Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
Notes to readers:
Notes to self:
Graduatin’ mainstreet, aimin’ at fame street.
Someone clue me into those celebrities I can’t meet.
I’m an artist, just got out of school.
Lookin’ for a way to make a splash in the pool.
Hey there kiddo, can I borrow your soul?
Cause I can get you into the city of gold.
You said you’re a painter? Musician? A writer?
Work with me a few years, your life’ll be brighter.
So I got a workin’, sixteen hours a day
For plenty of perks and boatloats of pay.
Bain, BCG, don’t remember the name.
Coulda been ‘banking.’ Whatever, it’s lame.
Don’t sell your soul to the devil, friends—
The trouble and the toil ain’t worth the ends
Do what you love and do it for pay,
You’ll be a better person at the end of the day.
Been livin’ in the city and don’t love the rent.
Might as well buy. That’s money well spent.
Started seein’ someone, they just moved in.
Now we’re startin’ talkin’ ‘bout poppin’ out kin.
I’ll match your retirement and give parental leave.
Send you trav’ling to hotels. There’s nothing up my sleeve.
Your friends all sip champagne, proudly showing comp’ny pride
Come day-drink on my yacht and I’ll take you for a ride.
Don’t sell your soul to the devil, friends—
The trouble and the toil ain’t worth the ends
Do what you love and do it for pay,
You’ll be a better person at the end of the day.
Me: “Sometimes I talk to myself subconsciously through song.”
Friend: “Music has mystical, magical powers.”
I’m learning to play the mandolin. Today was day two. I listened to Pancho & Lefty on repeat. Every version by every artist. Then I played it over and over. Then I recorded this.
I’m not a singer. I’m not a musician. That doesn’t matter. Today I was.
I daydreamed about her all day. She stood me up.
We agreed she would call shortly after 10pm. At 11:15, I call her. She says she’ll call me back by 1am. 2:52 and still no call.
I feel like a seventeen-year-old British woman out of Jane Austen, leaning on the windowsill, complaining to her cat:
And I told him, too. I told him I’d be gazing wistfully, like all the proper ladies do in the books. He must have known he had my heart to break.
He broke a promise. He tallies his emotional work of writing a letter at more than my hurt feelings. What price would that fetch for half of me?
The breakage will heal, but in a hard and crusty scar that prevents the next lover going so deep.
We must inform him it hurts my future husband and me, and insist he be more careful with hearts in the future.
This post was inspired by the song Mis, sent by my friend Omri. What song would you want me to write on? Link it in the comments.
This song is hilarious.
Funny bits:
Hey, you beautiful animal,
I come and help you,
you are in danger.
Hey, you all just want your fur,
and whoever sells it fast,
yes that’s unfortunately true.
Wir müßen den Fuchs häuten!
The humor has concluded. You may now laugh.
If you enjoyed this piece, please like it or leave a comment. It helps me know what to write.
Making the self suffer is a cornerstone of many successful philosophies:
I was prompted to consider this strategy by Conan O’Brien on his podcast with Stephen Colbert. Both Catholics, they described intentionally putting themselves through strife. “I did hairshirt behavior,” Colbert says (34:37).
Conan (36:27): “This is pain… where any normal person would tell you, any therapist would say, ‘This suffering is unnecessary. You achieved nothing with this suffering.”… I put myself through a lot of torture. And here’s the crazy thing: what happens when you do that and then magical things start to happen for you? You can’t see me because it’s a podcast, but Stephen just pointed his finger at me as if to say, ‘You nailed it.’”
Stephen, a few lines later: “It works.”
Conan: “What I hate, I hate… I hate thait it fucking works.”
Stephen: “And the magical thinking magically thinks that magical thinking worked.”
Conan: “It’s the biggest fight I’ve had over the last five years with therapists and friends.” … “Therapists have said, ‘You don’t need the suffering.’ and I 80% believe them and I’m 20% like, ‘what the fuck do you know?'”
Is making yourself suffer a strategy for improving? Does it work? Comments greatly appreciated.
I’ve curated a list of recent quotes from my life, along with a challenge: Who said each quote? Me or Not-Me? (Answers at the end; track your responses to see how well you fare!)
Context: A highschool couple eats dinner at Chick-Fil-A. The Girl has painted her face with such vigor that it lacks pores. The guy sports spiky hair, diamond hoop earrings, and flip-flops.
Girl: I don’t find comedy funny.
Guy: You don’t find comedy funny?
Girl: I find it cringe-y. It’s not natural funny. It’s like forced funny. I don’t like comedy movies because they’re not funny. I feel like the only comedy that I actually find funny is, like, White Chicks. Oh my god! We should watch White Chicks together!
(Scroll down for the answers)
(Keep scrolling)
(Who’s a good scroller? You are! Yes, you are!)
1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 12 are by Yours Truly
0: You know me incredibly well, but prefer self-sabotage.
1-3: Next time, try flipping a coin.
4-6: You did flip a coin.
7-9: Let’s be friends.
10-11: So close and yet so far. Was it the pickling? I bet it was the pickling.
12: Self… is that you? I mean me? Are you… me?
We don’t see musical legends to hear music; we come to view the divine. Headphones are better for music. I saw Paul so I could think, “That’s the closest to God I’ve ever seen.”
He opened with America, which stabs my chest with recollections of love for someone who disappears for months at a time. Then came hit after hit that even your kids would know.
He didn’t sing Bridge over Troubled Water or Mrs. Robinson – both #1s. “Maybe he doesn’t want to sing them without Garfunkel.” But he sang The Sound of Silence, and that was a Garfunkel song. (And anyway, it’s not about the music).
His solo pieces strip the man down to emotional expression. His body drops away and Paul becomes a voice, guitar, and poetry.
Can we substitute in a bad rendition of those two #1s instead of the string-backed songs he played that no one knew? Does he care about my opinion? Should he?
There goes a man who achieved his purpose. He lived a satisfying, accomplished life. What more is there?
How can my writing impact as many lives as his did, and still provide the high of thousands making pilgrimage en masse to realize I’m not God?
or
Bastille,
“What would you do if your son was at home, crying all alone on the bedroom floor because he’s hungry… for an emotional range and your song destroys any chance for change?”
When you make this song poppier, more direct, and clearer, why do you also eliminate the whole point of its existence? The original is impactful. It’s an empowering parable. It says the suffering of single motherhood is beatable. You cut that part. Why?
These cuts are a cop-out. They’re the bad version of selling out—not the “selling out” that just means “making money,” but the one that means making directly harmful art. Specifically, here’s what I’m talking about:
The original version of the song’s bridge, as written by City High:
(What would you do?)
Get up on my feet and let go of every excuse
’Cause I wouldn’t want my baby to go through what I went through.
(What would you do?)
Get up on my feet and stop making tired excuses
Girl, I know if my mother can do it, baby you can do it.
Bastille’s cover version:
(What would you do?)
Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses
Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses
(What would you do?)
Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses
Get up off my feet.
Sure, this is a small change, but it’s the whole point of the song. As Wikipedia describes:
“The song, along with the accompanying music video, is a motivational anthem for single parents dealing with poverty and especially acknowledging all the single mothers who feel forced into prostitution due to the need to support their children.[4] It encourages them to keep strong, and keep going on for the sake of their loved ones, and passes no judgment on their profession.”
It’s a motivational anthem. To motivate someone, you have to change their emotional state. All you’ve changed is the song, from empowering to wallowing.
… And what about “Get up OFF my feet?” Your new line doesn’t make sense! The original line is “Get up ON my feet”—as in “get up and make a change.” Do you really mean to tell the stripper, “Relax! Take a load off?” Did you cover the song without first understanding it?
Without these changes, I’d prefer your version over City High’s, but you cut the only part that made me cry. I hope this is welcome commentary–if I made such a misstep (and I believe it’s a misstep, not just a matter of taste), I’d want someone to tell me. You might have cut the track to make it more digestible or easier to play on the radio. But even through the corporate lens, if a song has no effect, why listen again?
I listen to City High’s version on repeat to feel better. It moves me. It makes me want more than their one released album. When I hear your version, I feel angry at the state of stripped-down, repetitive, surface-level mass media that would rather profit from suffering than improve lives. If you could re-record it, Bastille, what would you do?
Julian Wise 