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Lorem Ipsum

by Orit Shimoni

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All Comes Round Again When I was a kid, I learned my people hid and those that did survive barely got out alive. I could not understand why so few lent a hand, and thank god some were brave and fought against the wave. I asked my mother, I asked my father, “Why did it happen, and would it happen once again?” They assured me that the world was better. Folks who were enemies for years could now be friends. We learned in school that long ago, people had strange ideas. They did not know, but thanks to progress and education, we were building far more peaceful, loving nations. And I believed that the wrongs had passed, and I believed that peaceful harmony could last. But that belief has reached an end, cause look around, my friends, it all comes round again. The crimes of hatred, not just in pages of old history books, they’re putting kids in cages! They use the same words to justify. They look right at the TV cameras as they lie, and we all know how bad it gets. I don’t think anyone just moves on and forgets. It’s clear that evil never did end. It just waited til it all comes round again. And folks are frightened, and folks are scared, and we must look upon the way past heroes dared to go on marches, to lead the fight, who knew the difference between what was wrong and right. Will the darkness give way to light if we stand together and we join the fight? It’s all we’ve got, and it worked back then, and we need it cause it all comes round again.
America 03:59
America Tonight, I wished that it would snow all across America, cool all the wounds down, put out the fires and let it snow so hard no one can get you, no one can hurt you, not for a while. In Jerusalem when it snows, it seems the war has ended, even though it’s just suspended. Just for a while, the cold wet air, blanket of white, makes it alright, just for a while. And if it’s God who brings the floods, who brings the fires, who brings the plague, then what about a massive blizzard? Can’t it do that? Just for a while. If I could be the one who sends the winds in all directions, and guides the sky’s intentions, I’d make it soft, the kind that’s playful, the kind that’s beautiful, in sparkling glory makes you forget that you are hurting, just for a while. Tonight, I wished that it would snow all across America, just for a while.
Maybe Tomorrow I aint’ got anything smart to say. I’ve been staring at Facebook all damn day and I’m triggered and I’m drained. I ain’t been outside in a week but I heard it rained. I just pace around I this living room,but I sit real quick cause I’m full of gloom and I’m aching. I’m not alright. The whole damn world’s broken and I’m so full of fright. And this is where I’m supposed to soothe, say something pretty, say something smooth, but I got nothin’. Maybe tomorrow. I forgot the toast in the toaster again, I just seem to sip this coffee again and again, it’s not even hot. My mind’s alive in the places that I’m not. And if someone asks, I say I’m doing fine. I’m not really sure if it’s true or a line. Doesn’t matter, I’m still here. That’s pretty much the only thing that’s actually clear. I’m sure there’s work that I should do, some act of glory a song or two. But I got nothin’. I got nothin’. Maybe tomorrow.
All my sins 03:32
All My Sins I did not sponsor a poor child in Africa. I did not take in a refugee. I did not donate a healthy kidney. And all this time I’ve walked around quite free. I can eat whatever food I want. Some for taste, some to avoid disease. I am told each day that people love me. Still, I beg for mercy on my knees. I know there’s no god above to judge us. If there was, these things would never pass. Still, I beg and pray for my forgiveness that without help from me this will end fast. I have been a kind and honest person, but did no brave heroic things. Though never laid a hurtful finger, I will go to hell for all my sins. Do not comfort me for all my sorrow. I’m not the one who needs your helping hand. Why we cannot get ourselves together is just something I’ll never understand.
Dear Marla 05:44
Dear Marla Dear Marla, You don’t know me, but I’m your mother. I’ve been sorry for your whole life that I gave you to another, and I’ve only written two words, tears are flowing, I gotta have a smoke. You know I wish I could have kept you but my life then was a joke. Marla, I’ve imagined meeting you some day. I just can’t write this letter. I’m afraid of what you’d say. And Marla, I don’t know who you are, don’t know who I am either, just dust from the stars, birds in a cage, words on a page. I have no idea, but I’d say it’s safe to gauge you’re just like the leaves on the trees, deserving of attention as you blow through the breeze. Dear Marla, You don’t know me, but I see you every day, and I watch you serve the coffee inside your small café. I only know your name because I heard somebody yell it loud. I think it was your boyfriend, you didn’t seem too proud. Marla, I’m not the stalking type, just think you could date nicer guys. You smiled my way once might have been sun in your eyes. Marla, I don’t know who you are, don’t know who I am either, just dust from the stars, birds in a cage, words on a page. I have no idea but I’d say it’s safe to gauge you’re just like the leaves on the trees, deserving of affection as they blow in the breeze. Dear Marla, I hope you’re doing ok. I’ve been meaning to write, work just gets in the way. And Marla, what I did wasn’t right. I should have listened better. I ain’t always too bright. but it’s a lie what they say about getting more confident with age. I just can’t write this letter. I’ll probably just toss the page. Marla, I don’t know who you are, don’t know who I am either, just dust from the stars, birds in a cage, words on a page. I have no idea but I’d say it’s safe to gauge, you’re just like the leaves in the trees, deserving of love as you blow through the breeze
Horse 01:48
HORSE I saw a man striking a horse. It was straying from its usual course. "Can't reason with an animal, you must use force" said the man who did the striking. Well a horse has beauty and a horse has grace, a certain dignity upon its face, don't know why folks stick them in a race when to gallop free they're meant to. Well I've been saddled in and reigned by rules, been struck down by some angry fools, been given lots of useless tools, when all I want is freedom. And I think about that blowing mane, an open field pictured in vain, the ropes that bind us give us pain and are so hard to loosen. I think about the horse that's struck. I think about its lousy luck to end up in a world that's stuck with all these expectations. Let me gallop, let me be. I wanna shake this misery. Is it just death that sets us free and gives us our salvation?
DRAW ME A PICTURE I wish violence was funny, that the end of the barrel was a cartoon bunny. Cartoons don’t flinch, they just grin, cause a cartoon can die and begin again, like that Wylie coyote with his dynamite and that sucker, Roadrunner, obtuse to his plight. He just keeps zipping on by, no matter how hard coyote will try, and hammers on heads they don’t leave you dead, they just push you into the ground. And when somebody screams or when something explodes, it just makes a cute cartoon sound. Draw me a picture I’d like to climb in. I don’t like this real world we’re living in. I wish these messed up nations were just some animations. I wish we could throw out the bad draft, draw and erase while we hone in our craft. I wish happy endings could always just be and we’d have Jimminy crickets who remind us to see. I wish liars’ noses would grow. It would sure help those people who don’t seem to know. And I wish when all of my chores were through, I could go to a ball and find love that’s true, and all my rags could all turn into riches, and I’d show all of them sons of bitches. Draw me a picture I’d like to climb in, I don’t like this real world we’re living in. I wish that the way too much blood that gets spilled was just some red ink on some bad artist’s quill. I wish it was fake, it would sure help my mood, and, hey while we’re at it, we could draw us some food, cause there’s too many people starving out there and the powers that be don’t seem to care. Seems like fiction but it’s all too true. What are real people supposed to do? Draw me a picture I’d like to climb in. I don’t like this real word we’re living in.
Smithereens 03:28
SMITHEREENS She blew up on the beach. Her chest went smithereens, and they knew that it was her because her mum had bought the swimsuit, and they recognised the bloodied floral print. And everyone had loved her, except those who had been jealous. She wasn’t all that pretty, but she’d always been kind, and nobody is close to jealous now. And the friend who sat beside her, well, he survived the blast, and when his eyes are closed, he just sees fragments blowing past, and he hasn’t smiled a single day, and he cries out every night and nothing makes it better, and nothing ever will. And the man who had the dynamite, he tossed the life he had. And it kills me, god, it kills me that someone might be glad. Something’s awful wrong on either side, I am quite sure. If you can twist yourself to like this, I don’t know what’s the cure. I’m sure I’m not the only one who sees the beach now differently, and the cafes and the markets, and the steps that lead you home. I don’t want to surrender to the fear that made me wander, but the sorrow that it causes me just makes me want to roam.
MY FLYING SHOES I miss my flying shoes. I’d fly away these blues, go catch a sunset from the other side, sit in an old café, walk down some alley way and steal a glance, get a smile and catch a ride. That endless highway is calling me, I wanna go so bad but I’m not free. I’ll pay my dues here, but oh some way, I’m gonna put on my flying shoes again someday. I’m gonna window shop on pretty streets, stop in a bakery and get myself some treats, look at the paper, pretend to read, be glad for all the things that I don’t need, dust off my luggage, pick up and go. I’ll be back but when exactly I don’t know. I’ll smile so bright at passers by, as if they’re just some other birds in the same sky. I miss my flying shoes. I’d fly away these blues. Until I get them back I’ll just sit down and cry
SING BACK TO ME This is me to your soul. I know you can hear me. Bodies wither, the mind grows old, but your soul doesn’t fear me. There is time, there is time, there is time when we meet. There’s no ocean or forest, no bridge and no street, and you sing back to me,so I know that it’s true. This is me to your soul. You are hurting, I feel you. If you reach back to me,I believe this can heal you. There is time, there is time, there is time, but we must make it present. There’s no reason for war between us. It is peaceful and pleasant. Sing back to me, so I know that it’s true. This is me to your soul. We are in this together. If you reach back to me. all these storms we can weather. I don’t mind, I don’t mind what shape you’re in. Scars are just memories of moments we wear on our skin. And you sing back to me,so I know that it’s true. Sing back to me, so I know that it’s true.


Orit Shimoni – Lorem Ipsum

Stranded by a global pandemic in a city I wasn’t familiar with, after eleven years of total nomadism, I was lucky enough to find a quaint little apartment I could afford for a while. I rode the waves of hope and despair, for my own future and for the future of our world. Hope had been easier when I was on the road, encountering people’s smiles. Despair, too, was easier, in the company of others and with the balance of the magical experiences that riding trains and performing brings.

On one particular night, feeling particularly anguished by the state of the world, the extreme polarisation, the rising of willful ignorance and hate, it seemed too much to bear. I suddenly remembered a song I had written a few years back but had never recorded. “You’ve expressed this already,” I thought to myself, and began to remember there were others. I sat down and made a list of them. Eleven. Just seeing the titles brought some relief, as if gathering the loose melodic and textual threads of this pain was already therapeutic.

A failing, noisy laptop, a cheap microphone, and free, basic recording software, it struck me that the barrenness, solitude, and relative impoverishment of my circumstances made the perfect background and story for these songs. No ornamentation could be appropriate. No sheen. No sparkle. Just the bare-naked truth of it. And when the next wave of despair came, I remembered the list. I knew I had to record them all then and there in one session, and headed into an all-nighter. I made a record both of the songs, and of the time and place I was in: a solitary night in an apartment in downtown Winnipeg, full of despair, in isolation during a pandemic, knowing that singing and recording were acts of hope and survival.

Lorem Ipsum are the two words you see in graphic design, the textual place-holder so that you can choose the font before you insert your own words. Textual place-holder was exactly what these songs were: varied written articulations for the same basic feelings. With some extra digging, I discovered that Lorem Ipsum comes from the Latin Dolorem Ipsum, which means, Pain Itself. What was a design place-holder as I was figuring out the artwork for the album, became its official title.

It has been my practice for as long as I can remember, to use song-writing as the space for pain, and in sharing songs I have learned how necessary art is as a space-holder for what anguishes us. A shared space.

In this sharing, there is the antidote to pain itself.

Yours in song and gratitude,


released August 1, 2021

All songs written, composed, and performed by Orit Shimoni
Recorded by Orit Shimoni
Mixed by Dan Bern
Mastered by Alex Oropeza

Painting and graphic design by Orit Shimoni
Graphic layout and assembly by Martin van de Vrugt

With special thanks to Dan Bern, Tracey Friesen, Kristie Grant, Lea Laukamp, Jesse DeNatale, Scott Nolan & Cory Wolchuk

Additional bird sounds by the Edmonton Street Bird Choir of Winnipeg, Manitoba.
All songs registered @OritShimoni Socan/Ascap 2021


all rights reserved



Orit Shimoni

Orit has toured internationally for over a decade. With 12 highly acclaimed albums, she has a substantial, devout, and diverse following. Known for her intelligent and accessible song-writing and her mesmerising voice. Her sets span themes and styles that transport listeners into and out of themselves. A seasoned writer and performer Orit Shimoni is a unique and vital voice in these times. ... more

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