day I shall be cold, I know, As is the eternal moonlit snow Of the high Alps, to which I go-- But ah, not yet, not yet! Vain is the agony of grief. 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, And were it snapt--thou lov'st me not! But is despair relief?

Although we do not currently have Jesus in the flesh with us face-to-face, we still have a God who longs to hear from us and a way to communicate with Him. Did you know that He really wants to hear from you? Your words can be jumbled, the tone wobbly. A prayer can be as short as a text or as long as a novel. You can voice your current aches and pains, your doubts and fears, or read Him the lyrics of a song you wrote. The content does not matter as much as the one producing it. God cares to hear from you, in your tone, from your heart, with your mannerisms and character and experiences, however knotted up they are. He knows that they’ll never get untangled unless you hand them over to Him, in all your heaviness and anguish. How can I be so sure? I know this because I have read the prayers of the man called “the one after God’s own heart” (1 Samuel 13:14, author’s paraphrase).

If you hurl outside?” From his far-off hidey-hole, Dave was directing, not asking. “Shovel it up and put it in the trash. I don’t want my dogs to get to it because it’s whatever you ate plus the shrooms and they’ll gobble it all up and freak the fuck out.” “I promise you. I won’t throw up,” Flynn heard Allison groan before her vomit hit the kitchen sink. “Outside.” “It’s cold out there, honey,” LA Tina said with a deep, soothing voice. “Someone grab up all that pretty blonde hair so it don’t get puked on.” As Flynn fully immersed himself in the music, the merry-go-round in the song was spinning sound and vision around him. Mushrooms were coming on quickly, powerfully, puckering his saliva glands and twisting his stomach into knots. Unsure if he’d actually made it to the bathroom, he was relieved when he saw his emesis kaleidoscopically stewing in the sink. Opening the spigot to wash the corruption down the drain, he splashed cold water on his face as he watched his eyes lit like fires from faraway camps, lips pushing the folds of his cheeks into reiterative grins. A timeless face reminded him of who he was and what resided within him as water drizzled down his chin and swirled into the drain. Emerging back into the rest of the world, a melodic hum hung just above his head. He found his way back to where the notes fully unfurled the song’s motif. Throwing himself into an air-guitar stance, he grimaced as he acted bending out the first, bluesy guitar note. Sparking and glowing like a welding rod, the room around him blazed with his light. Emma leered and licked her lips after glugging down a huge swig of Flynn pretending to be Pink Floyd. Tall, thin, somewhat handsome and exotic in his urbanity, Flynn was poised in a way Pogoner boys could never be. Something about him prickled wildly on her skin and excited her. Gliding from the kitchen to where he rocked, arms raised to reveal her Venus form, she sashayed with dabs of riffing blues, synthesizers scaling the air while guitars and bass vibrated through shabby carpet. As she joined him to take the music within, two objects in space edged closer and closer, gravity pulling both to an inevitable collision. In the gentle light of Christmas bulbs and uncountable candles, they circled round in time to the music, watching each other as neon Nazca-line insects scrambled across the walls. “Remember when you were young?” Emma crooned deep and soft. “You shone like the sun…” Flynn picked up before they both continued with the chorus. “Now there’s a look in your eyes,” she watched him draw closer. “Like black holes in the sky…” “Shine! On! You! Crazy… DIAMOND!” they both shouted, him with uncertainty, her full-throated and stepping into her own, reminding the house why no band playing in town turned down her offer to stand on stage and belt one out. Continuing to spin toward one another, trading lyrics and leers, the two ground their desire like peppercorns, seasoning the diminishing space between them. Whisper came out of the kitchen after a few verses, singing loudly and a bit off-key, Ra-Ra and LA Tina in tow. “You wore out your welcome, with random precision…” “Blown on the steel… breeze…” the followers continued as a chorus. Emma and Flynn unraveled from one another and gave the group a look of, Really? Now? “Come on you raver,” all a chorus, “you seer of visions. Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner and shine….” Everyone then fell out, shaking to various degrees as though they’d just been brought to tongues by some tent-preacher’s sermon.