Today I got out of bed.
That might not sound like much, but if you were a fly on my wall, you would know it is amazing.
I have been fantasizing about knives through my heart, or plastic bags over my head, or the jerk jerk peace of drowning. But don't worry, I promised key people I wouldn't investaigate further. I am a man of my word.
At least today.
I've been living that rock and roll cliche of "hanging on the line" for the one you love. Of limbo, of never knowing, but knowing the answers will come some time soon. Like an execution. Waiting for the hammer to fall.
Closure.
And so instead of crying and shaking and rolling myself into a ball, and knowing full well the strength of fear, of regret, and with the benefit of glorious hindsight, I rose.
I drank a berocca, ate a multivitamin.
I looked at food, and even though it took me three hours to remember to eat it, when it was right in front of me, I...I keep fading out you know.
I can only concentrate on one thing, and it isn't sleep, or eating, or being calm.
And I guess it shows.
The people around me are starting to talk. They bring me dinner to forget about. They stop by at odd times to make sure I'm still breathing. They know, I think.
Sure they do.
And I get emails.
I get emails from other bloggers, and they say "you sound so sad all of a sudden". There's no fooling you, I know.
I used to get emails, and they would relate how a person may have stopped by my page for whatever reason. And how just when they were about to leave again, a word or a phrase, or a whole entry caught their imagination. And how they appreciate the intensity and honesty and the familiarity of some of the things I have said. Like we're not so different, even though we are. They tell me they think I am gifted at writing, and they hope I never stop.
And now I know what that is like.
I accidentally landed on one of the thousands of songs I never listen to on my iPod yesterday.
It was a voice and an acoustic guitar, and as much as I was over that genre 15 years ago, it held me there.
Lyrics:
What Becomes of Us- Holly Throsby, from the album 'Under the Town'.
It is early
You are dead
There are crows in our bed
But I won’t come undone
We are done, we are done
There is air still
In my lungs
I will get up and get on
With the other mouths and tongues
And the work there is to be done
This is what becomes of us
There are dim things in the pond
There is dust under the rug
And I don’t ever know
What’s below what’s below
But I am up!
I am above!
I have a new love!
And it’s warm like a gun
Or a knife that I fell on
This is what becomes of us
I was not ready
You won’t be back
I was not ready.
...the way she sings this song is so raw, and so region-specific, and so perfectly delivered. It's honest, and even if I wan't feeling it anyway, I would feel it, by virtue of the strength of her art.
She is a lot stronger than I am I think.
You can't fake that voice, the life that pours through it. And it shows the rest of us it can be done, and not only done, but conquered. Because she lives on the other side of that experience, and opens her mouth and sings about it.
And it is so sad and beautiful, just like the world Sparklehorse sang about.
You may like to connect in your own way:
http://www.hollythrosby.com/
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
