Baby Blue Sedan

A nice heart and a white suit and a baby blue sedan
And I am doing the best that I can
All the eunuchs, they were standing in rows
singing, “Please stud us out just as fast as you possibly can.”
Sad song, last dance and no one knows who the band was
And Henry, you danced like a wooden Indian
Except this one mattered and I felt it had a spirit
And I shot the story because I didn’t hear it that way
And it’s hard to be a human being
And it’s harder as anything else
And I’m lonesome when you’re around
And I’m never lonesome when I’m by myself
And I miss you when you’re around

(apologies to Modest Mouse)

Dancing With the Daffodils

daffodils1

daffodils and a dilapidated fire hydrant

Well, as is evidenced from the multitude of daffodils in bloom and the stirring in the loins of the twitterpated birds and squirrels in my back yard, Spring has officially sprung.

We had some vicious thunderstorms roll through the Ozarks tonight replete with lightning, hail, and even tornadoes.  As soon as I knew it was coming, I managed to run outside long enough to cut the freshly bloomed daffodils from my yard before their inevitable destruction at the unmerciful hands of Mother Nature.  My living room now resembles the parlor of a funeral home.

Staring at all of these damned daffodils reminds me of William Wordsworth’s most famous poem, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” (aka “the daffodil poem”), and I now feel obligated to put on my proverbial professor’s cap and give everyone a quick poetry lesson.  Accompanying this post are two photographs I took with a point-and-shoot camera a few years back, so please pardon the image quality.  They’re pictures of the daffodils which were once planted around my library.

[putting on professor’s cap]

Wordsworth believed that poetry should be “recollected in tranquility,” meaning that a poet shouldn’t compose a poem until enough time has passed (ideally several years) for the poet to recall the inspiration for the poem with a clean emotional slate.  Personally, I think this artistic philosophy is absolute bullshit because it runs contrary to what I believe to be the nature of art.  As far as I’m concerned, art is not only at its best when it elicits emotion, but also when it’s created with emotion.  Passion is essential to the creation of art, and passion isn’t something that can be “recollected in tranquility.”  But then again, he was William Wordsworth, and I’m not, so I’m in no position to argue with his creative process.

Below you will find Wordsworth’s poem.  It’s a little old fashioned, but it has one of the greatest last stanzas of all time, so I hope you enjoy it.

daffodils2

**********************************************

          I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

          I wander'd lonely as a cloud
          That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
          When all at once I saw a crowd,
          A host, of golden daffodils;
          Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
          Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

          Continuous as the stars that shine
          And twinkle on the milky way,
          They stretched in never-ending line
          Along the margin of a bay:                                  
          Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
          Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

          The waves beside them danced; but they
          Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
          A poet could not but be gay,
          In such a jocund company:
          I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
          What wealth the show to me had brought:

          For oft, when on my couch I lie
          In vacant or in pensive mood,                               
          They flash upon that inward eye
          Which is the bliss of solitude;
          And then my heart with pleasure fills,
          And dances with the daffodils.

                         -William Wordsworth

Time to Move On

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Broken skyline, movin’ through the airport
She’s an honest defector
Conscientious objector
Now her own protector

Broken skyline, which way to love land
Which way to something better
Which way to forgiveness
Which way do I go

Time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

Sometime later, getting the words wrong
Wasting the meaning and losing the rhyme
Nauseous adrenaline
Like breakin’ up a dogfight
Like a deer in the headlights
Frozen in real time
I’m losing my mind

It’s time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It’s time to move on, it’s time to get going

(apologies to Tom Petty)

There’s a Bad Moon on the Rise

I see the bad moon a’risin’.
I see trouble on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin’.
I see bad times today.

Today was fucking bleak. A perfect Friday the 13th, if you ask me. I slept in far longer than I should have, but that’s an easy thing to do when it’s your day off. It’s especially easy to do when it’s your day off AND it’s raining like a son of a bitch. I’m not kidding–it rained the whole day. THE WHOLE DAMN DAY! Seriously, there’s a reason I don’t live in Seattle. Well, honestly, there are several reasons I don’t live in Seattle, but the main reason is because of all the godforsaken rain. There’s simply no way I could handle it. I’m prone to depression enough as it is, and after a week without sunshine, I have the potential to make even Morrissey look cheerful by comparison.

I hear hurricanes a’blowin’
I know the end is comin’ soon
I fear rivers overflowin’.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin.

I’ve quit shaving. Just don’t see a point to it anymore. Why should I be clean shaven? Who am I trying to impress, anyway? The time for pretense is over–I might as well start looking like I feel. People keep commenting on the beard I’m growing, and I just smile and play along, but the truth of the matter is that I’m not trying to grow a beard–this is merely the face of a man who has given up. I’m not trying to look “rugged” or anything. I’m sure as hell not trying to follow the beard/mustache trend that’s sweeping the hipster nation. I just don’t care anymore–that’s all.

Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we’re in for nasty weather.
One eye is taken for an eye.

Yesterday was my mother’s 72nd birthday. She wasn’t sure which birthday it was, so I had to remind her. She suffers from “vascular dementia,” though I’m afraid it’s probably early Alzheimer’s. I brought her fried chicken on my way home from work last night, and we ate our chicken and watched a particularly gruesome episode of Law & Order: SVU together. Old habits die hard, I guess. We used to watch a lot of “Law & Order” back in the day. It was our favorite show to watch together when I was younger–we would turn it into a game, trying to place all of the extras in other shows (“That guy was in The Sopranos!” or “That’s the chick from Sex in the City!”). We haven’t been able to play that game in a long while, and even though she can’t keep up with the people or the plots anymore, I think she still enjoys watching the show because it’s familiar. I reckon there’s comfort in the familiar.

Don’t go ’round tonight,
’cause it’s bound to take your life.
There’s a bad moon on the rise.

[apologies to John Fogerty]