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.

1) American Music Club, "Jenny". Eitzel's nihilism is sometimes melodramatic, but for the emotionally misaligned there's nearly always something to grab on to, and occasionally marvel at, lyrically. In this portrait of a husk, I find it in the consistent imploring that home (alone) is the worst place to be, ably supported by a pliant melody. Perhaps these lyrical tricks are just that, but I can't deny that they work on me.

2) Elliott Smith, "Sweet Adeline". More fleshed out musically than earlier songs, but no less astute in squeezing out emotional details from a well-delivered lyric. I like that he hints at a misery he tries his best to escape, sedated or sober, but which never seems to want to go away. I think the explosion at the end tells us which way he goes this time, but I'm skeptical he's escaped it for good.

3) The Soft Boys, "Underwater Moonlight". Hitchock seems a likeable weirdo, and this is a melodic fantasy (I suppose) tale I find myself liking on its own terms, not thinking too much about the retro vibe and all that. Evocative imagery, too.

4) Morrissey, "King Leer". If you get in my good books, I'll give you a lot of rope. At this stage, anything I haven't heard from Moz that has any distinctive edge is likely to be similarly rewarded. But partiality aside, is it just me or are the put-downs of his sweetie's goon the best?

Sitting on a couch in the deadening summer light, marveling at how the wheel turns once again. I used to have one less thing to worry about. Why do I have the king Midas touch in reverse? I can't afford to think about this anymore. I am paralyzed, in a web of my making. All I wanted was to feel what I felt when I first read that Simon Singh book. I had no other business with your planet or your ways. I am sorry if I offended.

You could call it the arrogance of youth, if you wanted to be uncharitable. The thought that anything can be conquered with a bag of memories, a melody for every occasion and a good book in hand. Challenges can break you. They can show you who you really are. I've been having fancies of starting anew and putting to rest whatever minor demons the past brought. That's funny, it sounds pretty familiar to my ears. Now what seems like hell will in time likely seem like child's play. The best acts are yet to come. That's how it stands today.

Why is it that everytime I get the urge to write something bombastic and fiery about the inadequacy of the modern world, there is a voice that urges significant restraint? You would think that after 8 years in this business, I'd know by now that there is basically no external reason for censorship. And if I am not to express things that occur to me frequently, what good is this place? So anyway, here is something I miss: the mystery of the arts. I remember a time when we didn't know what everything was, when its full backstory was not laid bare before release, when its secrets remained so for yeas, serving as fodder for all manner of fantastical imaginations and stories. I see why it may seem jejune to the believers, but each time I am reminded of its reality nowadays, I grow a little colder, and I'm not sure why. Recurrent realization of time slipping out of hand, perhaps. I'd like to think it's because a little more magic has been lost, though.

It is unfortunate that this earlier time was also my childhood, so perhaps I am conflating the two. Ah, what did those times mean? They are wispy memories now. I can hardly believe they happened to me. During my exile I feel even disconnected from my more recent naivete. This fiend I have become, sedated by the steady access to entertainment, takes empty steps each day and ends up where he started. What are we living for?

I'm not sure that time spent away from chronicling my thoughts here is time out of mind, per se. But I have noticed that these warm-up posts are generally based on realizations that would be at the front of my mind during periods of more intense introspection. The latest instance was a moment of interaction with people whose backgrounds largely mirror my own. I was struck that there is a big difference in how well-adjusted they were, how effortlessly they conducted themselves in situations that have filled me with palpable tension for long as I can remember. It made me realize how unusual my social awkwardness really is. I suppose I've had vague ideas that this was at least partly borne from nurture, but I don't think that holds any creed anymore.

Now, not that it's any strong consolation, but it may be that there is a selection bias involved here. Perhaps it's just a miracle I've made it so far in a path that naturally encourages like-minded people to politely excuse themselves and seek another calling? (If this other calling involves listening to music by myself all day, then I'll be set.) Ah, but that's the thing: these are supposed to be the social misfits and outcasts, aren't they? What does it mean when I'm the odd one out amongst them?! Either I just haven't seen these lads in a wide enough set of social situations, or (what I'm leaning towards) this outcast theory is something that may have been true 30 years ago, but no longer.

Sometimes, when reading of other people's lives, and contrasting them to my paltry existence, there is a resurrected fear that whatever consolations I've tried to offer myself as to why things have turned out a certain way - that things being any other way would involve choosing to forsake some things very important to me - are simply baseless. Where that leaves me, I don't know.

The first time I saw Morrissey perform, I was reminded of the classic line from "Rubber Ring" and felt lucky that such music existed. This time, it was more "Crashing Bores" and a general disaffection with the world. Not that Moz himself didn't try - on paper, he did play many strong songs - but this time I felt like there are some things that are better when they exist only inside your own head. Seeing them interpreted by other people, instead of making me feel not alone in being alone, produced the opposite effect.

To elaborate, the one characteristic of Moz songs is that they are emotional, and the reason that I was drawn to his songs that they expressed certain facets of my thinking very directly and eloquently. This time, I realized that not everyone takes the songs as seriously as I did, and largely still do. Which is not to say that I am a better listener or fan, because heaven knows my interpretations of what things mean is as unreliable as anyone's; but having placed so much faith in these songs, seeing them treated so frivolously makes me feel somewhat foolish. Maybe that's all they were meant to be, after all? What that makes of the hours spent in their company, I can only guess.

Of course, listening to the songs again, the answer that screams back regarding their frivolity is an emphatic No. (If otherwise, Moz would have to be one of the greatest emotional frauds that lived; an interesting proposition, and a lifestyle interesting to contemplate, but not one I could fathom being true!) But I do wonder how Moz himself takes to the crowds of people cheerfully asserting their heritage from a criminally vulgar shyness, for example. Quite possibly he's learned to move on from expecting everyone to be and think like you, a state that is childishly naive at best, dangerously solipsistic at worst. Isn't that how people grow up?

1) Grant McLennan, "Haven't I Been A Fool". I'm now a devotee of his facile melodic gift, which lends an initial familiarity to all his songs. His lyrical gift operates in both an apparent and subtle manner, I feel; he can turn a phrase when he's so inclined, but even otherwise, there's a delicate cohesion between the words and the music, to say nothing of the delivery. (Regarding the latter, I've realized that in particular I like his mild Anglophonic touches. The August moon never sounded more romantic to me.) In short, someone who seems to have intuited the secrets great songwriters possess. If this group accepts members less by the votes of the masses than by affection amongst those who care about this sort of thing, long may his reign be in the tower of song.

2) The Go-Betweens, "Quiet Heart". Does the fact that you can place the commentary above next to this one suggest that Grant was a one trick pony? Or that his consistency is something we must all bow down before?

Every time I've silently taken his casual put-downs, I've promised myself there would come a time when I would speak up and at least make him realize that words have meaning and consequence. Today, in a moment of bravery, I finally made good on this promise when one of my oft-abused arguments was presented back to me. As curtly as I could muster, I pointed out the deep hypocrisy in his logic, hoping that it would make him realize that years of offhand criticism could so easily be turned around. And what should happen but my wretched heart sorry for him at that moment. Years of quiet preparation amount, as ever, to nothing.