Maybe it’s the Shelter in Place; maybe it’s the government-approved isolation; or maybe, it’s the self-imposed despair thinly veiled behind a veneer of calm resolve for the sake of others. Whatever it is, it is wearing out. Those select few with whom I’ve shared one of my greatest learnings– the trick to being an excellent liar is to convince the world you suck at it– are clearly seeing through my phony patience and got-my-shit-together-ness.
They say things like, “You just don’t seem like yourself,” or “I can tell something is really wrong.” And I just nod and stare, trying not to emote, like Jerry Lundegaard in Fargo, unsure whether I’m better off leaning into the other person’s discovery so that they’ll think they’ve uncovered all of it, or denying it outright so that they don’t see just how deep the rabbit hole goes.
Yeah, I know… I’m blessed. Still getting paid. WFH-shit. My dear ones are not dead ones. These are all good things, truly they are. But I was not meant to live like this; this was not my destiny, this was not the future I worked for, worked towards, survived for, endured for. This is not the spot where my path bent in the undergrowth, nor is this the path that was grassy and wanted wear. This is horseshit. This is frustration. This isn’t living, this is staying alive. And while logic tells me the latter is what counts, no other fiber of my being supports the notion.
And so, as I’ve done at other crossroads in my life that harken back to decent movies and Robert Frost poems, I turn to music. And no, not to feel better. Ever since my brother and bass player in our band deprived us of his mortal company, music serves only to amplify emotion, to focus it to a laser point that cuts and burns and stings to bring out whatever it is that I’m feeling.
For tonight, I happened upon an old Glen Campbell tune, “Gentle on my Mind,” one for which he won a Grammy back in the 60s. No really, you should YouTube it or something. But before you do, let the lyrics speak to you below… read through them right into that place where they pierce my heart in that place between places and time out of time; that Arrival that seems to be so far away now, what with planes grounded and airports vacant and restaurants and hotels closed anyway. There are only memories and futures, because now sucks. And now sucks because everything that led up to it and everything it seems to be leading me to are my own doing. And I don’t like me very much right now. But if there’s any solace to the perpetual funk of sleepless alone-ity in which I find myself, it’s imagining that Campbell’s lyrics were describing me… Because these words, too, are not without their pain and loss and sacrifice, but they have a hell of a lot more freedom to pursue happiness than I do at the moment. There are no back roads or rivers where I am, least not any that lead to where and who and with whom I want to be, outside of the tragedy of lucid dreaming from which I always seem to wake.
It’s knowin’ that your door is always open
And your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleepin’ bag rolled up
And stashed behind your couch
And your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleepin’ bag rolled up
And stashed behind your couch
And it’s knowin’ I’m not shackled by forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that have dried upon some lines
That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory
And keeps you ever gentle on my mind
And the ink stains that have dried upon some lines
That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory
And keeps you ever gentle on my mind
It’s not clingin’ to the rocks and ivy
Planted on their columns now that bind me
Or somethin’ that somebody said
Because they thought we fit together walkin’
Planted on their columns now that bind me
Or somethin’ that somebody said
Because they thought we fit together walkin’
It’s just knowin’ that the world will not be cursin’ or forgivin’
When I walk along some railroad track and find
That you’re movin’ on the back roads by the rivers of my memory
And for hours you’re just gentle on my mind
When I walk along some railroad track and find
That you’re movin’ on the back roads by the rivers of my memory
And for hours you’re just gentle on my mind
Though the wheat fields and the coastlines
And the junkyards and the highways come between us
And some other woman’s cryin’ to her mother
‘Cause she turned and I was gone
And the junkyards and the highways come between us
And some other woman’s cryin’ to her mother
‘Cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face
And the summer sun might burn me till I’m blind
But not to where I cannot see you walkin’ on the back roads
By the rivers flowin’ gentle on my mind
And the summer sun might burn me till I’m blind
But not to where I cannot see you walkin’ on the back roads
By the rivers flowin’ gentle on my mind
I dip my cup of soup
Back from a gurglin’, cracklin’ cauldron in some train yard
My beard a roughenin’ coal pile
And a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Back from a gurglin’, cracklin’ cauldron in some train yard
My beard a roughenin’ coal pile
And a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands ’round a tin can
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you’re wavin’ from the back roads by the rivers of my memories
Ever smilin’, ever gentle on my mind
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you’re wavin’ from the back roads by the rivers of my memories
Ever smilin’, ever gentle on my mind
El Gigante Picante del Monte 