The most picturesque spot near where I live has now twice been the scene of one of those long, serious conversations about (my) life that may sound like a good idea for a book or movie, but in reality have left me feeling gutted. This last time, it's probably because it reminds that even so many years after the first torture, things haven't brightened up, and people take notice of that. My companion this last time suggested, in the nicest possible way, that all this mental turmoil might just be ego. In the strictest sense he's right, but I feel it's off-target in spirit. What makes me feel particularly bad is the sense that the person who came here hoping to put an end to whatever uncertainty and unhappiness there was in the past life has been fundamentally let down. Not by anyone or anything in particular, and not entirely self-blamelessly, but it's unarguable that circumstances have not worked out as they should or ought. My shortcomings pried open for all the world to see, how is it that I have kept on going? I ask myself but have no answer. Sometimes it makes sense to embrace emptiness.

Nearly each person of significance in my immediate environment has shown this week a capacity to tremendously disappoint, and leave me feeling more isolated than ever. There was a time when I was confident of my judgements of people and their characters, but now I am not very sure. If I am right, and these people, who found a way into my heart, turn out to be not worth relying upon in times of need, what good does this bode? It could be that it's me who is the common problem in each situation, I grant you. But does that make the future look any better?

1) The Triffids, "Estuary Bed". I don't know how it is possible for music to induce nostalgia for times I haven't actually experienced. You could call such songs "evocative" and leave it at that, but there is something more. The narrator of the preceding "Seabirds" may have departed in despair, but the one here possibly knows more pain, by virtue of being on the wrong side of forgotten affection and having to live with that as years tick by. Forster said "Cattle and Cane" was a key progression where McLennan managed to dig up the past, and so too here. When that happens, it does not matter how tangential or disconnected your personal experience is to what is literally expressed; the heart will find a way to make a connection. Which is another way to say, this is a perfect song.

I regret not having kept a better record of my thoughts regarding the world around me, focussing instead on the one inside me. Not only because the latter gets repetitive (I like that, mind), but because I sometimes struggle to remember my feelings about, say, computing in the early days. I vaguely recall amusement about wikis, for example, and more clearly remember a growing sense of discomfort with the old system being pushed aside. It strikes me that the world has changed a lot in not a lot of time, and there hasn't been nearly enough of discussion to match. I like some of the recent manifestos on the topic, but there's nothing like reminding oneself of one's own reactions to events as they unfolded.

Yet everytime I try to engage in the topic with other people, it's met with cool, logical approval of what has happened, backed up with a pretty convincing list of reasons why that is the only sane reaction. It's when this happens that I am reminded of why I never liked writing about these things. It has rarely been facts themselves that interest me, even though they are what is needed for a calm discussion. No, I seem to cast everything into an emotional issue, in this case, as with all manner of childhood souvenirs, a lament on what has been lost. I could say more, but really, that's about all there is to it. I used to suspect, and now I know, that most people place no value on such oddities. And why should they, after all? Ah, but I cannot help it. I just cannot let go so easily. I may forget specifics, but I carry a mark. When out of the blue the memory comes back, it takes some willpower to prevent a deluge inside. It feels as though as these losses are connected in some way. Even after years of training, I'm not very far off from where I started.

By no means are these feelings worthy of a post, if only because they are nothing new, and are likely to recur as long as I continue to live like this. Amongst people who know you, one feels the wistful reflection to the past has not always been misguided. A little bit of you lives on in people's memories, and that reciprocation seems so wonderful to a troubled mind. There is strength derived from seeing other lives, there is a stronger conviction in onesself. Not that that means one wants to put any of this to use. Much better to be immersed in this environment for longer; not use it as a remedy, but use it as reality. Because at the end of it all, how to put it better than: I really would not like to go.

Spanish Blue

On the train listening to Grant McLennan, recalling the melody the instant before it is sung, passing the green plains and windmills. Nothing happens here. It must be heaven.

Do you remember Ween/Parsons? Funny how I gravitate towards certain genre combinations.


1) Mr. Bungle, "None of Them Knew They Were Robots". I shut the band off totally after cursory listens to tracks off of Disco Volante many years ago. It seemed then to be the kind of weirdness in music that I least appreciate, because there was no core that gave it any meaning. Imagine my surprise on learning that the successor to Volante, California, is one of the strongest albums of the '90s. My first reaction to this fine track was that it must be telling a pretty epic story underneath all the noise and stylistic shifts. My later reaction after sifting through said noise and shifts was confirmation of this hunch.

2) Townes Van Zandt, "Pancho & Lefty". Sometimes one encounters a supposedly classic track and finds it no different to any other track by the artist. While things sometimes settle on that state, other times there is a gradual process where one starts to appreciate the subtlety of the song. With "Pancho", it's probably the understated melody that's easy to lose sight of initially; with it, the words become that much rougher.

I fixed my gaze to the floor. Words were being spoken so casually. My brain was processing them, but my body was in complete meltdown. I thought that by looking away, maybe it wouldn't be true. But of course that didn't work. I know one often says such things, but sometimes they are true: at that moment, I truly did not know what the point of anything was.

People ask me how I like the country of dreams. I smile politely and express warm satisfaction. Indeed, I've liked it every time I've set foot in it. It's been very kind to me; it's given me so much over the years. But it's also taken away something very important from me, and from the rest of us stranded sailors. I don't hold a grudge, per se, but it's best to just stay clear. There are things I'd rather not think about. I'd rather do my crying at home.

1) The Go-Betweens, "Magic In Here". I recall the same: summer walks by the river, with the soft blue approach of the water, and the nightfall of diamonds evident on the surface. Life can be as peaceful and comfortable as the song suggests.

2) The Go-Betweens, "He Lives My Life". Rachel Worth bears at least one similarity to 16 Lovers Lane: it's pretty difficult to decide if it's Grant or Robert that wins out overall. Generally, when Grant wins it's by sheer lyrical acuity, while Forster uses atmosphere to get mood across. He pins that atmosphere here: like him, I know all too well the sound when that evening Sun goes down, and understand why one would ever want one's counterpart to succeed.

3) Iris DeMent, "You've Done Nothing Wrong". Forster once asked whether it was Guy Clark or Townes Van Zandt who sounded the best in the dark. Iris is simply too good natured to even be in contention for such an award, but some of her sadder songs do get a particular resonance in the late hours; with "Calling For You", you get a pretty sobering take on being kept up with regret, and finding no respite in the morning either.