And now ladies and gentlemen. . . we’ve reached the halfway mark on our Love Ride!
And just to show that it’s not all fun and games, I’m gonna drop it down and play a demo I recorded in Fall of 2013. The later version of this song has all sorts of bells and whistles – but I think the early version possesses its own quiet Beauty. And speaking of Beauty, have you ever noticed how those dark moments of the soul become hinges that let more light into your life than you ever thought possible?
This song takes me to the ocean really. It breezes along, actually I used to think of it as a bit Beach Boy-ish in melody and mood.
So why did I match this song with Disillusion, which my dictionary says, refers to an instance of disenchantment?
Let’s go back to the shore, the waves. It’s magical, right? But the ground isn’t really solid, it’s composed of billions of shifting particles, granules of mountains. And the horizon, your point of reference, what is it but vapor molecules condensing and evaporating? Likewise, anything or anyone you cling to is liable to switch allegiances with the waxing, waning moon.
Still, the beach is a treat, it’s ample balm for the divesting of illusions. As is this song – whose catalyst is just about washed clean from my memory. . .
In the spirit of Valentine’s day/ leap year/ the month of February . . . I wish to offer my public installation Love Chart: Mapping the Ride!
What is this? Over the course of seventeen days, I will post original songs as evidence of the peaks and valleys spanning Ideal Love to Heartbreak, the harrowing turns and fateful descents and ascents leading from Obsession to Hope and back again.
Please be my guest for a tumultuous ride through the stages and phases of Desire!
Today I read a great Antonio Damasio interview in which he distinguishes between emotions and feelings, the first coming out of sensation and giving birth to the latter.
“There are certain action programs that are obviously permanently installed in our organs and in our brains so that we can survive, flourish, procreate, and, eventually, die. This is the world of life regulation—homeostasis.”
I’ve always wondered why emotional events play such havoc on our basic functions – sleep, metabolism – and how a loss or betrayal can usher in a fight or flight response.
“We must separate the component that comes out of actions (emotion) from the component that comes out of our perspective on those actions, which is feeling. Curiously, it’s also where the self emerges, and consciousness itself.”
I stumbled upon a playful rendering of this concept today in Maria Irene Fornes’ play, Fefu and her friends.
Cindy: When a person is swept off their feet. . . the feet remain and the person goes off. . . with the broom?
Christina: No. . . when a person is swept off their feet. . . there is no broom.
Cindy: What does the sweeping?
Christina: An emotion. . . a feeling. . .
Cindy: Then emotions have bristles?
1. That time when we were talking about rejection and you said you had been dumped so many times that you had grown immune to the experience, I regret not mentioning that you were the only person to ever break my heart.
2. Tonight, when I ran into my playwriting idol at an reading and we gawked at each other like long lost friends, I regret not asking her how she wrote and performed that first piece when she was a nobody back in the day which haunts me still.
3. At the aforementioned event, after reading from her collection of dance reviews/poetry/ephemera, when the author asked which non-linear bits stuck with us, I regret not saying the bit about the reviewer not being allowed to drink wine before the show because it is funny and because laughter is a good way to salve the wounds that arise from appraising the situation and finding myself falling short.
A year ago, the music affected me in such a way that my stomach lurched and I felt as if I might vomit. The songs grappled with the human condition – desire, adoration, devastation, hope – sung by teens radiant with the glow of youth. Their lyrics slipped through my pores like a truth serum. I wanted to bolt. I believed I was under some curse or coming down with the flu. I drove to the bar where my husband was working. It quickly became apparent that the snake poisoning my body was jealousy. She sat at the bar, the other woman. She didn’t register the danger in my approach. She kept talking in a familiar tone, as if she was the television in the living room. I sat down across from her; taking stock of her assets. I felt that my rival was not too formidable. Before her, opened, sat a giant black notebook, the kind that allows for both sketching and text. I got out my smaller lined journal and pen and commenced writing, digging my heels into life.
The very act of searching for the exact date on which her husband declared his infidelity one year ago, proves the adage that time heals.
It vexed her that he had determined that the bed was the source of their disaccord and had set upon himself the task of researching beds to restore their rapport. She couldn’t place her finger on the exact moment that he abandoned his research; she might have thought that it was at this point or that juncture, but then again she couldn’t be entirely sure. She would never know if he himself was aware of the exact moment in which fixing their relationship was superseded by the overwhelming urge to relinquish it altogether.
We talked about how we weren’t going to be together anymore and then I went downstairs to play some songs because it seemed like a comforting thing to do and he followed me into the studio and accompanied me on bass and we went back and forth selecting songs. The irony reached a pitch and I had the urge to record us for posterity though that was pointless since he was leaving; if this was the last time we would play these songs together a record of it was decidedly valuable, though desperately impractical. One only plans for the banal and unsurprising. The unexpected whirrs past; we lack a record but are rewarded with intensity.
I don’t want to be your everything and I don’t wish you’d complete me. I am so full already. Sometimes I have to inhabit the empty stillness to remember myself.