I suppose there are myriad ways to interpret today’s challenge. My mind hearkened songs that have been with me most of my life and that are still special to me, having never tired of them. The one that appears at the forefront of my mind is “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. I suspect most of us that know this song first learned it as children, watching The Wizard of Oz. I have fond memories of watching the movie every October when it came on public television around Halloween. For me, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s version rose to the top and remains my favorite. Once this version was introduced to me some years ago, I’ve never been able to appreciate any other version quite the same. Please. Do yourself a favor. And enjoy this treasure:
This next one has been in my life for a fair chunk of it, not necessarily from childhood on. But near enough. “Hallelujah” has been done and redone by so many talented musicians. And though I have a particular fondness for Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley created the ultimate version that I absolutely never tire of.
I do believe I’m feeling far too pensive today. So let’s mix it up to another completely different song I associate with childhood and that I have never tired of. I first heard this song the year it came out. 1987, the year I turned 7. I can credit my brother with introducing Beastie Boys into my life. I had no. freakin. clue. what the song meant. But, in one of my only fond memories of elementary school, I remember singing it on the playground and suspecting it must have had something to do with the monkey bars (which I never mastered). I still love these boys. Come on everybody, let’s get fffff….
I survived the buttstuff and am back to post Day 10 just before midnight. Sweet biscuits. I made it! (Btw, so far, mostly good news and at least one answer so far, but awaiting biopsy/lab results to know more.)
Today’s theme is another I wish I could skip, but I’m gonna go through with it. Let’s get right to it, shall we?
Day 10: A Song That Makes You Sad
As with many of the others, it’s difficult to narrow down just one. Don’t we all have those cathartic sad playlists? Those that we have to be very careful about when and how often we listen to? I haven’t listened to mine in a long time, because I’ve been on the mend in a lot of ways. And the “sad/down” playlists are risky for the mental state. But I can withstand a few, as long as I don’t dwell too long in it.
Let’s start with this one. Sophia’s “Resisting”. There was a brief time in my life when I listened to this entire album basically on loop. Seemingly endlessly. In the midst of heartache and depression and hopelessness. This was beautiful and cathartic. Sad and uplifting all at once.
From here, it gets undeniably sad. The Frames (and much of Glen Hansard’s work) have a remarkable ability to relate. To pain. To sadness. To hope. To hopes dashed. This is just one of many examples.
I’m treading into dangerous territory here. But let’s keep going, because these are beautiful songs. Sad, though they may be. They’re just so...reminiscent. Such as Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes”.
Another Damien Rice, because fuck.
Fiona Apple certainly belongs here as well.
The entire score Clint Mansell did for The Fountain is something I listen to on occasion. In the dark of night, when I’m in desperate need to feel. To internally emote. To release. To sink and rise and float away on a current of emotion. I can’t even describe what this album does to me. But what I can say is that is is important. Deeply so. This is my favorite.
I’m stopping myself here, before I get too far. Music has that ability, you know? To underscore a mood we’re already in…or to throw a switch and derail your train onto an entirely different track. I’m rapidly approaching that intersection and must proceed with caution.
What songs make you sad? Or underpin your sadness?
I just figured it out. Hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Why I’m craving to be social. Why I refuse to hide myself away anymore. Why it’s like a breath of fresh air, even in the otherwise oppressive city fumes.
It was him. That gingerfuck. I was cloistered, sequestered, denied, hidden for over a year.
And now that I’m free, motherfucker I’m free. And I’ll be damned if I hide anymore (corners, notwithstanding). And damnit, I’m loving every. fucking. minute. of it.
I am in the process of preparing my house to put on the market. This is finally the year that I put myself first, no matter how difficult that is for me – because it is completely out of character. And this is going to involve some major changes and upheaval. I always put others first, even (usually) to my own detriment, almost without exception. I have been this way my entire life.
This change wasn’t some lameass resolution for me. I don’t do resolutions, at least not in the way most do. Life changes and extensive shifts in perspective don’t suddenly and miraculously happen simply because the clock ticked over to a new year. Time as we know it is a man made construct anyway, but I’m seriously digressing here.
The point of bringing this up was to mention I’m working on getting my house ready to sell. And this means days and weeks of meticulous sifting through thirty-five years of accumulated stuff. Some of that stuff is meaningful; some of that stuff is being donated; some of that stuff is being sold; some of that stuff is outright garbage and has been hauled straight to the bin and to the side of the road where people pick it up (you know what they say – one man’s trash is another man’s treasure), but some of that stuff is meaningful to me in some way or other and cannot simply be tossed out. Like the box of letters from my paternal mamaw. She was my penpal for a good two decades. Or my diplomas and commendations. Or my report cards and IEPs from elementary school, and the notes from teachers and little awards I received. Or the stacks of photos and photo albums. There have been lots of laughs, lots of tears, some raging and ripping up photos of that man who ruined my childhood and so much of my life and my outlook and behaviors, some quiet reminiscing, some shock; you get the idea.
One thing I came across was surprising to me. I didn’t even know I had it. A simple piece of paper brought on a flood of memories. Unpleasant ones at that. I was in 11th grade, I think, which puts me somewhere between 16 and 17. I was depressed and miserable and hated high school with all that I had. Not long after this period, I experienced some of the best years of my life until the bottom fell out of that, too. But for now, I was fucking miserable. I experienced suicidal ideation. I never cut myself, but I’ve always had this problem with picking and digging and tearing at my skin. So I’d wear long sleeves almost exclusively, in order to hide my arms.
I had changed schools that year, which is what seriously ramped up my depression and self-loathing. Those last two years of high school did a lot of damage to me, but the others did as well. Before I changed schools, I never had what you would call friends. There was simply a group of outcasts who would gather together during lunch. Some of them hung out together after school, but mostly we just clung to each other on the sidelines of life. It was our own little depressed group of grunge kids on this life raft we created to weather the storm of cheerleaders and jocks and geniuses and rich kids and bullies. It raged around us, splashing us with its venom and vitriol. The bullying had gotten so bad that I perfected this death to you glare and assumed anyone and I do mean anyone who looked at me meant me harm. I struggle with that still. And so we gathered together in this little corner at lunch. Playing hacky sack. Sneaking to the bathroom to smoke a roach. Talking about The Doors and Pink Floyd and Nirvana and Pearl Jam. Wearing the tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt I bought at a yard sale. Long sleeved of course. And that silly “Elvis is Dead. Deal with it.” t-shirt I wore all the fucking time. Mostly because it was black. And I was in a black wearing, flannel over-shirt phase. Close friends and confidantes we were not. But we needed each other. Or at least, I needed them.
So when I changed schools, I lost that. I no longer had a shield or raft to cling to against the raging tide of bullies. Especially the preps. They were the worst. Those were the ones that made my life hell all through high school. And now I had no protection. I had no wall of outcasts surrounding me to buffer me from the storm of bullying and back-stabbing. Which leads to the piece of paper I found last night.
I had an AP English class, which I would have loved (because English. Yay. My favorite subject for years.). Except there were about a dozen cheerleaders in that one class. They chose it on purpose because the teacher was the mother of one of them. I had no idea, or I would have scheduled a different class or requested a change. Such as it was, I was stuck in a very special hell of torment and glares and snickers and cruel jokes at my expense. Me, the poor girl in hand-me-downs, thrift store clothes, high-water pants and shoes held together with duct tape I’d taken a black Sharpie to on the black parts and White-Out on the white parts so the tape wouldn’t stand out so much.
At some point during the year, we had an assignment. We were instructed to write an original poem and then select one from our textbook that went along with the same theme. Then we had to buy white t-shirts and somehow paint our original poem on the front and the textbook poem on the back, then wear them to school on the day they were due and recite our poems from memory. This terrified me. I didn’t learn how to be able to do public speaking until college in my twenties. I can do it now, but I was terrified back then. Like vomiting over it a couple of times leading up to it the week it was due.
I couldn’t persuade my father to buy a new white t-shirt for me. “I don’t have the money for some fucking school poem bullshit. Use one of my old undershirts.” No, of course he didn’t have the money. He’d spent it on the twice weekly sacks of pot and pain meds from his 19 year old dealer. The shirt he gave me had the inevitable pinhole burns in it and huge deeply yellowed pit stains. I stole change off of his dresser to buy this glittery green puff paint to get the poems on the shirt. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. But I knew I would be humiliated, and I was. But this time, it was mostly in my head.
It was time. The teacher called my name. My stomach flipped and then flopped, and I felt dizzy and off-balance as I left my back-corner desk and walked to the front of the classroom. Voice shaking, I began:
You think that you are better than me
From your clothes, to your style and your hair
You think that you are better than me
But I have ceased to care
You smile and pretend that you are my friend
But I am not here for your pity
You smile and pretend that you are my friend
But I will have nothing to do with your sympathy
In your eyes, I am nobody because I don’t measure up to your standards
But I am not the one who tries to be something I am not
So before you judge me again, take a look at yourself
And face the reality that you are no better than me
And as time marches on
And your shine is all gone
For all of your glitter, you have nothing to show
Now you are nobody, and I am somebody
And you will never be better than me
To their credit, after the snickering subsided, the room got dead quiet. Not even the usual whispers and note-passing that happens during things like this. And the looks on their faces were a mixture of confusion, disgust, surprise, shame. This quiet, wallflower, grungy, nerdy weakling was speaking words of condemnation. To them. This was directed at them, and they knew it.
And then I read the poem I had selected from the textbook, and their shame and confusion turned to shock and fear. I could see it in their eyes, because I had finally worked up the nerve to make eye contact. And so I began:
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich-yes, richer than a king-
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
I somehow got through to some of them. But not in a way that made them nicer to me, more in a way to make them lean away, look away and leave me completely and utterly alone. Which was a relief and respite from the bullying, at least in that class. I think they were afraid of me. Nervous. Fine. Yes. Great. This I can use. And so my death to you glares increased. I rarely spoke, but I could shoot daggers. And I did. And I relished them shifting in their seats and looking away. I felt guilty for a lot of this later, in some ways still do. But at the time, I finally felt relief and used my anger as my new wall of protection, my new life raft.
I read the paper. I re-folded it and sat there in this reverent silence. Then I opened it and read it again, finally re-folding it and tucking it away among the things I’ve decided to keep. At least for now. As a reminder of what I was, and what I’m working so hard to leave behind. The anger, the fear, the skittishness, the guilt, the distrust, the anxiety, the self-loathing, etc.
Here’s to my year of change. It will happen slowly and then all at once. And I can’t fucking wait.
I love Clint Mansell. I think I always have, only I didn’t know it until someone put a name to the music that moves so many. Best known for his work as a composer, Mansell has scored films such as The Fountain, Requiem for a Dream, and Black Swan. And, you may have noticed, those are all three Darren Aronofsky films, but Mansell has scored for others as well.
I don’t know if I’ve told y’all…but The Fountain ranks among my favorite films. And it is no exaggeration to say that it would be a different film entirely without Mansell’s touch. It is dark and moving. Poignant and ethereal. Emotional and painful. Hopeful and yearning. Surreal and earthy. Life and death and resurrection and everything between. Soul shattering pain and redemption. I don’t even know what I’m saying, really. It’s everything.
I cried. Nay, I wept. I was an absolute wreck in the aftermath of The Fountain. For days. Days. I had been warned, at least a couple of years prior to watching it…I had been warned to steer clear of it. But then The Aussie told me it was important. I almost didn’t make it through it, quite literally choking on my sobs more than once. But I did. And it will always be part of me now. Perhaps it always was, and that’s why it moved me so.
All of these rambles to lead you into this song:
Listen to it. Please. I beseech you to listen and not with ears only, but with all of you. If you listen, you will know where I am today and why I’m not very talkative (blogative?). I’ve had it on loop for an hour. And if you listen, I’d love to know what the song does to you. It shakes me to my core and somehow fuels my depression while also comforting me. It makes me feel…understood. Felt.
But don’t listen to me. Listen to the song. Please. And then, listen to the entire soundtrack. It’s instrumental, so you can listen to it while doing other things…if you’re not too much of a wreck to function.
Below is the entire soundtrack, but if you’re wanting all the feels, you may as well go for it and watch the film.
If you haven’t seen The Fountain, go forth. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you are a sensitive creature at all, it will shatter you. But it’s a shattering you must endure.
Yeah. I’m gonna need to medicate with Billy Idol or something soon. Or a New Girl marathon! Yeah! No. Bad idea. Why must memories so firmly attach themselves to everything?
Anyone have any tips for really good comedy? Gimme gimme!