My mom is a sextagenarian. She claims that she was into Johnny Cash when all the kids were gah-gah over Elvis. I cannot verify this, I must take her word. It is, as they say, a curse of youth. What I can verify is that she watches and enjoys American Idol. I find myself, from time to time, scoffing when she mentions that it is Idol night, and she must make haste to the television. I stop myself, however, mid-scoff, and tell her that I think it is just the bees knees that she enjoys the show, because, after all, it is a show that is meant to be enjoyed. It is a lie I tell, one of those lies, you know the ones, you tell them all the time, you lying bastard.

You may be thinking to yourself that there is a certain nobility in lying to ones mother in order to spare her feelings, or perhaps you see an acknowledgment of subjectivity and personal honesty in my actions, but the reality is that I think my mother hopeless. If you are personally honest with yourself, you will admit that you find your mother hopeless, too.

Ok, so my mom's not hopeless at all; she's a fucking saint, Lollards be damned. We share with each other music and love, but with both there are limits; I don't slip her the tongue and I don't play for her The Mentors. We have boundaries and we are thankful for them. Nevertheless, early in this century I played for her one day, on a drive toward some unremembered destination, Babybirds' "There's Something Going On." I suppose I was emboldened, to an extent, by the first-hand knowledge that the first time you hear Babybird you have absolutely no fucking idea what is going on. You hear pretty vocals and pretty melodies and competent arrangements that put pretty pictures in your head of pretty things. It is foremost a pretty pretty experience, for most.

She liked it. How could she not, really? But I never played it for her again because I love her, and eventually Babybird will kill you. If you spend enough time with Babybird you will see that all that is pretty comes from pain, and that pretty is, in fact, derived solely from pain. It is a crushing revelation, one that will make you wish to cry, but you will find that you can't because your pain won't make tears that are pretty enough.

I know this from experience; I am the living dead. I walk the earth with an insatiable hunger for brains as my own have long since left me. I struggle on a day to day basis to form comprehensible sentences; a string of words that are remotely similar in meaning to the way I feel. It is futile, I realize, but when I close my eyes and listen to this song I find comfort for reasons unknown, or at least for reasons not communicable.

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AA Coppertop says:

"I struggle on a day to day basis to form comprehensible sentences; a string of words that are remotely similar in meaning to the way I feel. It is futile, I realize,..."

A favorite author of mine, Saul Bellow, may never have spoken these exact words to himself, but I think he came close, frequently, and his frustration (I believe) is precisely the wellspring of his brilliance. When I've had a half-hour to read this past half-year, I've spent it reading Bellow. I'm not just rewarded; I feel privileged. I'm at novel four, with no intention of switching brands just yet.

Posted about 1 month ago | Delete

brand X says:

Another friend told me yesterday that this means I am getting old and my brain is filling with holes, like swiss cheese. I told her to fuck off because I love her, and I know people older than me who manage to form coherent sentences. She told me I need to stimulate my brain and I told her I don't know how to stimulate my own brain and I can't make the people I see every day smarter. She said I should read a book. I miss the times when the people I saw every day were smarter. I should read Saul Bellow.

Posted about 1 month ago | Delete

dermahrk says:

Hunger for brains? Well, stay away from my door - there's slim pickings inside.

Posted about 1 month ago | Delete