You must realize that no one teaches me these things. That I know of, I've never actually met anyone dabbling seriously in writing; finding a reader is tough enough, a writer nigh impossible in the circles I move around. Whatever improvements in my pieces that are apparent through the years are the product of some form of common sense, but it's one that I've had to work hard for. Even now, I'll admit that there are times when I imagine that I've outgrown most of the problems that plagued my early writing. I'll write a particularly satisfying piece and pat myself on the back for the accomplishment. The darn problem is, it isn't always that easy. Heck, a good 50% of my drafts are either deleted or become posts I purposely avoid when perusing my archives. Much as I'd like to think otherwise, it isn't the case that with time my first drafts are somehow magically better. Perhaps all that has changed is my understanding of what makes something good; where once I would have published straight away, citing the trueness of emotion as reason enough, now at least I spare you, dear reader ;-)

"Trueness of emotion", now I think I can make that claim about what I write. I certainly don't find myself sitting at the desk and manufacturing things to write about. But it takes time to realize that there has to be something more than just an emotion, however valid. In Tobias Wolff's Old School, there is a beautiful little section where Frost himself (!) defends his school of aesthetics against claims of it being insufficient to capture the complex uncertainties of modern life, circa the early '60s. In particular, he rallies against the notion that form, most prominently rhyme, is somehow naive in its belief that everything has a neat resolution: words join together, the poem has finality, and as a result the world inside bears no resemblance to the real one. "Form might be all we have", he says, and it made me think. After all, it really is tempting to argue the counterpoint to Frost, namely that structure implies a certain...sense underlying things. Heck, isn't this part of my defense of Berryman a few posts ago? Regardless of how true that statement is, throwing our hands up at the brutality of the world and giving in to anarchy (blank verse ;-)), well, as he says, perhaps that is mere laziness!

Why this topic is particularly interesting to me is the case of music. I've often thought that classical is simply incapable of addressing the emotions that popular music does so well. When pressed for details, I usually say something about the uncertainty of life that's captured in, say, a Tom Waits song. It's to be expected - were our nature of expression the same as two centuries ago, it would be cause for concern - but are these changes or, if you will, improvements? I used to learn towards the latter, insofar as I thought that the classical form was simply antiquated after a point. Yet, perhaps it is me who is antiquated! It might be that the emotions I champion are simply unable to stand by themselves. Without form, perhaps the emotions and feelings crumble into dust when faced with the ravages of time. I'm willing to admit that it could all be a matter of time before I realize such things. Not that I've completely switched sides, mind you, but I'm now wary of having a firm stance on this issue.

I don't know if there have been many books that have changed my life. But in several instances, like this one, literature has made me pause and think deeper about things I took for granted. Long may it last.

1) Ween, "She's Your Baby". With time apart from the wonder duo, one forgets that even minor songs display a remarkable acuity. To think I once found this a weak end to an otherwise fine album! It strikes me that, if it wasn't obvious already, the band is now firmly in the category of the great mystics for me. Songwriting whose source I simply cannot fathom, but lord bless it doubly for it.

2) The Go-Betweens, "As Long As That". Another potential wonder duo in the context of my life, but it's too early to say. There's something special in the care displayed in the lyrics, which tempts one to use the phrase "poetic"; but given the term's associations with popular song, the intent is diffused. Anyhow, the same care undeniably makes proceedings a bit dry, in general; refined, but with none of the electric energy the medium conducts so well. But "I've got a feeling / It sounds like a fact / It's been around / As long as that"? Lines like this are why I once wanted to be a songwriter.

Through complete chance I came across the following article on Berryman's legacy resulting from the Dream Songs, and on the reasons for the popularity of the latter. The conclusion is pretty dim: the popularity is attributed more to sociological reasons (put crassly, the "cool" factor associated with reading poetry that initially seems resistant to easy interpretation) than any inherent worth in the poems! In particular he claims that they represent a school of thought that is fundamentally incompatible with good poetry, namely, obscurity and the lack of cogency. What the school allows is the for the glorification of snippets of phrases and lines that appear among the weeds, with the rest being vaguely cited as realistic or the like. The school's approach is to avoid the difficult road of creating something with meaning and coherence; instead it is akin to randomly spraying a jumble of words and leaving it to the reader to affix meaning to them.

It makes for fascinating reading, and I embrace the idea that we must at least be willing to point out when something is championed for reasons other than self-worth. I think a lot of my qualms with certain strands of popular music can be characterized by the arguments made in the article: once we let go of structure, it can be thrilling but it's difficult to tell one item from the next. Perhaps that explains the lack of consensus on such things. The author makes this point when he states his belief that no two people will have the same notion of what any particular Dream Song is about. I don't think that there is necessarily any inherent meaning to poetry - there is space inside the words and their texture to let the reader insert his own mind and experiences - but there's a difference in having space between valleys and just having a blank slate. One can affix meaning to anything; but when we are hinted as to which direction to travel, the results are much more resonant, as a general principle. So even forgetting the fact that the latter requires more skill on the poet's part, in terms of what is more powerful, it's clear that the poem with meaning is the one with greater intrinsic worth.

Given my limited exposure to the poems in the Dream Songs - I've been through the original batch, but with some generous skipping - I'm wary to comment too much on his specific criticism of the writing. I completely agree that #44, say, is tough to figure out. But had he chosen any of the well known ones - say, #1, #14, #29, #50 - I wonder if you could draw the same conclusion. Which would refute his stance insofar as it shows that there is something substantive in the poems; it just may not be there in all of them. It seems more reasonable then to explain its popularity based on the good ones rather than chalk it up to a form of mob mentality. If you were to press me further and ask why I like those poems, I might concede that in some cases there's a particularly good line that makes the poem memorable, but by no means are these good lines amongst an array of impenetrable ones: they're just neat summarizations of the feeling of the dream song in question. Quite often they're funny, too, which it strikes me must be another explanation for the popularity of the work. I can't imagine too many people laughing at Tennyson the way they might at a dream song, and so that gives it a certain novelty. Given this, I'd imagine that there are quite a few readers today for whom this style of poetry seems more, well, real than the alternatives.

The article did its job in one sense, in that it made me pause and reconsider my stance on art in general. I'd like to think I'm above the mass that is attracted to something just because it is strange or different - I'm much more interested if the thing is resonant. But is there some part of me that is excited by the idea of the Dream Songs more than the poems themselves? Is the kick I get out of "Are you radioactive, pal? / Pal, radioactive" not much more than the thrill of absurdity? Sure: these things are just human nature, as the author points out. I'm not sure that as a mere consumer of the arts, one should take pains to be dispassionate and clear about why one likes something; but of course the other extreme can mean that you shut yourself out from what's genuinely good, in favour of something that satisfies a more easily pleased impulse. I think the important point to be made is that often, one can sense there is a reason behind liking something, but it is just out of reach; that is different from liking something with no concrete understanding of why that is. Not a warning sign necessarily, but certainly a common occurrence when the item in question is of questionable intrinsic value. I suppose my take is that it's fine to get taken in by things head over heels, but every now and again it pays to stop and reflect.

Between pages, on the right day,
Sometimes I find my mind stray
To your question
And a younger man's reply.
Oh, there's no plot without you,
Every word sounds untrue;
I close my book,
Curse my mouth and sigh.

To begin by asking whether I exist on a different plane is rarely a good sign. But sometimes...how else can I put it. I find myself capable of what one could call the ability to abstract, but it's only in the things that count; that is, life and people. I am triggered by words, phrases, a certain look that reveals pure innocence in contrast to a world consumed by noise and ambiguity. These lead me to uncharted moods where I can almost imagine what is happening in another heart, where I can sense its consonance to the spirals of my own mind. By understanding just one person outside the self, even if for a moment, all of mankind appears illuminated. And what a beautiful sight it is.

Sister I'm a poet

Hiding behind those sweet spectacles was an astonishing heart. I was already confident of his innocence of spirit, but I never thought his interests were of a literary bent. He expressed this fact with a line so concise, so beautiful, that I will never forget it. To think, all the hours I've toiled over verse, clunkily making words rhyme, and yet never once have I broadcast this hobby to the world at large. When faced then with such a free statement, so lacking in pretense, I was simply left in awe as it glided past my many layers of cynicism. In just a single line, he reminded of a fundamental truth: what beauty in mankind.

1) John Prine, "The Torch Singer". I've underestimated Diamonds In The Rough for quite a while. I now think that side A may be as good as the debut. With songs like these, he conjures up a lazy, dusty feeling that I imagine many songwriters make it their life goal to capture. I can't imagine anything else in music, let alone art, that's imbued with the same state of mind. He makes a strong case for folk-rock turning out to be favourite genre after all.

2) Morrissey, "All You Need Is Me". As long as the old master can write lyrics like these, all will be well with the world. It brings me a smile that recalls "Suedehead".

3) Neil Young, "Thrasher". I've mildly oscillated with Young over the years, but hearing this after a long time was a revelation. I always admired the prettiness of the tune, but used to prefer the direct lyrical punch of "Powderfinger". But with time that stance has shifted somewhat, and I see a new subtlety in the song. Once more, it's all about the feeling. In the rise and fall of the melody, we discover that perhaps there are more roads than we once thought. In the clarity of the morning sun, one realizes that there is a life somewhere out there, and all we have to do is accept it.

A perceptive take on popular song I recently read is that it serves as a filter on life. A broad statement that can be applied to any art form, but there are at least two reasons it's a valuable way to think of popular song. First, the music lends itself so easily to subjective interpretation, because it is explicitly designed to be a visceral experience; once one responds instinctively, there's no chance that the reaction of any two people will be the same. Second, as a consequence of the first, this filter is much stronger than with the other arts. I wrote earlier about poetry serving as a magic incantation of sorts, a series of powerful invocations that help one in times of duress. One can say much the same thing with popular song, except that it doesn't just come to one's aid: it actively changes one's perceptions of everyday life*. Indeed, it's not clear that there's any deeper meaning to a lot of songs or albums that I like. A lot of times there are just phrases, snippets that speak to me, and the feelings they induce are quite likely not what the artist had in mind when recording it. Again, not particularly surprising - true of poetry, for example - but popular song in general doesn't have the level of intrinsic complexity of poetry, so one is left wondering why exactly it is so pleasing. A lot of times it's the feel of the music, the expression of a feeling that you can't get anywhere else; not through books, film, nor instrumental music. I don't know if it's all about Soul, but certainly the mode of expression is essential to understanding the music.

* Of course, I don't mean to suggest that it must act as a filter on your life, whether you like it or not, but I like the sound of the idea, and I feel like it's accurate in describing my own experiences.

The melody, at night, with you

Sitting on the bus with the rain outside, I was pondering the mysteries of life. I don't know where the center is anymore, and things have never felt this uncertain. It's one of those troughs where all I see and know is the present, and it's certainly not the place to be. Oh, but I'm not defeated that easily. I know ways of escaping. Yes, the smell of summer rain...I remember. There certainly was another time, buried away as it is in my mind. I send my memory back to infinity, searching for something concrete to affix my thoughts on, and yours is the face it returns. It doesn't take a second for the memories to accompany it. Now I have the best ones all carefully selected, and I realize that I've forgotten how much comfort they bring. They make it quite plain that life has a broader frame than we perceive; and what's more, it's rare when we really understand the sentiment. It's strange to say, but it's almost as if I'd forgotten that it was me who went through all those times. The innocence and the happiness, that might have been a life ago, but these aren't dispassionate recollections of something I read about; the person inside all of them is me.

I can't deny that I feel some sadness: what once was one life was slowly, painfully broken in two. Once set down different roads, we had no way of finding the path towards each other. What might have been, what might have been... But no: the pain, it's had its turn. Accepting this, and just letting the past slowly cloud over my mind, I felt a moment of genuine happiness. What a moment in the midst of all manner of existential turmoil! Like a mythic lighthouse in the distance, the moment offered a reminder of why we travel through the bog in the first place. Reflecting on this miracle, I realize that I owe a great deal to the universe for making it me who has these memories, who has these feelings.

This is possibly the fourth life I'm living, and in the immediacy of the moment, I feel it to be the worst in recent memory. But I now have faith it will end. There were other mes that came before, and there is one set to succeed my current position. Uncertain as the future is, knowing it exists offers immense hope. Who knows, perhaps we'll meet again yet? Whatever the outcome, I'd like to thank you in spirit for helping remind me, for an instant, that there is a life above our lives. The thread is delicate, but it exists. Where once we danced, the vibrations linger on.

It could well be that none of it means anything. Intersections of our respective time and space could just be the result of atoms playfully colliding. Maybe comets have not gone blazing by in signs of approval, and the stars haven't been shining so that I could find purpose in the night sky. It could be nothing more than the way the earth spins, how life plays itself out from time to time. Yes, maybe I've been singing praises in honour of a connection that simply doesn't exist. But without a little bit of faith, what good would any of it be? A life so detached would run its course without even allowing the possibility of such magic; whether I am right or wrong in this instance, I know the principle is true. So I believe. I draw on your every movement, and they speak to me with purpose and colour. We are pushed together by something, light shining through the perfect black that is always around. The destination is imminent, and it will all converge somewhere. Time, all I need is time.