She offered me a hand, and in a moment of disbelief and delusion, I thought I might reach to hold it. But now things are in their right place again: as I reached for that elusive grip, she backed away and let my fingers feel the cold air of nothing. Back to where I began; fallen, in a pit, no light in sight. My friend tells me, it's all my fault, that I shouldn't have hesitated the way I did. That may be, I say, but why fault something if it leads to a state of right? I close my eyes and accept that the touch will belong to someone else. I am left instead to grab at the air, slowly getting the sense that my hands themselves are softly disintegrating. Perhaps when I am no longer solid, the air and I will have a chance to make it through together.

There will be no more chances. Three is enough for any lifetime. It took a certain ingenuity to throw each of them away so casually, and with no apparent concern for my future. My future! I suppose that's a more optimistic way of speaking about the void that beckons, one which started in my mind and now has spread to where I once had a heart.

I've missed this; the familiar sense of my fingers finding synchronicity with my mind, as they help trace out a thought that's hiding just outside the horizon of consciousness. For a moment, I'm released from the dull rut of existence, and I focus everything on the goal of sculpting the words into perfection. They're dedicated to someone important, who will know if I have let my standards slip; assuming, that is, that theirs haven't either. I measure each adjective carefully, knowing it's best not to overstate or overpower; the mandatory joke is similarly desiccated to my taste, and placed delicately at the tip of the opening para. When it's done, I look at the result, and for once have to admit that not everything I do is completely trite; it's a perfect capsule of my life, a blend of the hazy present and vivid past that startles even me in its lucidity. I have to sigh in disappointment that I can't just call it a day here and cruise along. In these words, I have found a home that will not refuse me. Would that they helped invite someone else to move in as well.

Happy for You

And truly I can bear
To never take his place
Each time I see you wear
The smile that lights your face.

Final Fig

My candle is spent
Its flame at end
But sadder still
The sight
Of a wick
Still strong and thick
Yet never set
Alight.

I'm searching for words, but also for feelings. Because I know I must be feeling something now, only, it can't seem to make its way to the surface. It is too crowded up here: I find myself in a surfeit of thought and emotion. How much more can I fill this well with no one to empty it? At present, the answer seems to be: not a drop more. So with a full heart and light head I survey what is left of the world around me. Songs, stories, sirens, all beckon for my attention, attempting to provoke me into response. But I dispatch them with unquestioning resolve. It was all fun while it lasted, believe me; but now it is time to move on, and stop falling victim to the vagaries of emotion. Instead I shall learn to look straight ahead, pretending to occupy the space I am standing in, and wait for a purpose to make itself known.

If I Had a Hammer

"But I'm as priceless as the brass ring
That lost the heat from your hand."

As I let my senses awash in those soothing, familiar cadences, I was reminded of an old feeling. Every little while, as endless thought and revision are forever dispatched in favour of simply being, life seems worth it after all. As long as there is time, I remember thinking once, there is hope. But, sometimes you know your fate is sealed -- as I was ensconced in that mellifluous melody, the conductor's hands gesturing the way to heaven, the dream was suddenly ended when the hand brushed against the table, and an accompanying metallic clink reminded me that I belong here on earth, for evermore.

You said there'd be another
And so departed with a lie;
Some have use for goodwill
But I prefer goodbye.

At some point I must have lapsed into the Other, because I no longer feel this is my world anymore. Part of it is the realisation that I'm no longer young, but only part. I get a sense that society is moving and weaving in ways whose meaning and motivations I am incapable of understanding. I've become a passerby who occasionally glimpses at things sometimes repellent, sometimes fascinating, always alien. The world is bequeathed to people to whom I am a shadow. It doesn't help that I can't let go. CDs, books, blogs. I am surrounded by graveyards.

And so I join those great men
Who learned to mute their heart;
Silence, if you do not listen,
Sounds sweeter than any lark.

But theirs was a love forbidden
By laws of God or man;
And what's tragic when by a villain
Seems trite when by your hand.

The evening's ritual was a walk down the quiet, dimly lit road in the dusk. Behind me was another lost battle, another lost chance at a redemption I think I knew I would never receive. Ahead was nothing more than the warmth of familiarity, but I would take whatever I could get. Every walk, all I wanted was for it to be the last, because that would mean that the battle was over -- defeat had to be preferable to this. So one day I fled, and that was that. But now I walk down a different equally dimly lit road in the dusk, and all I can think is how gloriously real that shuffle in the quiet was, with only the streetlight, my thoughts, and me. Every footstep thus seems an echo of a past that, by any measure, was not worth living -- and yet, which I cannot seem to escape from. Is the only way to make my peace to relive everything, and prove that I have learned how to survive? Or is it to dig deeper and deeper, till nothing, man or memory, can find me?

My Illegal Self

Sometimes my existence utterly boggles my mind -- and that takes some doing, given the thoughts that ordinarily pass through it -- and I find it hard to imagine that a more unlikely individual has ever walked this planet. I almost pity the unknowing others who look into these eyes, seeing whatever image it is I project. No one's image is their whole story, but how many have kept up so massive a charade so consistently? How many have managed to have more or less conformed to the norms of society, while amassing an unbelievably detailed array of thought and emotion borne from isolation, longing, and denial? An array which, when its hand is revealed, would leave me standing alone as the earth and everyone in it scurries in fear.

Can't Make A Sound

For three minutes, the world seems like it has stopped spinning. As my mind adjusts to the silence that follows, it is with some disappointment, and doubt -- because what else is left to feel? I have resolved everything, and having discovered my final words, I see no better close to the chapter. All remorse has been shed, because I must be blessed to be able to feel so strongly and, I think it must be true, purely. Perhaps there is a world as bright as the poets tell, but I don't lament that I will not see it. Even if I've been walking in the dark these many years, it was always to this place, where I may bask under a sky of glorious gray. I'd like to stay here, I tell the world, as I feel the wheels stir slowly into motion.

Memories

David McComb is at his best, and with each lyric it's as though I'm easing myself into the warm ocean. I'm no longer in this room, this world, this universe. Everything I have experienced I feel again in one instant. The sun's under eclipse, but there is nothing I need see anymore. Lying in this ocean of ceaseless calm, I have no more need. If he speaks one more word, I may never come back. My life hangs on the next syllable, and the universe trembles in anticipation.

It's a pity
These words must end
Because this is all I know is true;
Each day
Repeats the lie
That life keeps going without you.

Halloween Parade

This Halloween is something to be sure
Especially to be here without you

Lou Reed just passed away. My emotional reaction to the news has been surprisingly heavy. Lou occupies a complex, but I've concluded integral, place in my emotional landscape. I can't honestly say that I was as flat-out obsessed with his music the way I am with some other songwriters. But statistically, I own more of his albums than most everyone else in my collection. (A consequence of his output being so prolific, and so consistently interesting.) While some of these albums aren't, I think, objectively great artistic achievements, there are none that I regret owning or spending time getting to know. (Although I got precariously close with The Bells -- see "Disco Mystic" -- but time reveals all.) That's not something I can say about many songwriters, even my favourites -- and why is that? Quite simply, I've concluded, because Lou never seemed to deviate from his deeply idiosyncratic and personal sense of what's good and what makes a suitable subject for a song -- a sense that sometimes happened to match with the winds of the time (the Velvet's early catalogue, Transformer, et cetera). In the consistent pursuit of this simple philosophy, he's left us with one of the most intriguing back catalogues in the rock songwriter canon. And it's not just nostalgia at play here -- I took it upon myself tonight to re-listen to some songs that have I've had an emotional connection to for some time. (It's always too late that one cherishes what one has, I know.) I finished one song, and then remembered another, and another, and...have concluded that, completely unbeknownst to me, Lou seems to have written as many classic songs as many songwriter peers I seem to more instinctively call favourites -- Simon, Prine, McComb, and any of the other new Dylans.

Given that we're talking about a songwriter here, knowing me, it should be no surprise that my emotional connection runs deep and has only only strengthened with time. In fact, Lou's music goes all the way back to my early days of infatuation with rock music. At some point when foraging through Starostin's site, I came across a blurb of this interesting sounding band, the Velvet Underground. It turned out that their lead singer did that "Walk on the Wild Side" song I had somehow heard, so I was intrigued. More research revealed Peel Slowly to be regarded a (once) underground classic, and so the budding elitist in me was even more on board. Excitedly purchasing the CD from Borders, I popped it in expected to be drowned in feedback and tales from the dark side of the tracks...and the speakers played "Sunday Morning". Weird! Perhaps it was all the training from my Dylan obsession, but I'm proud to say I had the foresight to recognise this song, and "I'll Be Your Mirror" as indicators of there being something different about this avant-garde band. Namely, that this Lou fellow who wrote the lyrics seemed remarkably diverse, incisive, and honest when he felt appropriate. Yes, "Heroin" and the rest were interesting from a historical perspective, but what I took out of "Venus in Furs" more than anything were the oddly resonant lines, like "I could sleep for a thousand years".

Spurred by this interest came further exploration of his early output, starting with the Velvet's self-titled third album. Amazingly, it turned out to be an album that more than matched all my unrealistic expectations, even if at the time I clearly over-praised it in my head. I was positively obsessed about this record, all the way from "Candy Says" to that unforgettable closer. At one point, I thought that playing "Jesus" on the guitar was the only way to get to the kingdom. And this reminds of the impact Lou had. Younger, more innocent times, set to a rowdy rock 'n roll soundtrack, with occasionally fantastic lyrics when you least expected it...no other way. Yes, those were times when the world was young. Rock 'n roll was the only thing worth living for. Ten years on, I couldn't have been more right.

From thereon in, things progressed at not quite the pace I would have predicted -- while I devoured Transformer soon enough after the Velvets, I don't think I got to the later classics like The Blue Mask until quite a bit later. (It was an exciting time, with a lot of music to get through, you understand.) Oh, The Blue Mask, now that was the definitive proof that this was a pretty damn unique songwriter. I'd never heard anyone write songs like "My House" before. (Even if I did, none of them had as great a sonic feel to them.) Lou seemed to be able to marry his poetic and musical sensibilities in a very everyman sort of way -- the stuff he wanted to write about was what was happening in his life, very plainly and without any needless flourish or bombast. And unlike the attempts at confessional songwriting of some of his peers, it wasn't just because bad stuff had gone down in his life (Blood on the Tracks, Tonight's the Night, Plastic Ono Band, ...) This was just his everyday life, watching the Canadian geese go by as he thought fondly about an old friend. Or how his media profile said nothing about what he was like in his daily life ("Average Guy"). Or of course he much he cared for his wife at the time ("Heavenly Arms"). Lou introduced me to songwriting that was personal not to offload one's problems to the listener (a sometimes terrific aesthetic), but simply to work out in song the issues one faces and grapples with everyday.

And his permanence was sealed with New York. Lord what a record. The best way I could describe it at the time was adult album-rock, where the "adult" was a way of expressing that the emotions and ideas expressed here were non-trivial, subtle, and not always with resolution. (Take "Endless Cycle" for example.) It's still rather amazing he came up with such a consistent collection of songs in what is described as an offhand manner. I've already cited instances of idiosyncratic songwriting style, but one more -- "Last Great American Whale"! The setup is fantastically unexpected given the message, and the words never disappoint in their combination of specificities and absurdities. This record was the summer of '09 for me, and ever since I decided that there was no such thing as a perfunctory Lou record. I'll admit to having not thoroughly heard a couple of his more challenging efforts (I suppose I should add Lulu to that list), but I doubt my stance will change now. That's part of why I'm shocked -- I was always expecting there'd be another album, and another. Albums to grow old with, to remind you of the journey from waiting for the man to sitting by your bedside at 3AM.

Perhaps music means too much to me.  It may seem odd that I should be so affected by the mere passing of a musician. But this is stuff that gets so deep in your head, your consciousness, your soul. When you're all alone, by yourself, as the world is rallying around you, baying for your blood (or so it seems). The music is your only friend. These artists tell you that whatever emotion you're feeling, it has some root in another human's experience. You may be maladjusted, not the person you think you see in others, but that's nothing new. People have spent their whole lives thinking this way. In this sense, I find much more of a personal connection with songwriters compared to, say, authors, filmmakers, and the like. Not only am I hearing the songwriters' thoughts and feelings expressed, they're the ones speaking them to me directly.

I wonder if these guys know what power their music has. Through continents, decades, cultures, the mysteries of popular song affects someone -- someone who tunes out all the superficial details that speak nothing to him, such as drug use and other deviancy. Because that's exactly what it was, superficial. Reed's strength wasn't so much that he discussed these things, but that he discussed anything that happened in his life, in a casual, matter-of-fact style that gave off bewilderment that there should be anything wrong singing about the subject -- be it getting to the kingdom through substances ("Heroin"), remembering a mentor and friend ("My House"), or taking a good look at yourself and deciding that it's time for a change ("Set the Twilight Reeling").

Whatever vague picture of Lou I've painted in my head, and tried clumsily to pay homage to in this post, is probably not quite the truth. For all I know he thought songwriting was a joke and wrote lyrics like he did grocery lists. (Now that's a potential song subject I'd have loved to have heard him tackle.) But that's not the point. By virtue of being able to move me and so many others so deeply, for so many years, means that Lou is one of those rare immortals. Someone was able to create this complex body of work, was able to make his distinct voice heard, was able to pursue his own artistic vision consistently and courageously through the years, highs and lows and all. As much as one can apportion thanks and inspiration to an individual, I owe more than I can measure to Lou's music. The thought that he was out there, walking through the Village, off-handedly writing down new lyrics for songs made me smile. It gave me belief in the perseverance of the spirit. It's a different feeling that I've got today, to be sure, but with the music as a steady soundtrack to whatever adventures await, there might be hope yet.

The end of the last temptation
The end of a dime store mystery.

The rule of the game is that a move, once played, cannot be overturned. As these things go, this seemingly arbitrary dictum is only a source of frustration to those who feel their winning hand was unfairly denied by a seemingly trivial misstep. Once the screaming and crying is over, it is worth asking whether the rule teaches one anything after all. Well, take no move for granted, most obviously. Perhaps as obviously, a game one can't lose doesn't deserve its name.

1) The Triffids, "Wide Open Road". Sometimes I listen to a song after a long time, and I try to remember the initial thrill I had on first hearing it. In general, I find this impossible, even by my obsessive life-cataloguing standards. There is a class of songs for which I can do a bit better, which are ones that prompted me to write a response, or at least an acknowledgement to them on first listen. Here, that urge is not only remembered, but resurrected. It reminds me of how remarkable it is that we have have these catalysts for either germinating or awakening certain strands of thought and feeling within ourselves. The former is rarer, and the latter involves a complex marshalling of moods, ideas and emotions that would otherwise pass us by, drowned as they are in the sea of consciousness. Any form of art, but in this context lyric or song writing, is all the more remarkable in how the artist finds a way to capture these delicate, gilded things, and hold in their hands an artifact that stands firm against time and its servants, one which divines these same truths for anyone else privileged enough to get the chance to hold it.

The early Fall moon in sight, I close my eyes and dream. Maybe one day I will no longer be able to go back. Each time I do, the bridges seem creakier, the landscape hazier. But when I catch sight of her, my eyes awake.

The biggest lie

Just a glimpse, from a distance, and I lose whatever grasp of time I used to think I have. Walking by myself on the way back, humming a tune to keep me company, I think that the feeling of that moment is all I need. Looking back now on such moments' scattered appearances through my life, I'm of course aware of the almost comic nature of my actions, or lack thereof. I don't doubt that I will find myself with a host of regrets that can match any spiritual compatriot, and the thought does sadden me. At the same time, part of me thinks: what does it all matter, anyway? While other paths may bring a richer, deeper experience, in my eyes at least I have seen a larger hand at play, and have received joy from it. If it were to take me from this world the second my eyes fell down, I wouldn't feel robbed of anything. When it comes to you, what hurts the most is that I must instead walk on, knowing that each time I look back, the longer it is that I will find what I am seeking.