I am listening to this song ‘Starlings’ by Elbow over and over again. A sonic wall introduces the song, then it crashes down and jars your vision, and a man with a wry twang in his voice sings poetry.
You are the only the thing in any room you’re ever in
I’m stubborn selfish and too old
I wonder if musicians, poets, artists appreciate what a privilege it is to have the talent to create. All people experience pain and joy, but arguably only the artists can channel it into art, all tangible and full of affect. The shit that would burn up other people’s lives is, instead, the grist for a career in the arts. My own emotions are useless and good only for the purchase of a sulk and pout. Oh, to get sad and write this:
I sat you down and told you how
the truest love that’s ever found
Is for oneself
You pulled apart my theory
With a weary and disinterested sigh
I have never thought to accuse a song of having superior meter, until now.
So yes I guess I’m asking you
To back a horse that’s good for glue
I’ve heard enough songs by the heartbroken. When does the heartbreaker ever pick up a guitar? Is there no muse for the beau who cut you loose? Did he want something else and try to save us all the hell that’s come about, anyway? How heavy do your tears weigh upon his heart, my dear? We’ll never know.
# 2009 Feb 22
{Life}
