Some philosophers are obsessed by death, seeing it as some kind of defining event in the human condition, but more than that, as a kind of swindle. Death steals life from us. Just when we got it all figured out and are no longer driven by tyrannical hormonal urges (either ours or the childrens’) - bosh! The Grim Reaper comes along and spoils our fun.
Or something like that.
The death of healthy young people is theft, a moral flaw in the Universe. They really have had their lives stolen from them. Old gits like me, not so much. I’ve had my life, made what little of it I could, and my time has passed.
Suffering is another thing. I regard death, mostly, as a release from suffering, and especially the suffering of injury, disease and old age. A young person who lives in paid and has to spend an hour a day on some machine is being released by death, not cheated.
Death was a release for my friend Terence last year, my friend Chris died in his early sixties from the after-effects of prostate cancer, after almost ten years of a second-chance after the first operation that gave a happy family life in those years. Another man I knew, Richard, fell over in the bath after a seizure. He was in his mid-forties. Outwardly his life looked just fine, but his emotional life was something out of a 1950’s black and white English movie, the ones with the domineering mother. Richard’s death was unfair: he still had time to change. My father died peacefully in his sleep after a post-operative blood clot hit his heart.
It’s not death that’s scary. Either nothing happens, you go to heaven, or come back as a donkey, depending on your religious belief. Our death, as Wittgenstein remarked, is not an event in our lives. It’s an event in other people’s lives. In our lives we are immortal: we are only mortal in the lives of others.
It’s dying that’s scary. The pain from the fatal injury or the terminal disease. The fast fading of our health and powers. The sense that we are becoming irrelevant, and maybe even a burden, we who only a few years ago carried the burdens of others. I’m sure there are pathological states (see those 1950’s English movies) best left unexamined.
Death is, ultimately, a release from dying. Our dying does happen in our lives, we do experience it, and we’d rather not.
Monday, 9 December 2019
Thursday, 5 December 2019
Habits That Remind You That You're Alive
I got this one from the penultimate episode of Fog and Crimes S2. The ageing Police Commissioner of Ferrara tells his wayward-yet-brilliant detective Soneri (Our Hero) that he goes to a traditional cafe for tea and cakes every chance he gets: it’s one of those habits that reminds you you’re alive.
Absolutely.
My weekly sunbeds - if I miss those, I feel like I’m neglecting myself.
Looking at the River Thames when in town (I don’t do this often enough, especially when it’s cold or the District Line has maintenance work)
I used to like stopping in at the Caffe Nero on Archway before descending into Holborn tube for the Central Line. My espresso and pastry at the Soho Coffee on Gresham Street just isn’t the same experience.
Saturday morning gym followed by a movie at a Curzon - I miss that. I could be being too fussy about the movies I see.
Visiting Zandvoort on my way to see my friend in Utrecht. It’s once a year, but it’s every year.
Choosing music on CD. Near-infallible method: go to the classical section at Foyles, look at composers whose names are new to you. Choose on the basis of musical period (Baroque, Classical, Romantic, 20th Century, etc) and type (string quartets, piano, concerto, etc). I’ve rarely gone wrong. Except when I tell myself I really should try to like the Romantic Symphony.
Reading a book that takes me out of wherever I am. The most recent was a Donald E Westlake. I’d look up and think “I’m on the train? I thought I was in Hong Kong.” (Strictly that’s not a habit, but it will pass.)
Absolutely.
My weekly sunbeds - if I miss those, I feel like I’m neglecting myself.
Looking at the River Thames when in town (I don’t do this often enough, especially when it’s cold or the District Line has maintenance work)
I used to like stopping in at the Caffe Nero on Archway before descending into Holborn tube for the Central Line. My espresso and pastry at the Soho Coffee on Gresham Street just isn’t the same experience.
Saturday morning gym followed by a movie at a Curzon - I miss that. I could be being too fussy about the movies I see.
Visiting Zandvoort on my way to see my friend in Utrecht. It’s once a year, but it’s every year.
Choosing music on CD. Near-infallible method: go to the classical section at Foyles, look at composers whose names are new to you. Choose on the basis of musical period (Baroque, Classical, Romantic, 20th Century, etc) and type (string quartets, piano, concerto, etc). I’ve rarely gone wrong. Except when I tell myself I really should try to like the Romantic Symphony.
Reading a book that takes me out of wherever I am. The most recent was a Donald E Westlake. I’d look up and think “I’m on the train? I thought I was in Hong Kong.” (Strictly that’s not a habit, but it will pass.)
Monday, 2 December 2019
When Nothing is Quite 'Enough'
My Dutch friend and I are pondering a problem. It’s one of those you-wait-until-you-get-to-our-age problems, so I don’t expect you to understand it.
The problem is that we’ve lost our vim and vinegar and zest for living. We no longer get excited by whatever it is we used to get excited about. It’s getting too easy to let the few things we have to do slide, and let the day pass in activities that don’t add up to anything.
There are a lot of cliched answers to this, some of which are also true but nothing like the whole story. So we’ll skip the you’re-just-getting-old bit. And we’ll skip the movies-really-are-worse-now bit as well. I’m going to allow the 65-is-a-dangerous-age-cynthia argument, because it’s true. For my generation. Even though we know the Rules got changed. I reckon I’m just coming out of the post-significant-date phase now.
There’s nothing wrong with my friend’s life that couldn’t cured by: a) an income of around €3,000 a month after tax, b) being able to write one novel every nine months, and c) knowing that it will be accepted by the publishers and sell reasonably well. Which as any novelist will tell you is a pretty nice life. He would be a transformed man. He would be the writer he wanted to be. But there’s not a lot he can do about turning into that person now.
Which is enough to make it easy to leave some minor project, or even a trip to the movies, for another couple of days or even weeks.
My friend isn’t an alcoholic. I am and we alcoholics are, of course, stuck. What we want is not to be us, and we know that there is nothing out there that can do that trick. No matter how much money we make, no matter how many and sincere the friends we have, no matter how beautiful and charming our lovers, no matter the regard in which we are held by those whose regard we care for… at the end of each day, all those things will take their temporary leave and we will be left with the one person we don’t want to be left with. Under alcoholism and ACoA, everything gets a coating of emotional chilli pepper, so whatever it is, it’s also a distraction from ourselves. I think a lot of people in recovery get a glimpse of that, decide it feels a bit hollow, and stay at an earlier state of the process, where they can believe that their emotions are real, and not the hall-of-mirrors of addiction.
Which is enough to make it easy to leave some minor project, or even a trip to the movies, for another couple of days or even weeks.
There’s one thing nobody tells you about getting older: the sense of reward from doing something declines. It just does. Hormones, thicker skin, whatever. Back in the late 1970’s my friend and I used to go out Sunday afternoon. Simpler times when a pizza and movie at the Odeon was pretty close to living large. Part of that good time was each other’s company.
Other people's company is a valuable part of the whole thing. I heard a couple of twenty-somethings coming out of a Transformers movie in the West End: “that was by no means a good film” said one of them, but the fact it was twaddle didn’t ruin their evening. They could still go have a drink and talk nonsense afterwards. If I set off to see a movie on my own, I need to believe it’s going to be a good movie. If I set off for a walk, I need the sun to be out and the sky to be blue.
The trick is this: to recognise that the thing you decided you weren’t going to do because it wasn’t enough is still better than the default thing you will wind up doing instead. Which is often watching You Tube, or television. So do that anyway.
There’s one other thing, which I got from an episode of Fog and Crimes S2. But I’ll discuss that later
The problem is that we’ve lost our vim and vinegar and zest for living. We no longer get excited by whatever it is we used to get excited about. It’s getting too easy to let the few things we have to do slide, and let the day pass in activities that don’t add up to anything.
There are a lot of cliched answers to this, some of which are also true but nothing like the whole story. So we’ll skip the you’re-just-getting-old bit. And we’ll skip the movies-really-are-worse-now bit as well. I’m going to allow the 65-is-a-dangerous-age-cynthia argument, because it’s true. For my generation. Even though we know the Rules got changed. I reckon I’m just coming out of the post-significant-date phase now.
There’s nothing wrong with my friend’s life that couldn’t cured by: a) an income of around €3,000 a month after tax, b) being able to write one novel every nine months, and c) knowing that it will be accepted by the publishers and sell reasonably well. Which as any novelist will tell you is a pretty nice life. He would be a transformed man. He would be the writer he wanted to be. But there’s not a lot he can do about turning into that person now.
Which is enough to make it easy to leave some minor project, or even a trip to the movies, for another couple of days or even weeks.
My friend isn’t an alcoholic. I am and we alcoholics are, of course, stuck. What we want is not to be us, and we know that there is nothing out there that can do that trick. No matter how much money we make, no matter how many and sincere the friends we have, no matter how beautiful and charming our lovers, no matter the regard in which we are held by those whose regard we care for… at the end of each day, all those things will take their temporary leave and we will be left with the one person we don’t want to be left with. Under alcoholism and ACoA, everything gets a coating of emotional chilli pepper, so whatever it is, it’s also a distraction from ourselves. I think a lot of people in recovery get a glimpse of that, decide it feels a bit hollow, and stay at an earlier state of the process, where they can believe that their emotions are real, and not the hall-of-mirrors of addiction.
Which is enough to make it easy to leave some minor project, or even a trip to the movies, for another couple of days or even weeks.
There’s one thing nobody tells you about getting older: the sense of reward from doing something declines. It just does. Hormones, thicker skin, whatever. Back in the late 1970’s my friend and I used to go out Sunday afternoon. Simpler times when a pizza and movie at the Odeon was pretty close to living large. Part of that good time was each other’s company.
Other people's company is a valuable part of the whole thing. I heard a couple of twenty-somethings coming out of a Transformers movie in the West End: “that was by no means a good film” said one of them, but the fact it was twaddle didn’t ruin their evening. They could still go have a drink and talk nonsense afterwards. If I set off to see a movie on my own, I need to believe it’s going to be a good movie. If I set off for a walk, I need the sun to be out and the sky to be blue.
The trick is this: to recognise that the thing you decided you weren’t going to do because it wasn’t enough is still better than the default thing you will wind up doing instead. Which is often watching You Tube, or television. So do that anyway.
There’s one other thing, which I got from an episode of Fog and Crimes S2. But I’ll discuss that later
Thursday, 28 November 2019
Vandalised Windows E-Mail
Thank you for your e-mail. I’m aware that when you took the crime report on Friday morning, I was still upset from the events of Thursday evening and was not making a lot of sense. So I thought I’d summarise the facts, especially since whoever it was took another couple of shots at my house on Friday afternoon (15th) around 16:30, when I made another emergency call (CADXXXX15112019). Two officers visited me at 17:30, looked around and seemed surprised at what they saw.
The earliest date I am sure my house was attacked was Wednesday 6th November when a number of ball-bearings were shot at my house around 22:00, one breaking a window in my back room. (Backroom_20191106 attached). For various reasons (I leave for work when it’s dark, and get back when it’s dark) I simply didn’t notice this until the week of the 11th.
There were at least two more incidents of what I thought was pebble-throwing in the next few days, both in the late evening. I was wrong to think these were pebbles.
On Thursday evening 14th around 22:30 someone shot a number of metal ball-bearings at the back of my house. One came through the kitchen window, leaving a neat round hole and scattering small glass fragments the length of the kitchen. This was followed by two closely spaced shots which broke the glass of a window in my back room.
At that moment I felt I was under attack. One pellet against a wall is a prank, two in quick succession through the same window is malice.
I made the first call to 999 immediately after that. (CADXXXX14112019.)
I recovered two ball-bearings while cleaning up the next morning. The officers who visited on Friday evening (15th) found seven more ball bearings (Ballbearings.jpg) near the back of my house: these must have bounced off the wall. I still have two more to find inside the house.
I discussed two possibilities with the officers on Friday. The first that it’s someone on Camrose Avenue shooting from a window. Second, it’s someone shooting from the back alley. Taking a look along my back alley, all the other houses on Elmgate Avenue have higher fences or trees blocking the line-of-sight. So my house looks like a target of opportunity.
The first could be dealt with by a friendly enquiry from the most likely houses. No allegations need to be made, and it would eliminate the possibility. Your colleagues suggested that the Safer Neighbourhoods Team might take this on.
I will be drawing my curtains and taking a couple of other simple measures for a while. Your colleagues said I should call if there were any more attacks on my home.
----------
So there's something that's been going on and gave me some bad nights' sleep at the end of my week off. I'm waiting for the insurance assessors to visit. I decided that in the chaotic lives of teenagers who shoot ball bearings at houses in the evening, and will soon be spending months in Young Offenders Institutions, that a house with no lights on at 22:00 must be empty, since it's owner must be out, probably at the pub. The idea that it is occupied by a hard-working man who wakes up early is so far out of their experience that they wouldn't even know what the words mean. Hence leaving the lights on. With the curtains drawn. Because if the lights are on, and they can't see anyone moving around (when I sit on the couch, my head is out of sight), they will assume that I am out, or possibly passed out in a drunken stupor like their parents. As you can tell, I wish whoever it is nothing but the best for their lives.
The earliest date I am sure my house was attacked was Wednesday 6th November when a number of ball-bearings were shot at my house around 22:00, one breaking a window in my back room. (Backroom_20191106 attached). For various reasons (I leave for work when it’s dark, and get back when it’s dark) I simply didn’t notice this until the week of the 11th.
There were at least two more incidents of what I thought was pebble-throwing in the next few days, both in the late evening. I was wrong to think these were pebbles.
On Thursday evening 14th around 22:30 someone shot a number of metal ball-bearings at the back of my house. One came through the kitchen window, leaving a neat round hole and scattering small glass fragments the length of the kitchen. This was followed by two closely spaced shots which broke the glass of a window in my back room.
At that moment I felt I was under attack. One pellet against a wall is a prank, two in quick succession through the same window is malice.
I made the first call to 999 immediately after that. (CADXXXX14112019.)
I recovered two ball-bearings while cleaning up the next morning. The officers who visited on Friday evening (15th) found seven more ball bearings (Ballbearings.jpg) near the back of my house: these must have bounced off the wall. I still have two more to find inside the house.
I discussed two possibilities with the officers on Friday. The first that it’s someone on Camrose Avenue shooting from a window. Second, it’s someone shooting from the back alley. Taking a look along my back alley, all the other houses on Elmgate Avenue have higher fences or trees blocking the line-of-sight. So my house looks like a target of opportunity.
The first could be dealt with by a friendly enquiry from the most likely houses. No allegations need to be made, and it would eliminate the possibility. Your colleagues suggested that the Safer Neighbourhoods Team might take this on.
I will be drawing my curtains and taking a couple of other simple measures for a while. Your colleagues said I should call if there were any more attacks on my home.
----------
So there's something that's been going on and gave me some bad nights' sleep at the end of my week off. I'm waiting for the insurance assessors to visit. I decided that in the chaotic lives of teenagers who shoot ball bearings at houses in the evening, and will soon be spending months in Young Offenders Institutions, that a house with no lights on at 22:00 must be empty, since it's owner must be out, probably at the pub. The idea that it is occupied by a hard-working man who wakes up early is so far out of their experience that they wouldn't even know what the words mean. Hence leaving the lights on. With the curtains drawn. Because if the lights are on, and they can't see anyone moving around (when I sit on the couch, my head is out of sight), they will assume that I am out, or possibly passed out in a drunken stupor like their parents. As you can tell, I wish whoever it is nothing but the best for their lives.
Monday, 25 November 2019
We Apologise For This Break In Service
Regular readers will have noticed a lack of regular writing, or even pictures, over the last three weeks. There’s sure to be a reason for this, but I’m not sure I know what it really is.
A lot of blogging and even more You Tube-ing is commentary, and usually on some article in the mainstream press or TV. For all the posturing about the decline and irrelevance of mainstream media, it’s still the source material for most of the commentary. Very few You Tubers do their own research. I don’t blame them: original research is difficult and if it’s to be more than digging around public records, it needs contacts and networks. Digging around in public records can still be a good way of getting the dirt.
Some of this blog is commentary, some of it is part of an internal debate with myself on various subjects, some of it is a record of what’s going on in my life. I’m kinda done with the commentary: one can only say so many times that most journalists and politicians are on the wrong side of history and desperate to maintain their status until the last minute. The internal debates will go on, but right now I can’t write any of it down. Perhaps I’m looking for too much and should stick to working out what size of TV I want, or if I want a new one at all. As for what’s going on in my life, I haven’t known how to write about some of it at the moment.
A lot of blogging and even more You Tube-ing is commentary, and usually on some article in the mainstream press or TV. For all the posturing about the decline and irrelevance of mainstream media, it’s still the source material for most of the commentary. Very few You Tubers do their own research. I don’t blame them: original research is difficult and if it’s to be more than digging around public records, it needs contacts and networks. Digging around in public records can still be a good way of getting the dirt.
Some of this blog is commentary, some of it is part of an internal debate with myself on various subjects, some of it is a record of what’s going on in my life. I’m kinda done with the commentary: one can only say so many times that most journalists and politicians are on the wrong side of history and desperate to maintain their status until the last minute. The internal debates will go on, but right now I can’t write any of it down. Perhaps I’m looking for too much and should stick to working out what size of TV I want, or if I want a new one at all. As for what’s going on in my life, I haven’t known how to write about some of it at the moment.
Thursday, 31 October 2019
What Money Buys
There seem to be as many financial You Tubers are there are dating coaches. All of them are, of course, about not spending money, or, as we Brits would say, not pissing it away. A lot of them are about saving or investing money instead of spending it, and how much better a person you will be if you save or invest instead of spend.
Right. (cracks fingers)
Money buys four different things: necessities; peace of mind; quality of life; options.
Necessities are the the things you need to make the money you need so you can get the things you need to make the money you need. And not be living in your Mom’s basement. And not looking like a homeless person. Rent, council tax, travel to work, raw food that you cook yourself, water, electricity, gas, clothes, shoes, mobile phone. (If you don’t think a mobile phone isn’t a necessity, you are a privileged white person who doesn’t work. If you did zero hours or temp work, you’d know the only way an agency gets in touch is on a mobile.) Soap, shampoo, toothpaste, nail clippers and nail file. Detergent to wash your clothes with. Razor and shaving cream. Towels. Bedsheets, duvet, pillow and pillow cases. Haircuts.
Peace of Mind is what comes when you know you can handle something going wrong. Being the guy who tears his hair out because he doesn’t have the spare cash to handle a minor upset, from a blown tyre, or water on the laptop, or missing the holiday flight home and having to buy the expensive one-way ticket - being the guy whose world falls apart at that kind of stuff is not a good look, and it’s a lousy way to feel. Anything goes wrong, and you flip off the deep end, because you may have to starve for the next week. That’s why you buy contents insurance, even if you don’t own your own place. It’s why you put money into an Oh Shit account. At today’s prices, you will start to feel comfortable with about £2,000 in the Oh Shit account.
Quality of life. This is two things: less shoddiness, inconvenience and effort, and more pleasure, health, education and personal growth. Shoes from Northampton cobblers instead of cheap things that look awful after six months; good noise-cancelling headphones to avoid the pointless sounds of commuting; my weekly minutes in the sunbed; parking at the station now and again; having a car, even though I don’t drive to work; my movie streaming and music streaming subscriptions, DVDs, CDs, books, movies and occasional live shows - entertainment is quality of life. Dental hygienist once every three-four months.
Quality of life is not indulgence. The difference is not in the act itself, but in the purpose and affordability.
One indulgence is acceptable. Mine is the gym. It’s a fancy one. They provide towels. There’s a swimming pool. The soap and shampoo is Cowshed. I rent a locker. Get there early enough in the morning and pick up a free copy of the Financial Times. I could go to a much cheaper one, but it wouldn’t be twenty yards from Piccadilly Circus. I’ll go to a chain warehouse gym when I retire.
Where I differ from the gurus is this: it’s your money, your life. You want to piss it all away and be poor for twenty years after you stop working, please by my guest. I’m not going to stop you, and I’m not going to vote for a Government that wants to bail you out either. You want to be dumb, go ahead. I have no idea how people can spend thousands on gaming laptops and games, but they have no idea how anyone could live a life as boring as mine.
Because, unless you make a pile of cash and keep it, or unless you are in the top five per cent of salary-earners in your economy, the difference between all those spending-saving strategies is in two things: first, the exact degree of genteel poverty you are going to live out the last twenty or so of your post-retirement years; second, the exact degree of insecurity, anxiety and inconvenience in which you live the forty years you’re working.
Right. (cracks fingers)
Money buys four different things: necessities; peace of mind; quality of life; options.
Necessities are the the things you need to make the money you need so you can get the things you need to make the money you need. And not be living in your Mom’s basement. And not looking like a homeless person. Rent, council tax, travel to work, raw food that you cook yourself, water, electricity, gas, clothes, shoes, mobile phone. (If you don’t think a mobile phone isn’t a necessity, you are a privileged white person who doesn’t work. If you did zero hours or temp work, you’d know the only way an agency gets in touch is on a mobile.) Soap, shampoo, toothpaste, nail clippers and nail file. Detergent to wash your clothes with. Razor and shaving cream. Towels. Bedsheets, duvet, pillow and pillow cases. Haircuts.
Peace of Mind is what comes when you know you can handle something going wrong. Being the guy who tears his hair out because he doesn’t have the spare cash to handle a minor upset, from a blown tyre, or water on the laptop, or missing the holiday flight home and having to buy the expensive one-way ticket - being the guy whose world falls apart at that kind of stuff is not a good look, and it’s a lousy way to feel. Anything goes wrong, and you flip off the deep end, because you may have to starve for the next week. That’s why you buy contents insurance, even if you don’t own your own place. It’s why you put money into an Oh Shit account. At today’s prices, you will start to feel comfortable with about £2,000 in the Oh Shit account.
Quality of life. This is two things: less shoddiness, inconvenience and effort, and more pleasure, health, education and personal growth. Shoes from Northampton cobblers instead of cheap things that look awful after six months; good noise-cancelling headphones to avoid the pointless sounds of commuting; my weekly minutes in the sunbed; parking at the station now and again; having a car, even though I don’t drive to work; my movie streaming and music streaming subscriptions, DVDs, CDs, books, movies and occasional live shows - entertainment is quality of life. Dental hygienist once every three-four months.
Quality of life is not indulgence. The difference is not in the act itself, but in the purpose and affordability.
One indulgence is acceptable. Mine is the gym. It’s a fancy one. They provide towels. There’s a swimming pool. The soap and shampoo is Cowshed. I rent a locker. Get there early enough in the morning and pick up a free copy of the Financial Times. I could go to a much cheaper one, but it wouldn’t be twenty yards from Piccadilly Circus. I’ll go to a chain warehouse gym when I retire.
Where I differ from the gurus is this: it’s your money, your life. You want to piss it all away and be poor for twenty years after you stop working, please by my guest. I’m not going to stop you, and I’m not going to vote for a Government that wants to bail you out either. You want to be dumb, go ahead. I have no idea how people can spend thousands on gaming laptops and games, but they have no idea how anyone could live a life as boring as mine.
Because, unless you make a pile of cash and keep it, or unless you are in the top five per cent of salary-earners in your economy, the difference between all those spending-saving strategies is in two things: first, the exact degree of genteel poverty you are going to live out the last twenty or so of your post-retirement years; second, the exact degree of insecurity, anxiety and inconvenience in which you live the forty years you’re working.
Monday, 28 October 2019
OceanLab's On A Good Day
I ran across this on one of the Ajunabeats CD’s I downloaded for train music.
Listen to it first, and reflect on the fact that Schubert never wrote a song this good. A lot of the impact comes from the singing of the then 38-year-old co-writer Justine Suissa,
and the time change between the rhythmic suspense created by the 7/4 of the lead-in to the release of the 4/4 for the chorus.
So here are the lyrics, courtesy of one of those lyric sites:
(verse)
A little bit lost and
A little bit lonely
Little bit cold here,
A little bit of fear
(Lead in)
But I hold on and I feel strong
And I know that I can
I'm getting used to it
Lit the fuse to it
Like to know who I am
(Chorus)
I've been talking to myself forever, yeah
And how I wish I knew me better, yeah
Still sitting on a shelf and never
Never seen the sun shine brighter
And it feels like me on a good day
(Verse)
I'm a little bit hemmed in
A little bit isolated
A little bit hopeful
A little bit calm
Repeat Lead-in and Chorus
As I (first) read it, this is someone who made a decision to leave someone or something (Lit the fuse to it) and hasn’t found any replacement (I’m getting used to it) nor do they really understand why they did it (Like to know who I am) or what they are going to do next (Still sitting on a shelf).
‘Strong’ is an interesting word. Women feel strong, and it relates to will, specifically to defiance. The song’s character is defying the emotional collapse she knows is one Really Bad Day away.
I see Instagram posts showing this month’s super-food, some yoghurt, a salad, a yoga pose or maybe a climbing wall session, and her (the song’s character, not Ms Suissa) smiling in front of some cute or scenic background.
There may even be a cat.
Because how does she feel? Lost. Lonely. Cold. Slightly fearful. Hemmed in. Isolated. Hopeful. Calm.
That’s a very specific list of emotions. The last two look positive, but aren’t.
You don’t feel hopeful unless things are bad. You don’t notice you feel calm unless you should be agitated and upset.
And only people who feel Bad most of the time talk about having Good Days.
So when I started on this, I thought the song’s character was a woman who had made a drastic decision that has de-railed her life. Or found that her life has hit The Wall.
But now I wonder.
In fact, if she’s talking to herself forever and wish[es] she knew [herself] better, is she in fact a Psych patient?
Listen to it first, and reflect on the fact that Schubert never wrote a song this good. A lot of the impact comes from the singing of the then 38-year-old co-writer Justine Suissa,
and the time change between the rhythmic suspense created by the 7/4 of the lead-in to the release of the 4/4 for the chorus.
So here are the lyrics, courtesy of one of those lyric sites:
(verse)
A little bit lost and
A little bit lonely
Little bit cold here,
A little bit of fear
(Lead in)
But I hold on and I feel strong
And I know that I can
I'm getting used to it
Lit the fuse to it
Like to know who I am
(Chorus)
I've been talking to myself forever, yeah
And how I wish I knew me better, yeah
Still sitting on a shelf and never
Never seen the sun shine brighter
And it feels like me on a good day
(Verse)
I'm a little bit hemmed in
A little bit isolated
A little bit hopeful
A little bit calm
Repeat Lead-in and Chorus
As I (first) read it, this is someone who made a decision to leave someone or something (Lit the fuse to it) and hasn’t found any replacement (I’m getting used to it) nor do they really understand why they did it (Like to know who I am) or what they are going to do next (Still sitting on a shelf).
‘Strong’ is an interesting word. Women feel strong, and it relates to will, specifically to defiance. The song’s character is defying the emotional collapse she knows is one Really Bad Day away.
I see Instagram posts showing this month’s super-food, some yoghurt, a salad, a yoga pose or maybe a climbing wall session, and her (the song’s character, not Ms Suissa) smiling in front of some cute or scenic background.
There may even be a cat.
Because how does she feel? Lost. Lonely. Cold. Slightly fearful. Hemmed in. Isolated. Hopeful. Calm.
That’s a very specific list of emotions. The last two look positive, but aren’t.
You don’t feel hopeful unless things are bad. You don’t notice you feel calm unless you should be agitated and upset.
And only people who feel Bad most of the time talk about having Good Days.
So when I started on this, I thought the song’s character was a woman who had made a drastic decision that has de-railed her life. Or found that her life has hit The Wall.
But now I wonder.
In fact, if she’s talking to herself forever and wish[es] she knew [herself] better, is she in fact a Psych patient?
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