lyrics about Jimmy

Pounds
Silence on the train tracks
Where cousin Jimmy was sitting
His heart full of sorrow
And his head with self-pity
The next train would show
Him the way out of hope

A daughter he loved
But felt himself unfit
No day is enough
So his life gone to shit
The next train would show
Him the way out of hope

Here come that train
Ready and willing
And almost was he
With all the whiskey he's swilling
Train, will you show
Me the way out of hope?

something about the David Sedaris book “Calypso”

Calypso is one of many David Sedaris books I read last year. The first books I read were assembled essays and maintained a kind of consistency. But Calypso might have been the most thematic collection. The 21 essays trend toward Sedaris’s family and aging. The book was published in May 2018, and Sedaris has now reached his 60s.

The prose, as always, is fresh and funny. Sedaris tells stories (all semi-autobiographical), and he masterfully balances his thorny wit and criticisms with bits of cottony poignancy.

One of my favorite parts is in “The Silent Treatment.” Sedaris is telling a story about how, at some point in his pre-teen years, he supposedly started flushing empty toilet paper rolls just to be a lil' bastard. His dad, not knowing David was the cause, would then have to plunge or, failing that, pull the toilet and unclog the drainpipe by hand. But dad eventually realizes David is the culprit.

“You are going to reach down into this pipe and pick out that cardboard roll,” my father said. “Then you are never going to flush anything but toilet paper down this toilet again.”

As I backed away, he pounced. Then he wrestled me to the floor, grabbed my hand, and forced it deep into what amounted to my family’s asshole.

And there it was been ever since, sorting through our various shit. It’s like I froze in that moment: with the same interests as that eleven-year-old boy, the same maturity level, the same haircut. The same glasses, even.

“Why Aren’t You Laughing” also hits as Sedaris writes about his mother, who died of cancer in her 60s, and her drinking.

Maybe ours wasn’t the house I’d have chosen had I been in charge of things. It wasn’t as clean as I’d have liked. From the outside, it wasn’t remarkable. We had no view, but still it was the place I held in mind, and proudly, when I thought, Home. It had been a living organism, but by the time I hit my late twenties, it was rotting, a dead tooth in a row of seemingly healthy ones. When I was eleven, my father planted a line of olive bushes in front of the house. They were waist-high and formed a kind of fence. By the mid-eighties they were so overgrown that pedestrians had to quit the sidewalk and take to the street instead. People with trash to drop waited until they reached our yard to drop it, figuring the high grass would cover whatever beer can or plastic bag of dog shit they needed to discard. It was like the Adams Family house, which would have been fine had it still been merry, but it wasn’t anymore. Our mother became the living ghost that haunted it, gaunt now and rattling ice cubes instead of chains.

And then Sedaris writes about his dad, a widower, looking back on his wife’s condition.

“Do you think it was my fault that she drank?” my father asked not long ago. It’s the assumption of an amateur, someone who stops after his second vodka tonic and quits taking his pain medication before the prescription runs out. It’s almost laughable, this insistence on reason. I think my mother was lonely without her children—her fan club. But I think she drank because she was an alcoholic.

I think I was a little stunned by the parts related to his sister Tiffany’s suicide in 2013.

Note: Most of these essays were previously published in magazines.

 

about another dumb dream

The President was riding a missile that he ordered launched, like Major T. J. "King" Kong in Dr. Strangelove. With nothing to lose but this life, I hopped on. We soared the skies, and I looked down in fascination at the goings on below--ships sailing seas, wars being waged, people busying beaches and boardwalks. The Earth was a map. I considered our inevitable descent, and how my sense of wonder would shrink into terror and grief. The missile wavered; it would soon begin to sink, then turn slightly this way and that in a gentle turbulence. Finally, we began our approach. At 15,000 feet I bailed, foolishly thinking I might somehow escape. Pushing to the end of the map, the missile, with the President aboard, dropped sharply to Earth; but I fell off, beyond the map page. I tucked and rolled across ground, scratched to a stop, and rose to my knees. A buddy from work was there. I hugged him tearfully, tightly, sobbing, destroyed.


Note: I know that people do not generally like to hear about other people's dreams.

the lyrics to "Kill Yourself" by Today Is The Day

"Kill Yourself"
  -by Today Is The Day

I gotta leave this town before I die
I wanna burn it down just for spite
There's nothing here but pain and my soul

Why
Hold
Back
Kill yourself!

Take the blade
Do it clean
Do it fast
Let it bleed!

Why
Hold
Back
Kill yourself!

Take the blade
Do it clean
Do it fast
Let it bleed!

Like Christ
I rise above
I'm pissin' down all my love
I wanna be the one to end your life

A blind imbecile
The angel of life

Mister

about Artie Lange's "Crash and Burn"

He established himself on the standup circuit, was an original cast member on MADtv, co-starred with Norm MacDonald in the movie "Dirty Work," and sometimes is a guest on late-night talk shows, but most people know Artie Lange from his eight years on Howard Stern's radio show. Too Fat to Fish, Lange's first autobiographical book detailing his (sur)real-life adventures, camped out defiantly on best-seller lists. In Crash and Burn, his latest book, he relives the decent into the drug and alcohol addiction that nearly ruined his career and led him to attempt a violent suicide.

Crash and Burn narrates Artie's debauchery and excess. While this sounds juicy, the repeated confessions of abuse, blackouts, hiding and lying to family and friends makes for a tale that is far more sad than sidesplitting. Though I'm not a Stern/Artie devotee, I'm familiar with some of the characters in the Stern show world, and easily enjoyed this fast read. When the book ends, Artie is sober, engaged, and hosting a sports and entertainment radio show called "The Artie Lange Show" (originally "The Nick & Artie Show" co-hosted by comedian Nick DiPaolo).

Loss

Philip Seymour Hoffman, 1967-2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Heiligenstadt Testament

In 1802, Beethoven's doctor prescribed a stay at Heiligenstadt, a small village north of Vienna. The young composer was in crisis: his relationship with his beloved Giullieta Guicciardi was dying, and his hearing had been deteriorating for six years. His troubles led him to live a lonely, solitary life far away from people that he feared already misunderstood his aloofness for insolence. In October of that year, Beethoven wrote of his despair and isolating deafness to his brothers Carl and Johann; he also wrote of his desire to persevere and pursue his art. Writing desperately, he rejects suicide and soon starts to work on Symphony No. 3, Eroica. Beethoven hid this pseudo-legal letter with his private papers, so it was not discovered in Beethoven’s room in March 1827, after his death. This letter is now known as the Heiligenstadt Testament.

For my brothers Carl and [Johann] Beethoven

Oh you men who think or say that I am malevolent, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly do you wrong me? You do not know the secret cause which makes me seem that way to you. From childhood on, my heart and soul have been full of the tender feeling of goodwill, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great things. But, think that for six years now I have been hopelessly afflicted, made worse by senseless physicians, from year to year deceived with hopes of improvement, finally compelled to face the prospect of a lasting malady (whose cure will take years or, perhaps, be impossible). Though born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptible to the diversions of society, I was soon compelled to withdraw myself, to live life alone. If at times I tried to forget all this, oh how harshly I was I flung back by the doubly sad experience of my bad hearing. Yet it was impossible for me to say to people, "Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf." Ah, how could I possibly admit an infirmity in the one sense which ought to be more perfect in me than others, a sense which I once possessed in the highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed. Oh I cannot do it; therefore forgive me when you see me draw back when I would have gladly mingled with you.

My misfortune is doubly painful to me because I am bound to be misunderstood; for me there can be no relaxation with my fellow men, no refined conversations, no mutual exchange of ideas. I must live almost alone, like one who has been banished; I can mix with society only as much as true necessity demands. If I approach near to people a hot terror seizes upon me, and I fear being exposed to the danger that my condition might be noticed. Thus it has been during the last six months which I have spent in the country. By ordering me to spare my hearing as much as possible, my intelligent doctor almost fell in with my own present frame of mind, though sometimes I ran counter to it by yielding to my desire for companionship. But what a humiliation for me when someone standing next to me heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone standing next to me heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone heard a shepherd singing and again I heard nothing. Such incidents drove me almost to despair; a little more of that and I would have ended me life--it was only my art that held me back. Ah, it seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me. So I endured this wretched existence--truly wretched for so susceptible a body, which can be thrown by a sudden change from the best condition to the very worst. Patience, they say, is what I must now choose for my guide, and I have done so--I hope my determination will remain firm to endure until it pleases the inexorable Parcae to break the thread. Perhaps I shall get better, perhaps not; I am ready. Forced to become a philosopher already in my twenty-eighth year, oh it is not easy, and for the artist much more difficult than for anyone else. "Divine one, thou seest me inmost soul thou knowest that therein dwells the love of mankind and the desire to do good." Oh fellow men, when at some point you read this, consider then that you have done me an injustice; someone who has had misfortune man console himself to find a similar case to his, who despite all the limitations of Nature nevertheless did everything within his powers to become accepted among worthy artists and men. You, my brothers Carl and [Johann], as soon as I am dead, if Dr. Schmidt is still alive, ask him in my name to describe my malady, and attach this written documentation to his account of my illness so that so far as it possible at least the world may become reconciled to me after my death.

At the same time, I declare you two to be the heirs to my small fortune (if so it can be called); divide it fairly; bear with and help each other. What injury you have done me you know was long ago forgiven. To you, brother Carl, I give special thanks for the attachment you have shown me of late. It is my wish that you may have a better and freer life than I have had. Recommend virtue to your children; it alone, not money, can make them happy. I speak from experience; this was what upheld me in time of misery. Thanks to it and to my art, I did not end my life by suicide. Farewell and love each other--I thank all my friends, particularly Prince Lichnowsky's and Professor Schmidt--I would like the instruments from Prince L. to be preserved by one of you, but not to be the cause of strife between you, and as soon as they can serve you a better purpose, then sell them. How happy I shall be if can still be helpful to you in my grave--so be it. With joy I hasten to meed death. If it comes before I have had the chance to develop all my artistic capacities, it will still be coming too soon despite my harsh fate, and I should probably wish it later--yet even so I should be happy, for would it not free me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall meed thee bravely. Farewell and do not wholly forget me when I am dead; I deserve this from you, for during my lifetime I was thinking of you often and of ways to make you happy--please be so.

Ludwig van Beethoven

Heiligenstadt,
October 6th, 1802

Note:
(translation)

A right to life, a right to die

This week a single mother was convicted of murdering her nine year old, low-functioning autistic son by withholding his chemotherapy medication. In October 2006 he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma; by February 2008 the crime had been discovered and the boy was placed in his father's custody; a year later, he died.

In her defense the woman claimed she was overwhelmed by her own struggle with depression and her role as a depressed mother with few resources who is solely responsible for a severely sick, disabled child. In other words, she threw herself at the mercy of the court. Of course the prosecution claimed she decided to let the child die; incidentally, this could also have been her defense: That she chose death over life--life being where the state exercised its will, and death, where she exercised hers. It could have been a civil rights issue. Regardless, a few members of the jury have since made statements about their attempts to sympathize with her situation.

I come away with two primary impressions:
(1) She never really owned her child; though he lived with her a time, the state apparently had the prevailing interest in his life (for his sake, of course), making him its ward, subject to its rule;
(2) If the state has part ownership of the child, it also has a responsibility to raise the child; if it will not, then it must provide adequate resources to those who will.

The second point holds even if the facts of this specific case require us to punish the mother.

One report: http://edition.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/04/15/massachusetts.mother.murder/
Another: http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5ghGhsTkTI_Jwn4Y7OOcEDU_gOt1Q?docId=d0923b05603b4faa8d8287fe9ebafaf7

Love Liza

The film Love Liza depicts the struggles of a new widower, his name is Wilson, played flawlessly by Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Watching, I wondered if the film's use of comedy was aimed at emotionally rattling viewers. By letting me voyeuristically watch Wilson's most vulnerable moments, the film made me vigilantly aware of his intense loss, sadness, and isolation. But in and between tragic scenes, I often found myself laughing. The laughing always felt inappropriate, and quickly gave way to the uneasy silence after the laugh. Uneasy silence and inappropriateness are two grand understatements of what I imagine Wilson felt: This feels wrong, I feel wrong, I should not be feeling this. The film has one pivotal scene that speaks to this interpretation: In it, Wilson is seated with co-workers at the office where he works, and one co-worker is sharing an anecdote. A few co-workers chuckle when she finishes, but then Wilson lets go a long, uninterrupted laugh that continues after his tense co-workers have silently excused themselves. It is a laugh over a cry. Love Liza very powerfully relates that feeling and mania.