Sunday, September 09, 2007
Solitude and old music
Tonight I plipped. PBS was playing another pledge night show: The Smothers Brothers and Judy Collins with lots of other 60's kind of folksy singers. I liked the music, I knew the words and the songs were comfortable, like a well-worn pair of shoes.
And I realized that old things are pleasant for me.
But the point of this essay is the melding of music and my circumstances. Tonight I am watching this alone in my bed. I can tap my toe, nod my head, and feel the words in the fiber of my soul. But I'm doing this in a solitary way.
And extending this sensation is easy- being alone in a couple of months, being alone in a couple of decades- will I be watching this show as its own form of "golden oldie" in 20 years? Will I have leathery skin on the back of my hands? Will someone have to bring me my dinner in an old folks home? And will these songs still have that same ability to take me back to when I was young and stupid and happy?
Well, for a lot of the time while these songs were etching themselves into the DNA of my musical memory, I was alone, too. These songs came to my consciousness before my now-divorced family did. It seems like such a long time ago, when I heard these songs and when I had my first son. A lot of things have happened since then. I've done a few things I'm not sure I'd do again, and I've done some things I don't know how to avoid having done.
Life is a search. You search for love, for meaning, for romance, for memorable events. Sometimes you find such things, other times your life runs out bleakly, like sand through an hourglass. But even the Big Events become memories. I remember being in the delivery room when each of my children were born. I remember teaching my four-year-old big son to ride his bike, taking my small seven-year-old daughter to swim in the big pool and hearing my small three-year-old son tell me that he liked to run. I remember a very young, nubile girl who trusted me with her body: that girl became a deceitful, bitter woman and I regret that I don't know how she made that transition.
But these songs were there for the journey. Folk songs that had a message, like "Where have all the flowers gone" and slightly goofy, yet pointed songs like "The MTA." I don't think of Judy Collins very often, but she remains a great singer. She was there when I was in college, learning to think about meaningful things. Now her voice brings me back to 1963 and my search for something that would make sense, that would fulfill something. I haven't found the answer yet, but I know I'm better equipped to make the search. Trouble is, I'm not sure there is something out there that is the Big Answer to my Big Question.
So it's 02:11. I should have been asleep hours ago, but I'm awake and trying to make sense of my life- old music makes me 18 again, 25 again, young and curious and naive and hopeful again. I sift through my parents' values, through what my teachers tried to teach me, through what the Army taught me, and even through what I surprised myself with. I was alone when I went to Oslo and saw the huge obelisk, the tower of people. I was alone when I rode my motorcycle on a whim at five in the afternoon from San Leandro to Yosemite, sleeping in my pup tent that I tied to the tail light and handlebar of my old Honda 305. I was alone when I came home late at night and made a 50-foot telephone to talk with the young girl that would be my wife.
Judy Collins looks older, but she still sounds nice. Tommy and Dickie Smothers look older, but they still have that charm and spark and needle each other. The Kingston Trio still warbles marvelously. And a nice, middle-aged lady in the audience, lit up with purple and pink lights, knows the words, and smiles while she sings along. But each person in the audience is sharing the experience with everyone else in the audience. I'm sharing this with myself. Might be, this bit of knowledge is the first step in knowing a bit of that Big Answer. Or this might just be one more piece of useless trivia of my life. Ask me again, OK?
And I realized that old things are pleasant for me.
But the point of this essay is the melding of music and my circumstances. Tonight I am watching this alone in my bed. I can tap my toe, nod my head, and feel the words in the fiber of my soul. But I'm doing this in a solitary way.
And extending this sensation is easy- being alone in a couple of months, being alone in a couple of decades- will I be watching this show as its own form of "golden oldie" in 20 years? Will I have leathery skin on the back of my hands? Will someone have to bring me my dinner in an old folks home? And will these songs still have that same ability to take me back to when I was young and stupid and happy?
Well, for a lot of the time while these songs were etching themselves into the DNA of my musical memory, I was alone, too. These songs came to my consciousness before my now-divorced family did. It seems like such a long time ago, when I heard these songs and when I had my first son. A lot of things have happened since then. I've done a few things I'm not sure I'd do again, and I've done some things I don't know how to avoid having done.
Life is a search. You search for love, for meaning, for romance, for memorable events. Sometimes you find such things, other times your life runs out bleakly, like sand through an hourglass. But even the Big Events become memories. I remember being in the delivery room when each of my children were born. I remember teaching my four-year-old big son to ride his bike, taking my small seven-year-old daughter to swim in the big pool and hearing my small three-year-old son tell me that he liked to run. I remember a very young, nubile girl who trusted me with her body: that girl became a deceitful, bitter woman and I regret that I don't know how she made that transition.
But these songs were there for the journey. Folk songs that had a message, like "Where have all the flowers gone" and slightly goofy, yet pointed songs like "The MTA." I don't think of Judy Collins very often, but she remains a great singer. She was there when I was in college, learning to think about meaningful things. Now her voice brings me back to 1963 and my search for something that would make sense, that would fulfill something. I haven't found the answer yet, but I know I'm better equipped to make the search. Trouble is, I'm not sure there is something out there that is the Big Answer to my Big Question.
So it's 02:11. I should have been asleep hours ago, but I'm awake and trying to make sense of my life- old music makes me 18 again, 25 again, young and curious and naive and hopeful again. I sift through my parents' values, through what my teachers tried to teach me, through what the Army taught me, and even through what I surprised myself with. I was alone when I went to Oslo and saw the huge obelisk, the tower of people. I was alone when I rode my motorcycle on a whim at five in the afternoon from San Leandro to Yosemite, sleeping in my pup tent that I tied to the tail light and handlebar of my old Honda 305. I was alone when I came home late at night and made a 50-foot telephone to talk with the young girl that would be my wife.
Judy Collins looks older, but she still sounds nice. Tommy and Dickie Smothers look older, but they still have that charm and spark and needle each other. The Kingston Trio still warbles marvelously. And a nice, middle-aged lady in the audience, lit up with purple and pink lights, knows the words, and smiles while she sings along. But each person in the audience is sharing the experience with everyone else in the audience. I'm sharing this with myself. Might be, this bit of knowledge is the first step in knowing a bit of that Big Answer. Or this might just be one more piece of useless trivia of my life. Ask me again, OK?
# posted by rich @ 2:27 AM 
