Some ideas create the strangest, most unexpected pictures in your mind, am I right? I would love it if I could trace this mental image back to its root. Why does the idea of a “worksong” translate into a dark room lit by a candle, with workish instruments and implements strewn about, all covered by a thin layer of tinkerbell fairy dust?
Maybe something about burning the midnight oil, or burning the candle at both ends.
Maybe it's about my grandpa's workshop in the basement, with grown-up grandpa things laying around all over the place, imbuing the child version of me with wonder over what magic he might be making down there.
Oh! Wait… uhhh, hmmm… it might be Snow White. Or maybe Fantasia. Or some combination of the two. Either way, damn you, Disney.
(Dear Brain… if you feel something poking you from below, those are just my eyes rolling.)
Does any of this actually go with the message of the song? Not so much. Or maybe it does, abstractly. Because anything goes with anything, abstractly. Like horoscopes, or "mysterious ways".
Everything I know about war I learned from the news and from movies and television, which is to say, I know only what film directors and politicians want me to know about it... so the reality is that I know absolutely sweet fuck all about it, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I hope to keep it that way.
My maternal grandfather was a soldier in WWII. He suffered nightmares long after he returned. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like for him, but it wasn't something he wanted to talk about. Which also makes me think I'm glad I don't know what it was like for him.
I imagine it's hell on earth for everyone involved, whether their involvement is by choice or not. And with that I will STFU because I really can't contribute words on this subject, only the picture in my mind that this song gives me.
(Follow me, don't follow me)
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
(Collar me, don't collar me)
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
(We are agents of the free)
I've had my fun and now it's time to serve your conscience overseas
Identity is a messy thing. You think you know who you are. You dress a certain way, act a certain way, speak a certain way. You present your best self to the world, or so you think, every time you post a new profile pic on social media, post a pic of the complex meal you just cooked, post a pic of your immaculate/kooky/cozy/eclectic/artsy/worldly house/flat/apartment/room. You do all of these things to assert your version of who you are, so that everyone knows you're that guy/girl.
But are you really? How much effort did it take to get yourself that way? But maybe that's part of your identity. You aren't really you without the purple hair, the face jewellery, the sleeve tattoos, the dress made of bits of Moroccan tapestry held together with kilt pins.
And that's cool, man. That's perfectly alright. It's better than alright, because who wants to be normal in this weird world anyway? In the sea of beige, be the neon. That's how that saying goes, right? The beige deny their true selves, choosing to wear the uniform of the masses, while the neon go out of their way to hide their authentic beigeness. Or, the beige are presenting the most authentic version of themselves to the world, while the neon are the rare birds who can't keep their true colours hidden. The fake is true, and the truth is fake. What a mess indeed.
But really, the messy part isn't the mess you made of your vanity to get your make up just right, or the mess you made on the kitchen counter to cook that spectacular meal, or the mess you made in the living room to perfectly wrap and decorate the myriad Christmas presents under your tree.
The messy part is that you don't get to pick how other people see you. You don't own that. Your identity, however self-created or accidental, is all in your head. You present yourself as a writer; your mother buys you a ukulele for Christmas and tells you it was always your calling. Not that validation from others is required. You know who you are, and that's all that matters. Right?
Turning inward... every day I wake up and wish I was something else. Goth. Punk. Harajuku. Jedi. For about a year, I wasn't my true self unless I had asymetrical rainbow coloured hair. Right now, all I want is to be invisible, to fade into the background and let someone else be rainbow coloured and asymetrical. Until I bump into her on the street and curse her under my breath for being cooler than I am. Then I'll take it back.
Side 1, track 1 from Green, 1988. A sonic ode to small talk. Maybe not an ode. Maybe just a statement. A socially awkward statement. I basically refuse to speak on the phone anymore, unless it's to one of two people: my gramma or my stepdad. And basically only because they don't text message.
Text messaging is a socially awkward introvert's dream come true.
From Green, 1988. When it's cold and dark outside, getting out of bed and showing up to life is one of the hardest things. The cats never seem to mind it. When you're a cat, lounging around dreamily is how you show up to life. Getting up is temporary and soon followed by another round of sleepy dealings.
I'm not saying I want that to be my life. I'm just saying that cats make sleeping into an art form. They show up to life dreaming.
I think I'll make this my show up to life song. Starting tomorrow morning.
*****
Update: I have been told by different people who are not connected to each other in any way that it looks like the cats in this sketch are humping.
I can assure you they are not. Not that I have a problem with cats humping, per se. That just wasn't my goal. And while you are free to see anything you want in a piece of art and interpret it how you see fit, I just want to put it out there that they're not humping, and the reason they're not humping is that they're just not humping. Can I use the word humping one more time? Here is the photo that I used for reference. Not humping, clearly. Laying about like cats do, clearly. Also, how cute are they? Right? Just what the internet needed... more cat pictures. Clearly.
It’s hard to be original in a world where it seems that everything has already been done. There’s nothing new under the sun. There is only how you perceive it, how you describe it, how you convey it to others, which is new.
Ask a classroom of 25 kids to draw a picture of something, you get 25 exceptionally unique pictures of that thing.
I think that everything that came before you helped to shape the things you create, whether you know it or not. Maybe you’ve never encountered the absolute original. Maybe it goes too far back. Maybe as far back as a cave painting, or a tribal drum beat. But its existence brought about the creation of many other things, and you’ve encountered some of those, and that means the thing you made is the next link in the chain of creativity.
It may not be the next big thing. It may seem to you like a drop in the ocean, something that doesn’t matter, wholly uninfluential. But I like to think that merely existing on the creativity continuum makes it important, whether it ends up on auction at Sotheby’s, or gets 100 views on YouTube, or gets tossed into a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone.
Because it exists, it has matter, and that means the make-up of the universe has been forever altered. Those quantum particles go swirling undetected by human eyes into the atmosphere and are carried away to other places as if on the wings of birds. And then someone somewhere is offered the ephemeral hand of inspiration, and it drives the creation of something new which has been made before, but not like this. Something which might be auctioned at Sotheby’s, or get 100 views on YouTube, or end up in a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone…
Once upon a time there was a little girl who did what she was told. She went to Sunday school and received her sacraments. She believed everything the grown ups told her, because why wouldn't she?
Then one day when she was no longer little, she realized that her understanding of the world conflicted with the things she had been told. She was okay with this. It didn't really challenge her to let go of the old ways of thinking. She let them go quite readily, in fact.
Except, she would still occasionally find herself thinking in the old way. That way of thinking was wrong, she rationalized. It didn't make any sense. So then who was she talking to when she wished out loud?
Some neural pathways are harder to rewire than others.
