Behind My Eyes

Can you see through my eyes? Can you feel what I feel? Can you know my history, my hopes, my dreams, or my pain? No? Then tell me, why would you expect me to be able to see the world as you see it? Why would you even pretend that I could? Do you remember that old saying that no man is an island? Well it’s just as true that no mind is a community.

I can’t “feel your pain.” I don’t “know what you’re saying,” I can only hear you speak. I really don’t “get it.” And you certainly ain’t “got me.” I can’t “lie in your bed,” or “walk a mile in your shoes.” There is no such thing as a “psychic connection.” If we really want to understand one another, then we must get down to the hard work of communicating effectively.

There are two things that I have believed for as long as I can remember. The first is that the root of all evil grows best in the soil of misunderstanding. And the second is that we can do better. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t try so hard to be a good writer. Hell, I wouldn’t try at all. But I keep on trying in the vain hope that, by effectively articulating the life-sustaining imperative that we live our lives as rational beings, my writing will help to inspire a new age of reason.

Unfortunately, all I seem to have achieved so far is an appreciation for the mentality of the sociopath.

The Who – Behind Blue Eyes

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it’s like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

No one knows what it’s like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

And if I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

I want ice water.

Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert

Other than crude oil, which, in historical terms, only recently became of significant value, just what the hell is worth killing over in middle eastern countries like Israel, Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan? Do all of these countries even have significant oil deposits? And when you consider the environmental impact, perhaps the value of oil itself has become somewhat “crude.”

Just thinking about it makes me so angry that a little Pink Floyd has become an absolute necessity:

Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert

Brezhnev took Afghanistan
Begin took Beirut
Galtieri took The Union Jack
And Maggie over lunch one day
Took a cruiser with all hands
Apparently to make him give it back

The Fletcher Memorial Home

Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere
And build them a home
A little place of their own
The Fletcher Memorial Home for incurable tyrants and kings

And they can appear to themselves every day
On closed circuit TV
To make sure they’re still real
It’s the only connection they feel

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Reagan and Haig
Mr. Begin and friend
Mrs. Thatcher and Paisley
Mr. Brezhnev and party
The ghost of McCarthy
The memories of Nixon
And now adding colour
A group of anonymous Latin-American meat packing glitterati”

Did they expect us to treat them with any respect?

They can polish their medals and sharpen their smiles,
And amuse themselves playing games for a while
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you’re dead

Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye
With their favourite toys
They’ll be good girls and boys
In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial wasters of life and limb

Is everyone in?
Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied

Southampton Dock

They disembarked in 45
And no one spoke and no one smiled
There were too many spaces in the line

Gathered at the cenotaph
All agreed with hand on heart
To sheath the sacrificial knifes

But now
She stands upon Southampton dock
With her handkerchief
And her summer frock
Clings to her wet body in the rain

In quiet desperation knuckles
White upon the slippery reins
She bravely waves the boys goodbye again

And still the dark stain spreads between his shoulder blades
A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves
And when the fight was over
We spent what they had made

But in the bottom of our hearts
We felt the final cut

I want ice water.

Show Me, Don’t Tell Me

As a follower of the Objectivist teachings of Ayn Rand, I naturally have an interest in what others are saying on the subject. And just as I have, there are many other voices pointing out how those teachings are more important now than they have ever been. That is because the Objectivist philosophy represents the only clear path to achieving a truly moral society, and I could not agree more with those other voices. However, those other voices also cry out for a strengthening and renewal of the so-called “Objectivist Movement.” On this point, unfortunately, I must beg to differ.

Just like every other attempt at “group-think” in history, the Objectivist movement is doomed to failure because, by definition, “group-think” is a collectivist endeavor. The real benefits to mankind from the Objectivist philosophy have come and will come in the form all such benefits have taken: as side effects of actions taken by individuals working for their own self interest. And while it may be comforting to have others with whom we can commiserate and share war stories, any attempt to forge a “union” from such a group of radical free thinkers is destined for a very embarrassing public failure.

One needs only to look at the current state of the Libertarian Party to see what I mean. I believe that the Libertarians are all good and well intentioned people, but an example of Objectivist thinkers working well together they most definitely are not. How does appearing to the world like a bunch of loonies help to promote the Objectivist philosophy? “Collective Individualism” is a contradiction in terms.

As has always been the case, it’s the “show me, don’t tell me” strategy that will get the job done. To emphasize this point, I submit the lyrics to Show Don’t Tell by Rush – one of the world’s foremost proponents of Ayn Rand’s teachings:

How many times do you hear it?
It goes on all day long
Everyone knows everything
And no one’s ever wrong
Until later…

Who can you believe?
It’s hard to play it safe
But apart from a few good friends
We don’t take anything on faith
Until later…

Show…don’t tell…

(Show me, don’t tell me) … You’ve figured out the score
(Show me, don’t tell me) … I’ve heard it all before
(Show me, don’t tell me) … I don’t care what you say
(Show me, don’t tell me)

You can twist perceptions
Reality won’t budge
You can raise objections
I will be the judge
(And the jury)

I’ll give it due reflection
Watching from the fence
Give the jury direction
Based on the evidence
I, the jury

Show…don’t tell…

(Show me, don’t tell me) … Hey, order in the court
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Let’s try to keep it short
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Enough of your demands
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Witness take the stand
(Show me, don’t tell me)

Show…don’t tell…

Show…don’t tell…

(Show me, don’t tell me) … Hey, order in the court
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Let’s try to keep it short
(Show me, don’t tell me) … I don’t care what you say
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Let’s see exhibit A
(Show me, don’t tell me) … You’ve figured out the score
(Show me, don’t tell me) … I’ve heard it all before
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Enough of your demands
(Show me, don’t tell me) … Witness take the stand
(Show me, don’t tell me)

I want ice water.

What Is Love?

What is love? Hell, just like everyone else, my life has seen me alternate between being absolutely sure that I’ve got a complete grasp of the subject to being absolutely, and very uncomfortably, convinced that I haven’t got a clue. In an effort to represent these extremes within myself, I present the lyrics from one of my all-time favorite love songs and a video that clearly speaks for itself.

The song is Nights Winters Years from the album Blue Jays by Justin Hayward and John Lodge. The music is on the associated playlist.

Pain, sorrow, tears
Long, lonely years
With love
Having passed me by
I could live a lie for you
But truth is the road I choose
Knowing all I need to do
Is give to you

Down, down down
Where your dreams are found
They’re sleeping inside of us all
They’re sleeping inside of us all

Nights, winters, years
Pain, sorrow, tears of mine
Cannot hold me now
I’m a fool to fall for you
But here
In the morning light
Tell me how can love be wrong
And feel so right

And from the movie A Night At The Roxbury:

I want ice water.

Power!

While politics is always in the news, these days the political news seems to be at a fever pitch. Even this far after the history making elections of last year, the so called “battle for hearts and minds” rages on – in this country and around the world. Lately it’s been about the “radical right” and it’s influence here in the U.S., the resurgence of the conservatives in Europe, and the recent elections in Lebanon and Iran.

More than ever, the news from the political front reminds me of the song Power by The Temptations. Here are the lyrics and, as usual, the song is on the blog playlist.

My hands are clean, my heart is so pure
The world is sick, I am the cure
I don’t want money, or golden gifts
Give me your minds and souls to lift

Put your faith and trust in me
I’ll move your mountains, part your seas

All you poor, all you needy
All you’re doing, is giving to the greedy
All you poor, all you needy
All you’re doing, is giving to the greedy

Get off your knees, believe in me, I’ll set you free
All I need is a little
Power
I must have it
Power
Power
Power
Power
Power
Power

I have for you, a master plan, (tell it)
I’ll lead you to the promised land
I’ll give you peace (peace)
I’ll give you pride (pride)
I’ll save you from the suicide

I’m your hope
Your one salvation
I’m your one man united nation

All you poor, all you needy
All you’re doing, is giving to the greedy
All you poor, all you needy
All you’re doing, is giving to the greedy

Tell me your sins, I’ll be your friend, I won’t do you in
All I need is a little
Power
Power
Power
Power
Power
Power
Aahhh!

I’ll make you all, the master race
Just put me in my guarded place
We must work down on our feet
In the fields of oil and the lands of wheat

Power
More
Power
I want it
Power
More
Power

One thing I must make perfectly clear
Power
Nuclear weapons all men fear
Power
Their hands sweat, their fingers itch
Power
I’m the only one you can trust with the switch

Give it to me
Power
Power
Power
Power
Power
Give it to me
Power
More
Power
Give it to me
Power
More
Power
I need It
Power
Got to have it
Power
I must have it
Power
More
Power
Give it to me
Power
More
Power
Give it to me
Power
More
Power
More
Power
More
Power
More
Oh Whoa!
POWER!

I want ice water.

Reruns and Memories

I’m not sure why, but for whatever reason I find it difficult to watch re-runs of some of my favorite, if now defunct, TV shows. This is especially true for comedies. But sometimes there’s nothing else on so I watch one, and almost always end up wondering why I’d been denying myself the chance to renew a pleasure that I had sorely missed. A case in point is WKRP In Cincinnati. A ball game I was watching the other night was in a rain delay and I needed something else to watch that I wasn’t likely to get so wrapped up in that I forgot about the game, and WKRP was playing on the very next channel. Well I ended up watching two episodes back-to-back and missing the resumption of the game. I actually think the time was better spent.

Now I have no idea what the inner workings of a radio station are really like, but I do know that when I watched that show regularly I couldn’t imagine a better job than being a disc jockey. Getting to hear the latest releases before the world at large. Being myself before a huge audience while I’m actually alone in a protective shell of technology. Having an audience that actually wants to hear what I’m playing. What could be better than that? But watching WKRP In Cincinnati also brought back a great memory of an experience I had with a real, also now defunct, local radio station.

It was back in the late 90s and I was just beginning to come to grips with “my terrible illness.” Having been declared “unemployable” because of my reluctance to deal with the world outside my home, I had spent well over $4000 of my “retirement money” on computer equipment that I intended to use for a home-based business providing graphics and printing services to small businesses, as well as computer training to the neighborhood kids. Unfortunately, operating a business, any business, requires that you actually engage in an effort to gain clientèle, so I ended up mainly creating a lot of things to print out on my fancy new $750 color ink-jet printer.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was quite proud of the philosophical pronouncements and song lyrics – with graphics – that I was producing, but they hardly justified the enormous expenditures required to produce them. And trust me, having only a dial-up connection to what was then a very primitive world wide web didn’t help when it came to doing research. Unlike today, there weren’t zillions of sites to go to to get the lyrics for songs, so I reproduced them mainly from memory. And when memory failed, I reproduced them by listening to my old vinyl records over and over again until I was satisfied.

But I was stumped when it came to Don McLean’s American Pie. Like so many other “one hit wonders,” I hadn’t bothered to actually buy the record, so I was attempting to reproduce the lyrics entirely from memory. Unlike the therapeutic value I had gotten from mentally working out the lyrics to other songs, my attempt to do this with such a long and complicated song had rapidly become an exercise in self-torture. But like the fabled monkey with his fist in the jar, I simply could not let it go. Which is what gave me the idea to call up a radio station for help.

I think the station was called “Arrow” or something like that. They specialized in playing classic rock from the 60s and 70s, and seemed the perfect place to call for help. Unfortunately, the guy I talked to told me that their broadcasts were pre-programmed and that they only did requests on an infrequent basis. I guess he caught the disappointment in my voice upon hearing that, so he asked me what was up. Without really meaning to go into such detail, I told him about the depression and how I used working through the lyrics to my favorite songs as a kind of therapy.

Well to my absolute amazement, the guy actually offered to play the song for me over the phone, using a cassette deck he had in his office. He went even further by offering to rewind and replay all or any part of the song until I was happy. Needless to say, I will never forget his understanding and his generosity. I only wish I could remember his name.

I’ve included the lyrics to this song below (downloaded this time – I lost the ones I worked out long ago). I’ve also included the song itself on the associated music playlist.

American Pie by Don McLean

A long long time ago
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died

{Refrain}
So bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

Did you write the Book of Love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so
Do you believe in rock ‘n roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow
Well, I know that you’re in love with him
‘Cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I digged those rhythm & blues
I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

I started singin’
{Refrain}

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone
But that’s not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the King and Queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the King was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book of Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died

We were singing
{Refrain}

Helter Skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast
It landed foul out on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the Sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
‘Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died

We started singing
{Refrain}

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation Lost in Space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
‘Cause fire is the Devil’s only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan’s spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing
{Refrain}

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
But the man there said the music woudn’t play
And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

And they were singing
{Refrain}

They were singing
Bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

I want ice water.

Speaking Of Dreams...

Readers of this blog should be well aware that I’m not much for things religious, supernatural, paranormal, or superstitious. I’ve written much on these subjects in general, and about the influence that people who did believe in such things had on my youth. But until my recent Oh I Dreamed Last Night… article, I had written very little about my own actual experiences with such matters. In this article, I want to explore this just a little bit more.

The fact is that I’ve had many, many experiences that can be fit into these categories, with the vast majority being similar to what I described in the Oh I Dreamed Last Night… article. But unlike most, I prefer to maintain an open mind about these things rather than get into a lot of senseless speculation about what these experiences mean. After all, there are many rational explanations that can quickly reduce these experiences to nothing more than hallucinations and fanciful dreams. But they are interesting nonetheless.

One such experience started a few years ago when I had to be hospitalized due to a severe case of pancreatitis. Since I had already been diagnosed with the disease, and had been previously hospitalized (in intensive care) because of it, I was smart enough to recognize that I needed help when the symptoms came again. But from the point where they were wheeling me in to get a bed assignment to the point where I awoke from a medically induced coma (in a different hospital) some three weeks later, my memories are only of a series of very bizarre “dreams.”

I won’t attempt to recall the specifics of these dreams – after all, I could give only fractured reconstructions, other than to say that they involved extremely realistic experiences of living other lives in other worlds. So realistic were these experiences – so beautiful, so painful, and so awe inspiring, that I felt the most extreme sensation of loss that I have ever felt in my life when the doctors decided to bring me out of the coma. So shocking was my return to the “real” world, that even those in the room when I awoke could feel it. I know, because they told me so.

Obviously, what I experienced can easily be dismissed with a variety of “natural” explanations. The fact that I continue to experience such dreams can be just as easily dismissed for the same reasons. But I do continue to have them. And that’s also a fact.

I think that Heart’s These Dreams does a pretty good job of expressing some of the emotion I feel about this subject:

Spare a little candle
Save some light for me
Figures up ahead
Moving in the trees
White skin in linen
Perfume on my wrist
And the full moon that hangs over
These dreams in the mist

Darkness on the edge
Shadows where I stand
I search for the time
On a watch with no hands
I want to see you clearly
Come closer than this
But all I remember
Are the dreams in the mist

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

Is it cloak ‘n dagger?
Could it be spring or fall?
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall
Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

There’s something out there
I can’t resist
I need to hide away from the pain
There’s something out there
I can’t resist

The sweetest song is silence
That I’ve ever heard
Funny how your feet
In dreams never touch the earth
In a wood full of princes
Freedom is a kiss
But the prince hides his face
From dreams in the mist

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it’s cold outside
Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away

But perhaps When You Wake Up by Justin Hayward & John Lodge is a little more specific:

Now as we speed a little faster through the stars
To this new world of ours
With the seed that the garden requires

And as we drift a little further from the shore
Like the sea evermore
I’m the ivy that clings round your door

When you wake up
You will find
That you’re not where you left yourself

Ahhhh…
Ahhhh…

Now as we drift a little further down the stream
Was it all what it seemed
Was it true, was it real?
Or just a dream?

When you wake up
You will find
That you’re not where you left yourself

Ahhhh…
Ahhhh…

Now as we speed a little faster through the stars

Ahhhh…
Ahhhh…
Ahhhh………

I want ice water.

Song and Dance

I’ll now continue to use the mask (”somebody stop me”) of anonymity that this blog affords me to once again expose some of the inner workings of my admittedly twisted mind. Previous readers are no doubt aware of my affection for including lyrics from relevant songs in my articles, and would probably not be surprised that I’ve always wanted to be a singer. In actual fact, I’ve often fantasized about performing on stage in front of an audience of adoring fans.

But the sad truth is that no matter how great a singing talent anyone thought I was, I’d never have the nerve to actually get up in front of people and do it. Not even for an audience consisting of my closest family and friends. And this “shyness” also applies to dancing in front of people, even though I know – at least intellectually – that almost no one would notice. To gain some insight into the effect that my unwilling to dance has had on my life, you should give a read to my Love, Loss, Anger, and Faith article.

But my shyness certainly hasn’t prevented me from “performing” in private. Sure, I know that everyone sings along to their favorite songs. But I doubt seriously that anyone has gotten more enjoyment, not to mention psychic relief, from doing so as I have. And while my private dancing is much closer to “performance art” than anything you’re likely to see on a dance floor, I’d be willing to bet that no one on a dance floor gets the enjoyment and release I get from it. Being the extreme “homebody” that I am, it’s probably my only real source of exercise.

In an attempt to provide a feel for the “psychology” of my private sessions, I’m including the lyrics from two songs that I think act as great references for it. The first is Sing Child by Heart:

Sing child sing
Sing child sing

Melody Maker
Giver and taker
Heartbreaker
He want to sing I know
Try it again
Sooner or later
He gonna break down and sing

Sing child sing
Sing child sing

Holy junkie
Funky monkey
Everybody calls him honey
He gonna sing I know
He don’t want to play that game
He gotta play that game
Oh, honey, honey, honey,
You got to come down and sing

Sing child sing
Sing child sing

Dreamer
Machiner
What will you ever do when you blow a fuse
Don’t want to stay here
Honey roll
Sooner or later
You’ve gotta break down and sing

Sing child sing
Sing child sing

The second is I hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack:

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
GOD forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance…. I hope you dance.

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances, but they’re worth takin’,
Lovin’ might be a mistake but it’s worth makin’,
Don’t let some hell bent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance…. I hope you dance.
I hope you dance…. I hope you dance.
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone.)

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

Dance…. I hope you dance.
I hope you dance…. I hope you dance.
I hope you dance…. I hope you dance..
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone)

Finally, I’d like to address the fact that those who know me have always wondered about my willingness, as a man, to be so open with how I feel about things. In most cultures, certainly the African-American culture in which I was raised, such openness is considered to be a “female” trait. But those who know me are well aware that I am not “gay” and don’t behave in any other way that might be considered “feminine.” It’s just that I’ve grown up surrounded by men that I consider to have been badly damaged by their inability to rationally express their emotions. But I’d be lying if I said that this has not had an impact upon me as well. Hell, I’m practically a hermit.

Anyway, I think that Pink Floyd’s Paranoid Eyes provides some more insight into this issue:

Button your lip and don’t let the shield slip
Take a fresh grip on your bullet proof mask
And if they try to break down your disguise with their questions
You can hide hide hide
Behind paranoid eyes

You put on your brave face and slip over the road for a jar
Fixing your grin as you casually lean on the bar
Laughing too loud at the rest of the world
With the boys in the crowd
You hide hide hide
Behind petrified eyes

You believed in their stories of fame fortune and glory
Now you’re lost in a haze of alcohol soft middle age
The pie in the sky turned out to be miles too high
And you hide hide hide
Behind brown and mild eyes

I want ice water.

Oh I Dreamed Last Night...

This is a partial reconstruction of a dream I had one night.

“Well that was a bust, wasn’t it?”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Give yourself some time to recuperate.?”
“And to reflect.”
“You’ll feel better then.”
“But I really thought that I’d get it right this time!”
“Where have I heard that before?”
“From me.”
“And me.”
“And me.”
“And me as well.”
“How do you keep going back, when it ends like this?”
“Because every time through gets us a little closer.”
“To becoming what we want to be.”
“What we’re meant to be.”
“You have to admit that you’ve advanced quite a lot.”
“But I screwed up so much, and left so much undone.”
“Well, considering the limited timespan…”
“And with what little we carry forward…”
“The steps are incremental by necessity.”
“But worthwhile in the end.”
“Well it’ll be a while before I try again.”
“You’ll get bored soon enough.”
“And filled with ideas on how to do better.”
“You won’t be able to resist.”
“We never can.”

And speaking of dreams, I’m reminded of I Dreamed Last Night by Justin Hayward & John Lodge from their Blue Jays album:

“Oh I dreamed last night I was hearing, hearing your voice
And the things you said well they left me, left me no choice
And you told me we had the power
And you told me this was the hour
That you don’t know how
If I could show you now?

Well I dreamed last night you were calling, calling my name
You were locked inside of your secrets, calling my name
And you told me lost was the key
And you told me how you long to be free
That you don’t know how
Oh let me show you now

Like a bird on a far distant mountain
Like a ship on an uncharted sea
You are lost in the arms that have found you
Don’t be afraid
Love’s plans are made
Oh don’t be afraid

If there’s a time and a place to begin love
It must be now
Let it go
Set it free

Oh I dreamed last night I was hearing, hearing your voice
Why did you say those things that have left me, left me no choice?
When you told me we had the power
Why did you tell me now was the hour?
But you don’t know how
Oh let me show you now

Like a bird on a far distant mountain
Like a ship on an uncharted sea
You are lost in the arms that have found you
Oh don’t be afraid
Love’s plans are made
Don’t be afraid

If there’s a time and a place to begin love
It must be now
Let it go
Set it free

Oh I dreamed last night I was hearing, hearing your voice…”

I want ice water.

And The Band Plays On…

I got all riled up this evening when I heard of the death threats against AIG employees and their families. I immediately raced over to this old-hunk-o-junk PC of mine. I wanted to rail against the news media for getting this witch hunt started in the first place, and against those weak-kneed politicians that couldn’t resist piling on. I wanted to point out how, in the larger scheme of things, those guys at AIG are no more guilty than the rest of us who bought into this whole get very much for very little mentality that damned near sunk the whole she-bang.

Unfortunately this old-hunk-o-junk is so slow that I’ve had time to cool off a little - enough to realize that I’ve said it all before. So instead I’ve decided to simply let those good old boys of Rush say it for me, with their song…

Witch Hunt

The night is black
Without a moon
The air is thick, and still

The vigilantes gather on
The lonely torchlit hill

Features distorted in the flickering light
The faces are twisted and grotesque
Silent and stern in the sweltering night
The mob moves like demons possessed
Quiet in conscience, calm in their right —
Confident their ways are best

The righteous rise
With burning eyes
Of hatred and ill-will

Madmen fed on fear and lies
To beat, and burn, and kill

They say there are strangers, who threaten us
In our immigrants and infidels
They say there is strangeness, too dangerous
In our theatres and bookstore shelves
That those who know what’s best for us —
Must rise and save us from ourselves

Quick to judge
Quick to anger
Slow to understand

Ignorance and prejudice
And fear
Walk hand in hand

I want ice water

At Seventeen

As you might have gathered from the other articles about my personal life, as a child I was what some would call “a sensitive boy.” That is, those who wanted to be kind. The other boys usually weren’t. I prefer to think that I was just “more aware.” However I came to see things the way I did, as I neared seventeen I had had my fill of the opinions of those I knew about how things worked and how people should live. More than ever before, I looked for those I thought had something exceptional to say. One of those voices was that of Janis Ian, and her very timely song…

At Seventeen

“I learned the truth at seventeen.
That love was meant for beauty queens.
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles.
Who married young and then retired.

The valentines I never knew.
The Friday night charades of youth.
Were spent on one more beautiful.
At seventeen I learned the truth.

And those of us with ravaged faces.
Lacking in the social graces.
Desperately remained at home.
Inventing lovers on the phone.
Who called to say - come dance with me.
And murmured vague obscenities.
It isn’t all it seems at seventeen.

A brown eyed girl in hand me downs.
Whose name I never could pronounce.
Said - pity please the ones who serve.
They only get what they deserve.

And the rich relationed hometown queen.
Marries into what she needs.
With a guarantee of company.
And haven for the elderly.

Remember those who win the game.
Lose the love they sought to gain.
In debentures of quality and dubious integrity.
Their small-town eyes will gape at you.
In dull surprise when payment due.
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen.

(Instrumental)

To those of us who knew the pain.
Of valentines that never came.
And those whose names were never called.
When choosing sides for basketball.

It was long ago and far away.
The world was younger than today.
When dreams were all they gave for free.
To ugly duckling girls like me.

We all play the game, and when we dare.
To cheat ourselves at solitaire.
Inventing lovers on the phone.
Repenting other lives unknown.
That call and say - come dance with me.
And murmur vague obscenities.
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen.”

Being an almost seventeen year old boy living in the Black community, I naturally had no one to talk to about the impact this song had on me. I’m not sure if I could have explained how I could relate so strongly to a song about a girl and her problems anyway. But I did, and I still do.

I want ice water.