Radio cures
I have started and stopped writing a new entry a few times already about the Wilco song that I have been listening to lots and lots as of late. It's a song that I have always really liked (probably my favorite on that album) and it popped into my head a few weeks ago, so I listened to it. I heard something that I had never really noticed before: when Tweedy sings the chorus, "Oh, distance has no way of making love understandable...," it is quietly triumphant. Not sad. Not downcast. Not tormented or angry. The song suddenly becomes lighter and happier just before he sings that line. How did I not notice it before? You hear what you want to, I guess. Actually, I probably did notice it but failed to attach any significance to it. But, since I noticed it, I have listened to over and over again. It is comforting, you know? You are always told that things are always clearer in retrospect. Time will go by, things will mend themselves, things will make sense. And most of the time that is true. But sometimes it's not.
Sometimes as time goes by, situations, feelings, events, they smudge into one another instead of becoming elucidated. They overlap and go in circles and come back on themselves. They morph or they stay immobile. They do everything you tell them not to, like an obstinate child, testing your nerves.
This sentiment, it would seem, should be angering or frustrating. And that is what has kept the song on repeat... it isn't a source of anger, but, rather, release. It is the recognition that is important. Things don't make sense, but at least you fucking know about it.
Two things: when there is a certain sense of shame enmeshed in non-platonic feeling (hello, euphemism!), the hardest person to be completely and unabashedly honest with is yourself. No holds barred, no denial, nothing... your brain doesn't want to fucking hear about it. For over two years, I have been waiting to hit a brick wall. All the essentials have stayed the same (attraction, interest, etc etc), but with a waxing and waning of urgency. I keep waiting for the point where something will click and something/someone will say, ok, you've paid your dues, you are off the hook now. You can't always look to others for a model of your actions and emotion, or, more basically, fuckall the haters. fuckall the condescenders.
What is that concept in lit theory called? Reader activated literature or something? Well, this is like that, but with music. I am pretty much taking this song and running with it, being emo and shit. But, it's like one of those theory guys said (I am currently reading a basics-on-lit-theory book since my knowledge of theory is pretty crappy and I more or less slept through my lit theory class a couple of years ago when I took it. However, my somewhat hung-over mind is not really working right now), after a text is written, it is no longer the author's (post-structualists? Barthes? I think? Someone help me out here... though I am probably simplifying the whole concept grossly anyway). It is mine, Jeff Tweedy, and it makes me cheery as all hell.
Sometimes as time goes by, situations, feelings, events, they smudge into one another instead of becoming elucidated. They overlap and go in circles and come back on themselves. They morph or they stay immobile. They do everything you tell them not to, like an obstinate child, testing your nerves.
This sentiment, it would seem, should be angering or frustrating. And that is what has kept the song on repeat... it isn't a source of anger, but, rather, release. It is the recognition that is important. Things don't make sense, but at least you fucking know about it.
Two things: when there is a certain sense of shame enmeshed in non-platonic feeling (hello, euphemism!), the hardest person to be completely and unabashedly honest with is yourself. No holds barred, no denial, nothing... your brain doesn't want to fucking hear about it. For over two years, I have been waiting to hit a brick wall. All the essentials have stayed the same (attraction, interest, etc etc), but with a waxing and waning of urgency. I keep waiting for the point where something will click and something/someone will say, ok, you've paid your dues, you are off the hook now. You can't always look to others for a model of your actions and emotion, or, more basically, fuckall the haters. fuckall the condescenders.
What is that concept in lit theory called? Reader activated literature or something? Well, this is like that, but with music. I am pretty much taking this song and running with it, being emo and shit. But, it's like one of those theory guys said (I am currently reading a basics-on-lit-theory book since my knowledge of theory is pretty crappy and I more or less slept through my lit theory class a couple of years ago when I took it. However, my somewhat hung-over mind is not really working right now), after a text is written, it is no longer the author's (post-structualists? Barthes? I think? Someone help me out here... though I am probably simplifying the whole concept grossly anyway). It is mine, Jeff Tweedy, and it makes me cheery as all hell.