Most mornings, I wake up with a song playing in my head. I don't know why but it's a habit. Why wouldn't it be for me? I love music if you couldn't tell by my forever posting songs no one listens to anymore (or even like). Then there's the amount of cash I've spent on stereo equipment over the years trying to perfect that sound. In the world's “Things to do with your life,'' that's fairly noble...No? Hell, at least I'm not working on an ardent meth lifestyle.
Today I woke up with Jackson Browne's “The Pretender,” which isn't a bad song to arise to on a summer Saturday morning. After I get up, I make the rounds through the house. Turn on the computer, synch it with the stereo system and then grab a Coke. Once that is done, I click on MVY's station out of Tisbury and the day has now officially started. I then get curious about Browne's The Pretender so I Google that and I get a Rolling Stone article that impales the song and it's music.
“Dude, you don't know a fucking thing about what Browne's writing about” I say to myself as I read it. “You haven't lived with loss nor absurdity...you're lucky!” When I was young I'd take this critic for his word because he's a published critic, a professional! Now after piling on the decades, any critic's judgment is seen through my own eyes and that experience is as valid as theirs, perhaps more.
**
Unfortunately for all of us, because it never lasts, our best creativity happen when we are young. There is a time in our 20s', say 30's where we “peak” and everything we touch, generally turns to gold, or at least silver. It takes almost no effort really as we are bustin' out, blooming all over. That is the nature of youth. It's supposed to happen that way. It's why you see the discographies of various artists simply just hit it, again and again, so effortlessly when they're peaking.
Browne is 72 years old now. His latest album, which so few will listen to, is called “Downhill From Everywhere.” In it, he still is looking for that perfect love, the Answer To It All and some hope for that fruition he's been searching for. In his defense though, he does reconcile the dreams he has with real life. He knows that even at his age the hope is still there, even if it's not realistic to ape the younger dreams. Hope however, never stops nagging you to advance. It won't stop till you've spun out your line and are too worn out to try. Browne sees this coming and realizes life can be just too unknowable to solve, so he harmonizes the opposing truths as well as he can.
I remember George Harrison's last album and a song called “Stuck Inside a Cloud.” I had thought, with Harrison's lifelong devotion to Hinduism, all those yogis and tapping into the deepest of the deep, he'd have some answers. But in that song he admits he wasn't any closer to The Answer at all, even to the last when the throat cancer was taking him out. Whether he recoiled it all I don't know.
I digress with that, somewhat...
Browne writes a song about Barcelona where he gets, for a brief time, a feeling of being young once more. The strikingly different sights and culture of that city wake him up a bit. He mentions that he passes young women on the street and can't help but feel that spark to chase them, but realizes at 72, it would be a joke! He mentions his “Use by Date” has long since passed. The millions he has made over the years could find a young gold digger to pay attention to him but it's false and he knows this.
There are countless times I'm reminded of just how old I am, how far away I am from those salad days I did once own. At an old haunt of a beach I used to hang out in '94, I was walking up and down it, with a pair of giant Celestron binoculars, watching the rich frolic on their yachts and those tough motherfuckers who clam for a living, forever pulling on those rakes. Even 1,000 yards away, I could make out what they were up too. By the way, the well off like to piss off the side of their pleasure craft at times, not that I wanted to see that but when they think they're 1000 yards from anyone and all alone...
The only thing I needed to complete my white haired, old guy look was a metal detector.
As I walked along the beach, I came upon a women, perhaps barely 25, spread out on her blanket, her skin glistening from tanning oil. There are a few who still do purposely tan I was surprised to find out. As I got closer, I could tell how hot she was. I kept telling myself, “Don't stare! Don't stare!” but I had to look. Inside I heard myself “Go ahead, talk to her...she's alone...”
“Are you fucking kidding yourself?” the other part of my brain said. “What possible future would she have with a guy who's pushing 58? Never mind any of the other things she may want, like someone who doesn't nearly die panting while climbing a moderate sized mountain that doesn't qualify as one of New Hampshire's '48's'”
I kept walking and kept my mouth shut.
How did I manage to reconcile that? Barely. But I had this thought. It all keeps repeating, every generation that comes along gets to play for a while while young. And I knew that she, and some boys her age out there, are playing that game, enjoying it as well as they can. I had my time, now it's theirs. It hasn't stopped because I got older nor will it stop.
Good for them!
No comments:
Post a Comment