July 28, 2012 § Leave a comment
Comfort is escape, but from what? At what point is it a denial of responsibility? What is the responsibility? It weighs heavily but has a big thumb on the scale. Comfort does not signify contentment of a real kind, but a buffer from the pain of coping with without. I look for comfort in myriad things, but in none do I truly find it, for futility ever leads the pursuit. The horse is dead in the gate. Contentment is not an accumulation of comforts. No number of good books I read, good movies I see, or amount of music I enjoy totals what I am after. In fact, I sometimes think that their absence will reveal the peace I seek, but I fear the void. It’s a theory I can’t bring myself to test. Better the comforts I know….
May 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
The music lied to me. Well, really, I misinterpreted it. I’d come to recognize mere infatuation by the insipid pop songs I’d allow to come to mind: True love could not be represented by such facile pap. I heard none of that while working with Herself. That might have been why it took me so long to recognize what I was feeling. What I hadn’t understood (or chosen not to) was that what I was hearing was not also an indication of how she felt toward me. It was enough that I was in love. Surely that was all she needed to know, all that was necessary for her to accept and return the feelings. I knew better even then, but the doubt that arose I tried to attribute to my natural pessimism and cynicism. More than ever, I wanted this feeling to be real and requited. Mostly, I heard XTC— “Beating of Hearts,” “Wonderland,” “Love on a Farmboy’s” Wages,” “Great Fire,” “Earn Enough for Us,” “Rocket from a Bottle,” “Love at First Sight”–never letting myself believe she didn’t hear seagulls screaming “Kiss him! Kiss him!” “Sgt. Rock (Is Going to Help Me)” was the last song I played before leaving for what ever afterward I’ve called The Trainwreck. He was no help at all. The only XTC I could hear after that was “Me and the Wind,” but that was wishful thinking on the other end of the emotional scale. Music is not to be trusted.