Sometimes it's really grand, a thigh-thumping grand, that suffering is life, or life suffering, in case, in translation, the equivalency we accord "is" does not hold true in the original declaration.
Did you think I was going to bore you with YouTube music videos forever? Actually, there was considerable suppression of the more relevant music being blasted around these parts. Some fool had me listening to Gaelic and I had a brief -- roughly 20 minute -- rough descent into Andrea Bocelli. There was flirtation with Tindersticks, a lot of lip-synching to Nina Simone, and altars built to Jerry Garcia and these Days of the Dead.
Yes, I was burning CDs, an act I'm new to and that is probably already outdated. If so, don't kill my buzz.
It's ominous, assembling music for someone important.
You have intent, you cannot escape having intent, and yet you wish to appear to have no purpose leap through the chords, scream through the lyrics.
This is how I feel about this song.
But how will he feel about this song?
The only solution is Suppression of Intent -- and in that brief period of relief from one's self, to go with your gut, and never look back. You pick a song, you burn it, you move on.
After the items are mailed, there's time for second-guessing to kick in.
Like... what was I thinking, leading off with this? I mean, I used to be a huge John Prine fan until, late one night, sipping on a sloe gin fizz, I got tired of the facile.
Surely you've noticed? I veer from the facile, abhor that which is easy, and run (toes pointed!) from observations, no matter how astute, that don't show all their work.
But he gives a good concert, and I'm fond of him, and of the days when we all giggled about getting high.
So when my brother "Lumpy" [still a Grader Boob, as he still insists on haunting a classroom, despite an advanced and evil cancer] gets these CDs, I am sure he'll think something like... "I shoulda spent more time with that kid... Meant to pass on the music that my brother passed on to me, but this sister is clearly, sad to say, low brow."
Or maybe he'll laugh, as these songs are meant to pass the driving time as he flies from campus or apartment to chemotherapy or radiation, a 6' 4" man with considerable skeletal pain, folded to fit into the passenger side of a Mini-Cooper.
I let my intent fly free at the end of the process. I closed with Nico's cover of the great "I'll Keep It With Mine."
In case you can't tell, it's a heartfelt offer on my part -- to those whom I wish I could rock to sleep in my funky spastic arms, murmuring lies, meaning every one of them as a noble truth.
"It's gonna be all right, sweet one, it's gonna be all right."
© 2013 L. Ryan