Below find pics of my last class ever. A good group, very quiet, though willing and very good natured:
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 pessimism:
"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 least maudlin.
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.
Everybody dies. 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.