Well, at this point, my writing experiment or, at least, the attempt to make it a daily practice is not going so well. I missed yesterday though I am not sure why. Something got in the way. I could do it easily, in terms of a daily practice, if I thought of what I am writing here as a diary—a daily record of events. But I set a higher bar for this experiment. I want what I write to have some sort of point beyond a mere detailing and recording of how many times I fart in a day (already done in obsessive detail by Samuel Beckett). Though, I must say, at this point I have no idea what the point of this entry might be except to detail and record my frustration. The idea of having a point would seem to assume that there is some larger point to everything that is. And I am not sure about that. What the larger point might be.
Perhaps things like the recent fire and the recent flood rocks the foundations of our daily lives, our stability. As long as things are stable we assume there is a point. But when things become unstable, we see through the cracks in the daily routine…and what do we see there. Nothing. All of which is a roundabout way of saying I am not getting my daily paper on time. Before the flood and fires my paper would arrive around 6. In any case, it would be there when I opened the front door. That is no longer the case. I open the door around 730 and there is nothing there but naked concrete.
Usually, when I looked out around 10, the paper is there. Some person has brought it and left it. So I do get the paper, but not when I want it. And this is upsetting. I have been getting this paper for over twenty years. Mostly, it appeared when it was supposed to over that time, surprisingly so in fact. But not now. I tried to contact the newspaper people about this problem, but I received some sort of generic reply about my contractor having been contacted that did not answer my question: “is the paper delayed because the freeway is closed?” I assume the answer to this question would be “yes” if I could ever find a person to answer it.
Well… I think I will try to devote a few minutes per day—20 or more—to writing something. I don’t know why I would bother to do this since I have nothing significant to say and have done or experienced nothing worth reporting. I continue to exist mostly, and perhaps, at 72 years of age, that is something to report. Not everybody lives till they are 72. I note in the daily obits that many people have failed to live till 72. Though I am not so sure that living to 72 means that one has been successful at anything. Except existing, that is.
So I continue to exist at least at the moment, though tomorrow I may not. Perhaps I could be doing something better with the little time I have remaining than this experiment with daily writing. But I am not sure what that would be. Eating? Well, that is always worth doing. But there’s a fixed limit to that. One cannot eat continually. Well, I suppose one could, and probably some people have, but I wouldn’t want to do it. And doing something else would probably require more energy than I have at the moment.
But the question remains, why should I expend the little energy I do have, when I could be taking a nap, on this writing experiment? I think a nap might be better. Maybe. Maybe not. But I have read things that suggest the elderly benefit from creative activity, like taking a class in water colors, or something to that effect. The theory appears to be that “creative” activity soothes the soul in some manner. And writing, at least in the past, has served me to some degree and in some instances (not all my any means) this function. The soothing or straightening out function, I mean.
I saw an ad for a book on this subject: the therapeutic effects, as it were, of neatening and straightening one’s stuff. I should read it. But I can’t remember where I saw the ad. In any case, I know what they mean. Neatening and straightening can make one feel an iota better. And at my age and in my current horrible condition, I am looking for iotas. An iota here and there, damn it, is what I need to get through the day. At the moment though I don’t have the energy or a sense of purpose sufficient for me to do an actual, in reality, straightening and neatening, as in, imagine: the garage.
That garage is an albatross around my neck. Every time I open that automatic door and look in, my heart contracts. Junk and crap about to tumble from overfull shelves. Twenty years of indecision and neglect all piled in one place. Overflowing with dust, and dirt, and grime. And I feel a kind of responsibility to clean that place up before I go. I mean I don’t want somebody else, probably my wife, to have to sort through that junk after I die as my brothers and I had to do through our parents crap: old clothes, napkins, pieces of metal, pictures and adult diapers.
Where the heck am I?
Tacoma, Washington. We are here for a wedding.
A river runs through it. Once highly contaminated, now not so much. Lots of water in Washington.
Though the title might not suggest
it, I had wanted to end “The Tingles,” as we had begun it (Lighthouse
of Love), on a slightly more upbeat note.
Now looking back, I can’t say where exactly I located that note, the
more upbeat one. But I think it’s in the
last line of the refrain, “You can lean on me if I can lean
you.” True, it’s hardly The
Youngbloods calling on us all to smile on each other, but at least there’s a
hint of an exchange of human warmth, though perhaps significantly qualified by
that “if.” You can lean on me
IF I can lean on you. I could have
written: You can lean on me AND I can
lean on you. But I didn’t because
“and” seems to presume to much, and honestly, you can lean on me only
if I am allowed to do the same.
So that’s the upbeat note as best I can locate it.
As for the rest of the refrain, I must insist on the
“Nothing now anyone can do
Just have to buckle down and try to see it through.”
Sometimes that’s just how things are. It–whatever it might be (someone dying;
dreams gone up in flames; words spoken that can’t be taken back; really bad
mistakes made)–simply cannot be undone or fixed up or glossed over. All that you can do–if that–is try to get
though it with whatever dignity you can muster.
The last stanza is perhaps a bit too existential (in the
existentialism sense). But I just can’t
get Sartre and Heidegger out of my head…with their idea of our having been
flung into a world we did not make.
Death again. This
time about dying anonymously, as it were.
A body pops up in the lake with no I.D. or identifying marks and then
gets buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave.
That’s a downer. But maybe
too–given how noisy the song is–it’s about making a joyful noise, in spite
of everything: as in the line:
Rise on angel’s wings
Sing, Sing, Sing
Maybe, in relation to the whole, we all die
anonymously. Sure, we all have a smaller
social circle. But just beyond that the
circle spreads out to those other people we may even share a few moments but pass
by generally in our daily rounds. I
noticed, one day, at this place where I worked out, that an older guy, who was
usually there all the time, had not been there for some time. So I asked another guy if he knew anything
about that guy. “That guy,”
because I couldn’t remember that guy’s name.
I indicated where that guy usually sat and said that I thought he was
from Wisconsin and had worked for Sears.
And the guy says, “Oh that guy.
He died I think.”
So I worked for a while on a song called “That
Guy. You know, that guy.” But I never finished it.
This is Brother Dan’s song from top to bottom. He plays all the guitars and percussion and
sings it. I do a little back up. He also wrote it, some time ago, back in the
80’s, when he and his wife, Kim, had a punk band. I don’t know what they were calling
themselves at the time. Goodbye Blue
Monday? Mr. Pleasant? I don’t know, as I said, but I always liked
the song from the first I heard it. And
it mixes well with the overall malaise of the CD. It’s about a suicide, I think.
If “Around Once” was lugubrious, this one is at
It’s about insomnia, about suddenly being wide awake at 3 AM
and not being able to get back to sleep again, knowing that you have a long
hard day ahead, and will need every bit of energy you have to get through it,
yet here you are at 3 AM wide awake with the minutes slipping by. No rest for the wicked, eh?
I hate it. I have
been insomniac for years. At one point,
years ago, I used as my soporific cheap wine and was for some time in effect a
situational alcoholic. But that proved
counter-productive, and anyway, I
discovered prescription meds. Before I
couldn’t get to sleep at all. With the
meds, I got off to sleep OK but started waking up at aberrant hours, like 3
AM. Now apparently, as a senior citizen,
according to what I have read, I am likely to have only “fragmented”
sleep the rest of my days.
I don’t know why exactly but the song makes me think of a
bit from Freud’s essay on Narcissism:
We should then say: the sick man withdraws his libidinal
cathexes back upon his own soul, and
sends them out again when he recovers.
‘Concentrated is his soul’, says Wilhelm Busch of the poet suffering
from toothache, ‘in his molar’s narrow hole.’
I was aware of something like this, I think. The first two parts of this song are very much
concentrated in my molar’s narrow hole.
I tried to break out of the narrow hole in the last part by suggesting
there are other people–poets, lovers, soldiers–doing other things at 3
AM. But true to form, I return in the
last line to narcissistic grandiosity claiming that, as I lie there, I hear the
world turning round.
This is one lugubrious sucker.
We all get to go around just once.
What’s the big deal? I don’t
know. But I think it is.
As I wrote I thought it was in the genre of the
stages of life poem.
But the song didn’t turn out like that.
The first stanza is sort of about what life looks like when you start
out. Much potential seems to lie
ahead. Things look different in the
middle stage; mostly regrets at things not done and sadness at how quickly time
has passed. And the last stanza is about
how things look right at the end: pretty bleak.
The emotional key to the song for me is the line, “And
you ain’t got time to unpack your trunk.” The psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut
tries to differentiate the classical theory (Freud) of man [sic] as suffering
from guilt from what he calls “tragic” man [sic]. The former he says:
…cannot illuminate the sense of fractured, enfeebled,
discontinuous human existence; it cannot explain the essence of the
schizophrenic’s fragmentation, the struggle of the patient who suffers from a
narcissistic personality disorder to reassemble himself, the despair–the
guiltless despair, I stress–of those who in late middle age discover that the
basic patterns of their self as laid down in their nuclear ambitions and ideals
have not been realized.
That’s a long way of saying: and you ain’t got time to
unpack your trunk.