V e r i t a s . S o p h i a . I u s t i t i a

I guess it says a lot that on a Friday night I'm compiling a list of songs that I listen to most often on my i-pod... but then, maybe it'll come in useful for a road-trip some day. Don't really wanna rank 'em cos I wouldn't know where to start but I kinda capped it at 30 (I have 647 songs on my i-pod, which by today's standards, is kinda pathetic, I know...).

Some of 'em I guess are almost too obvious... 'Imagine', 'Hero', 'Stand by Me', while others I have to admit are kinda embarrassing... cue 'Greased Lightin'' and 'SexyBack', but hey, at least I'm honest, right?

Anyhow I've just listed 'em in alphabetical order cos, like I said, I really haven't a standard by which to begin (though I suppose it's pretty obvious I'm really into the Beatles...)- somedays you just wanna rock it out with 'I don't Want to Miss a Thing' or 'Sympathy for the Devil', other days, you're kinda pensive and you go with 'Hallelujah' and 'Streets of Philadelphia', and sometimes when you're about to face the music (the other kind), 'Lose Yourself' is just the only song you wanna hear.

So here goes:

Across the Universe (Beatles)
Ain't No Sunshine (Bill Withers)
Boulevard of Broken Dreams (Green Day)
Chain of Fools (Aretha Franklin)
Circle of Life (Elton John)
Come Together (Beatles)
Greased Lightnin' (John Travolta)
Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley)
Hero (Mariah Carey)
Hey Jude (Beatles)
I Don't Want to Miss a Thing (Aerosmith)
Imagine (John Lennon)
Iris (Goo Goo Dolls)
The Long and Winding Road (Beatles)
Lose Yourself (Eminem)
Mr. Bojangles (Nina Simone)
Non Je Ne Regrette Rien (Edith Piaf)
One (U2)
One Moment in Time (Whitney Houston)
Pocketful of Rainbows (Elvis Presley)
SexyBack (Justin Timberlake and Timberland)
The Show Must Go On (Queen)
Stand By Me (Ben E. King)
Streets of Philadelphia (Bruce Springsteen)
Suspicious Minds (Elvis Presley)
Sympathy for the Devil (The Rolling Stones)
Things Have Changed (Bob Dylan)
Time of the Season (The Zombies)
When You Believe (Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston)
Why (Annie Lennox)

Oh, and while we're talking about music, it's the American Idol finale next week! Not sure who I'm rooting for; the Davids are both fantastic at what they do- sing- which is more than one can say for the final two of many a past season... but to compare the two is like asking who's the better tennis player- Federer on grass or Nadal on clay; Archuleta is a amazing balladeer, Cook is a fantastic rocker. Methinks Cook will win it next week (love the husky/smooth voice), but dang it (and I'm courting cries of heresy and travesty here), if Archuleta's rendition of 'Love Me Tender' (watch it on youtube) did not completely outshine Elvis' original version.

She was the finest of her generation. Her dress was always simple, her hair tied neatly in a pony-tail under a plain white tennis cap, her only accessory her signature wrist-watch. She never sought the attention of the media, was always very guarded in her interviews and was clearly more than happy for the lenses of the court side photographers to follow the every move of her more glamorously preened opponents. Sensibly, she may have supposed it best to keep her attire understated; after all, the silverware she would claim at the end of the match would serve fairly sufficient to compliment any dress; one need not overdo things. In the meantime, she gets to the business of winning in a, well, I guess one can best characterize it as a most business-like manner. You won't hear from her the shrieks and grunts that emanate from the other side of the net each time the ball is hit, sounds of murderous intent and meant to demonstrate to her, as to all comers before, that the striker-shrieker is very, very intense and intent on winning.

She is made of tougher mettle and though just standing at 5 ft 5, a good 7 inches or more shorter than the imposing Amazons she meets on a regular basis in the latter stages of major tournaments, pound for pound, she hits far above her weight, matching thunderous serve with thunderous serve, big forehands with big forehands and yet the fluidity of her movement, so natural and graceful, makes it never look as though she is even trying to generate the awesome power that belies her diminutive frame; her much lauded single-handed backhand, when fully extended, seems the wingspan of an eagle. She does not make obvious her intensity to win with the histrionics of her rivals; rather, she intimidates by the sheer calm of her composure. There is no primal scream that follows her after she runs down an impossible drop-shot to strike a cross-court winner. A small clench of a fist, a smile, as though she was never in doubt she'd eventually have the upper hand; her complete serenity is wherein her aura of invincibility lies.

Today, she walks away. As has been with some many occasions before- her marriage, her quitting in a final of a major- her decision to walk away is done both after deep consideration but also in a sense of almost selfish recklessness. But then Justine Henin has never played by the script intended for her- the almost unhealthily pale and tiny teenager who first came into prominence at the start of the decade wasn't supposed to become the physical specimen of fitness she has become today; girls under 6 ft aren't supposed to have the biggest inside-out forehand in the game; a player is supposed to finish playing in a major final even if you must be wheeled off in a gurney afterwards; world number ones are not supposed to retire until irrevocably overtaken by the next generation. But there you go. She's done 'em all. Her dress was always simple. She carried no accessories onto the court but her watch. The cameras are meant for her and her only today, and guess what, she's packed and left already.

I
Let them speak though know that their words are uttered from mouths unpolished and stink for they are formed in minds rank with putrid, rotting flesh, a common orifice where big game shot down in ivory towers once upon a time was not properly skinned and cured, but left carelessly to be feasted upon by maggots and larvae that now survived, look out from dull irises and pour forth from throats kept wet with their slime. Let them come.

II
Those eyes, they turn in my direction and though her weapons are few, she wields them with an economy that comes honed from years of battle and so I fall, pierced through with blunt and rusted spears, their poison coursing through my veins and in retreat I want to tear at myself, for behind me her cretin sounds a warning "stand you fool" and I know I have lost this fight, deservedly so for those who go unprepared to stand firm against what retribution their rebellion is to bring must suffer wordless umbrage that rains fury on them.

III
Shreds, patches scattered across the floor, the breeze catching the lighter fabrics and for a while they seem about to dance, backs arched lifting themselves but then gently they fall back again, but each in a different pose, as though they had merely been shifting in their sleep, silently exhaling into a more comfortable position in which to pass the hours. Let them sleep, give them dreams, or even nightmares if you will, only let them lie and never wake, be merciful and leave them as they are.

IV
When I act on what I believe is the course of action to disinter true sentences, you must be on my side. Though truth be a powerful catalyst to sound a battle cry, alone in a blanketing night whose darkness is so thorough in its manufacture as to allow no eyes seek out the faintest of forms, I stumble, arms outstretched like oars, you must be on my side. I have some mettle yet, and it draws its fire searing from truth alone, but the tides, they change in a matter of seconds, and the rage and fury that truth inspires, when I find my traipse turn to treading muddy waters tangled in weeds, is clobbered right and center by waves with the force of wrought iron clubs, you, you, must be on my side.