the island, part 5: chinese house flowers
This is the fifth in a song-by-song series about why I chose FULL FORCE GALESBURG by The Mountain Goats as the one CD I would take to a desert island. Previous installments are available here.
Who I was. Who I am. My tan, my beard. My increasingly frequent external monologues and penchant for public nudity.
Is it public if no one's there to see? I'll certainly wear clothes when I return.
Probably.
My courage, my comfort around innards, my patience. My increasingly detailed attention to vegetation, different kinds of trees. The resilience of different kinds of wood. What different clouds mean, what colors in the sky mean.
The island is changing me, but everything changes everyone to some degree, so that is trivial.
My voice. I sing, often. Everything from Drive Like Jehu to Dean Martin, with half-remembered words and loose attention to the original melody. Everything I can remember. And then new songs, about birds and finding buried cartons of vodka (oh I wish) and the shape of waves and the memory of bodies. I used to say that I needed to find my voice before I could sing, and now, I have. It may be a terrible voice, but nobody is here that can register a complaint. So I sing, and sing again. I finger chords on my little contraption, and I imagine when they are against my melodies they will be unpalatable but in my head they sound brilliant.
Am I going to be the same person when I came back? Of course not. Would I be the same person if I had stayed? Also no. But in that case people might not have noticed.
Five songs in, "Chinese House Flowers" is the third song to draw the line between who a person is and who a person was. Its protagonist has settled into a cabin or house or something, with his partner, and from the sound of things, it's a dim suffocating place, with the hothouse of the radiant energy being just as asphyxiating as the memories of "the way you were".
Out here, the air is fresh, in literal and metaphor. There is no baggage, bar this CD, which is surprisingly quite a lot, though not so much for this song. Apart from general philosophy, my only explicit memory is my friend Dave, talking about how the chord changes represented a step forward for John Darnielle. That's probably true, although I wouldn't have noticed until he pointed it out. That's it for connections to the person I was, except for what I cart around in this formerly overstuffed but increasingly understuffed flesh balloon.
I think of marriage: a commitment not just that you will love the person that you see now, but a future you, who may bear little resemblance to the you now, will also love a future other, who may also bear little resemblance, in distinct ways.
I think of the number of divorces I know, and the pain felt by those who stick through it. Perhaps more have happened while I am away. Perhaps I will come back and nobody will be the same.
But change can rarely be noticed during constant observation. For Darnielle's protagonists, gleams in the eye, offhand words, these sorts of things cause years of gradual change to snap into focus. Or maybe they do believe that the change is immediate and drastic. It's hard to tell. Of course, when that change comes, it's hard to know for yourself.
The song decelerates at the end, like a clock winding down. It's one of the more tightly coiled songs on here. I like to think of it as the illusions fueling a fevered delusion gradually stripping away, until nothing is left. I like to think this is doing something similar for me, stripping away all the garbage in my head. I only hope that, in my case, there is something underneath it.
If I try to find too much in these songs, is it because I have too much time, or is it because I ultimately have faith that there is more to them than I will ever discern, that they are an inexhaustible well? They are my only supply. They have to feed me. Sustain me.
Whoever I am.
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VIDEO #5 for people who don't give a shit about The Mountain Goats: Possibly the best live band I ever saw, the Dog Faced Hermans. (There's a couple other videos if you poke around. Do so.)
Who I was. Who I am. My tan, my beard. My increasingly frequent external monologues and penchant for public nudity.
Is it public if no one's there to see? I'll certainly wear clothes when I return.
Probably.
My courage, my comfort around innards, my patience. My increasingly detailed attention to vegetation, different kinds of trees. The resilience of different kinds of wood. What different clouds mean, what colors in the sky mean.
The island is changing me, but everything changes everyone to some degree, so that is trivial.
My voice. I sing, often. Everything from Drive Like Jehu to Dean Martin, with half-remembered words and loose attention to the original melody. Everything I can remember. And then new songs, about birds and finding buried cartons of vodka (oh I wish) and the shape of waves and the memory of bodies. I used to say that I needed to find my voice before I could sing, and now, I have. It may be a terrible voice, but nobody is here that can register a complaint. So I sing, and sing again. I finger chords on my little contraption, and I imagine when they are against my melodies they will be unpalatable but in my head they sound brilliant.
Am I going to be the same person when I came back? Of course not. Would I be the same person if I had stayed? Also no. But in that case people might not have noticed.
Five songs in, "Chinese House Flowers" is the third song to draw the line between who a person is and who a person was. Its protagonist has settled into a cabin or house or something, with his partner, and from the sound of things, it's a dim suffocating place, with the hothouse of the radiant energy being just as asphyxiating as the memories of "the way you were".
Out here, the air is fresh, in literal and metaphor. There is no baggage, bar this CD, which is surprisingly quite a lot, though not so much for this song. Apart from general philosophy, my only explicit memory is my friend Dave, talking about how the chord changes represented a step forward for John Darnielle. That's probably true, although I wouldn't have noticed until he pointed it out. That's it for connections to the person I was, except for what I cart around in this formerly overstuffed but increasingly understuffed flesh balloon.
I think of marriage: a commitment not just that you will love the person that you see now, but a future you, who may bear little resemblance to the you now, will also love a future other, who may also bear little resemblance, in distinct ways.
I think of the number of divorces I know, and the pain felt by those who stick through it. Perhaps more have happened while I am away. Perhaps I will come back and nobody will be the same.
But change can rarely be noticed during constant observation. For Darnielle's protagonists, gleams in the eye, offhand words, these sorts of things cause years of gradual change to snap into focus. Or maybe they do believe that the change is immediate and drastic. It's hard to tell. Of course, when that change comes, it's hard to know for yourself.
The song decelerates at the end, like a clock winding down. It's one of the more tightly coiled songs on here. I like to think of it as the illusions fueling a fevered delusion gradually stripping away, until nothing is left. I like to think this is doing something similar for me, stripping away all the garbage in my head. I only hope that, in my case, there is something underneath it.
If I try to find too much in these songs, is it because I have too much time, or is it because I ultimately have faith that there is more to them than I will ever discern, that they are an inexhaustible well? They are my only supply. They have to feed me. Sustain me.
Whoever I am.
---------------------
VIDEO #5 for people who don't give a shit about The Mountain Goats: Possibly the best live band I ever saw, the Dog Faced Hermans. (There's a couple other videos if you poke around. Do so.)
Labels: the island, videos for people who don't give a shit about the Mountain Goats.
16 Comments:
I'm way behind. I have to go back and read parts 3 and 4 first, then come back to this. I"ll get to it though...
Carlos - I think you can read these out of order but my recommendation is that you do read them. DD's voice is just getting stronger as we go along. I mean, look at how he uses the imperative at the end.
DD - my comfort around innards What sorts of hobbies does Island Doug have anyway?
Speaking of Island Doug - it's interesting that in his isolation, he has the resistance to take such a harsh look at marriage.
My own current fear about marriage is not that we will grow apart from within but that baby will take her away from me. It will consume her just when her body and soul are ripe with life. Baby one hasn't arrived yet and I'm already thinking about working on baby two.
Beautiful post, Doug.
The birth of my first child was a stark indication that my time on earth was even more precarious and moreover was coming to end. The wonder, stress, joy, and pain of life became tenfold as if the afterburner was switched on. Not to take a negative tack, but I felt a profound sense of conclusion to my own life. The grave is now waiting, my work is done and the species buttressed for the future. In the meantime, I will tend the garden of their youth and take as many pictures as I can.
My marriage has moved from indulgence to sacrifice and strangely from "me" to "they". While far from perfect (as is any relationship), it is sustainable.
HI Doug.
Remember when I said "Arbus" ... I forgot I was using the Body Snatchers one....
This post was really cool. You took me there to the island, but when the reading was over I started imagining you in some completely NON island setting. IN a cluttered basement with boxes stacked to the ceiling and covering up windows.
Marriage? Just another day on Earth I'm afraid however you slice it.
And Kilian... HOLD THE MAYO! Give the lady a little time. As much as you fear the baby pulling her away from you... imagine how much of herself is being pulled away from herself. She needs time for her on top of what you and the baby need. Nothing personal. Just psychic survival.
head stapler--amen sista friend. my sentiments exactly re: the baby pulling and fears of babies pulling...let the woman have her space!
agreed
Did this blog turn into Oprah at some point?
Down with OPRAH! Hail Doug!
This can't be Oprah if there are no triple-snaps with the neck-roll! WHERE ARE THE TRIPLE-SNAPS WITH THE NECK-ROLL?? HOW WILL WE DENOTE OUR SASSINESS??
Yeah well my inner needy came out and he turned out to be really gay. He didn't even pass the house test. My comment just about made Tricia barf (she barfs a lot lately though). Tricia appreciates the nap sisterhood.
Speaking of gay, HS you got that mayo bit from that Tenacious D thing didn't you? That was funny. My favorite line is "He's gonna rape me if we don't blow doors down."
Btw, it looks like the host has left the set. Cut to commercial.
My husband is always telling his friends with lots of kids that they need to learn how to hold the mayo.
My favorite part of the Tenacious D "Pick of Destiny" movie is when Tim Robbins (who is this HIghlander looking lame weirdo after the pick of destiny) starts limping towards the D and describes how he is going to cut out their eyes... then cut off their balls... then put their eyes inside their balls, and then put their balls in their eye sockets. HIlarious. Ben Stiller as the Guitar store owner was pretty funny too.
We watched parts of it yesterday. Anyhoo... Sorry Doug.
I just find it fascinating that marriage immediately led into a discussion about pregnancy and babies, which I didn't mention at all and which isn't even something I think about in terms of marriage.
What that means, I don't know. But that's okay. I am happy to be the NAP's Oprah, to facilitate your emotional needs, and I will promote the works of Jonathan Franzen even if he is uncomfortable with my endorsement, and boy do I need to lose some weight.
(As an aside, I have infinite respect for Oprah for putting Cormac McCarthy's THE ROAD on her book list. One of the best books of the decade.)
Kilian - killing fish and birds for food isn't a hobby, it's a means of sustenance. Initial aversion to viscera fades with repeated exposure.
Oh those kind of innards =|
Well don't marry me, I'm wifed with a pregnant mind. Sorry about that.
It's apple picking weather here. Are the birds and the bees coming out under yonder?
speaking of books. I haven't come across my borrowed copy of Henderson the Rain King yet.
I didn't mean your post, Doug. I liked the post. I was just talking about the comments.
THE ROAD looks pretty good. Everybody who read it seems to like it pretty well. I, on the other hand, am consumed with the haunting of impending death and would probably cry through the whole thing. Why? Because of what has already been alluded to in this post - that once kids have been born, you're about done.
Also, I read this book awhile ago about every living thing dying on the planet, one species at a time, as the earth became colder and colder. Finally, there was only one person left and the 'others' came and got her.
Canopus in Argos, by Doris Lessing.
It was hard enough to see all the creatures go and so many humans, but then the last little pet species bit it too and for some reason that just got to me.
And it wasn't like the 'others' came and got them and took them to another world, they just waited until they fit on the ship. Nice.
What little I have has been scraped together quite recently by my fingertips and I am doing my best to keep it with me as long as possible. I don't really need a reminder that it's pretty good.
I might, however, need a class on killing fish and birds to live on.
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