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.
My Trusted MOGs
"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.
My Trusted MOGs
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.
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Hunger for brains? Well, stay away from my door - there's slim pickings inside.
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bless the pretty ugly place where that post came from, or the ugly pretty one.
"when I close my eyes and listen to this song I find comfort for reasons unknown, or at least for reasons not communicable." - i'll drink to that. alternatively, it's the comfort of not knowing combined with that of never telling what you know.
My Trusted MOGs
No matricide for you? It'd be a heck of a way to go though, pecked to death by Babybird...presumably one tiny little morsel at a time, so as you wouldn't necessarily notice you're missing all those little parts of yourself at first. Before you'd know it, you'd be on the road to awe....
Hmmm, maybe, just maybe, "smart" is overrated anyway...
It seems to me you're doing something right. Your words, and the songs you choose, stay with me all day. That's gotta be good.
I gotta go check all my organs are intact now.
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let me echo phoebe- thanks for sharing this. love this song. get tingling. Dunno what a Lollard is. I seem to be listening to a lot of songs that are cloaked in whistful happy-hued, crescendo-ing hooks, but reek of futility and pain and self-loathing. The lyrics on this one are incredible. If they were spoken it would be poetry in tears. If it were part of a sitcom, it would sound trite. but in this song, especially when played while reading your post, it sounds frighteningly true, real and indeed painful.
power thru man. the hurt now makes a glimmer of contentment that much more glorious. But it also just makes you real. and life visceral.
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Oh, and Matt - not to make you squirm or anything, but I've been holding off on getting me some Babybird because I wanted a signature Matt Mix of it... When I get it doesn't really matter - I'm pretty damn sure it will be perfect timing when it does arrive.
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" I miss the times when the people I saw every day were smarter."
This may be the most profoundly resonant thing I've heard anyone say in months.
My Trusted MOGs
Ahhh, you guys. C'mon. I'm sure it feels that way, and I have to admit I chuckled at that too and sighed, but hey...well, we have each other, right? At least, from time to time...
Easy for me to say though - I've surrounded myself with pretty sassy, intelligent women. Some of the guys are all right too, I suppose. ;)
My Trusted MOGs
Well, yeah, it's a lot of the reason I hang around here so much....
My Trusted MOGs
dermahrk, I hear you brother, things have gone pretty spongiform in the ol' grape here, too.
poe, "It's the comfort of not knowing combined with that of never telling what you know." --I'm pouring a glass of gin for that one right now.
indiepixie, Lollards are just tiny little nothings. High five! Suffice it to say that they didn't much like the whole idea of saints and were occasionally immolated. I have a very soft spot for songs of the type you describe, and I admire your ability to describe the lyrics in manner so beautifully succinct.
Ivy, as you might expect, your words bring a painful kind of pleasure (to beat a dead horse). At the risk of being redundant, it is nice to know that one is not "alone down there," and a bummer to hear that someone else is in the same pit.
K, I'm enjoying the thought of each and everyone I know being comprised entirely of tiny little morsels (let us not consider Prometheus). For some reason the term morsel reminds me of dog food, not the kibble kind of dog food, but the type that looked like a meat patty made with a play-doh fun set. Any way you slice it, you make the whole affair sound much more appealing than the bird flu. Still, I think I lack the requisite bile to loose such a fate on my poor mother.
Your mention of the mix didn't make me squirm so much as shrug like Squiggy. All I can do is assure you that you will someday get it, but when you will get it is anyone's guess. Don't get your hopes up on anything about it being perfect, though...
And you are right about this thing we have here, from time to time. Every time I come around I am reminded that there are some really great, cool, and "smart" people that are just a few keystrokes away.