I'm the kind of person that likes to listen to Massive Attack after dark, preferably loudly, while staring straight ahead at nothing. It's not a particularly happy past-time, but one I find immensely satisfying now and then. Something in the claustrophobic beats and paranoid mumblings stirs my blackened soul, and I can walk away feeling slightly more positive and upbeat. To steal a line from Bono (fuck, forgive me...), you can often find Jesus under the trash.
With the recent release of the new Beatles version of Rock Band, there's loads of yuppies running out to the nearest EBGames, pudgy faces contorted with glee as they rush back to their living rooms to play along with John, Paul, George and Ringo, rocking their hearts out to the happiest songs ever written. Predictably my first reaction is "bastards", but after some thought it turns to "how boring".
While there is no denying the talent and genius of The Beatles, I'm always amazed to find people so in love with them. Yes, they wrote happy songs, but often they were at their best when breaking the rules a bit and tripping out on drugs, and you'd be hard pressed to say that any of them had happy lives. While three minutes of singing about holding someone's hand may be a quick ray of sunshine, it doesn't really do much to move the soul. History was not made on niceties; there were no wars started over kindness, no great novels written on happiness, and nations never conquered through reasonable compromise.
No, because that would be far too boring. What we need as humans is deceit, betrayal, anger and lust, all very unhappy traits. Imagine a happier 'Romeo and Juliet':
"Father, I want to marry Romeo Montague!"
"Oh, all right then..."
"Thanks Daddy!"
So while all the idiots are playing along to 'Elanor Rigby' and blissfully ignoring the sadness of her situation, I'll be sitting here jealous of their fun, listening to 'Mezzanine' and playing along using all the black keys.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Heart-shaped box
'You're late,' she said. 'I've been waiting for you.'
It's been a long time, I thought. Have you been waiting all these years?
'It doesn't matter', she smiled. 'I'm here for the box.'
What box?
'The box', she patiently repeated.
Oh, I replied. I think I lost it a long time ago.
'No,' she said. 'You still have it. You have to look for it.'
And then I remembered. I had put it in a safe place, buried deep where no-one could find it.
'Where is it?' she asked.
Suddenly I could feel a shape and presence, and the memory of it's form almost felt solid in my gut.
'What does it look like?' She was smiling.
It's Dad's old money box, I said in a half daze. A small brown wooden chest with heavy metal hinges and an equally heavy lock. The sides were scuffed and worn, but the lid always remained firmly closed.
'What's inside?' she asked.
Long nights alone, I wanted to say. Long days alone too. Everything that was too heavy to be lifted, and too frightful to share. Everything I wanted to forget, and everything I needed to remember. For something that lay untouched for so long, the thought of disturbing it now was too terrifying to consider.
'You have to open the box,' she urged.
But I'm scared.
'Open the box,' she repeated. 'Let it out,' she said, and slowly I felt the hinges give way.
Who are you? I asked, and she smiled the same smile and said 'I think you know'.
We sat for a while and said nothing. The box was now empty, it's secrets returned to their rightful place. I felt heavier, and lighter, and awake, and wondered how I could have forgotten it for so long. Perhaps the former contents were only noticeable when restored.
Can you see it? I asked. But when I turned around, she was gone.
It's been a long time, I thought. Have you been waiting all these years?
'It doesn't matter', she smiled. 'I'm here for the box.'
What box?
'The box', she patiently repeated.
Oh, I replied. I think I lost it a long time ago.
'No,' she said. 'You still have it. You have to look for it.'
And then I remembered. I had put it in a safe place, buried deep where no-one could find it.
'Where is it?' she asked.
Suddenly I could feel a shape and presence, and the memory of it's form almost felt solid in my gut.
'What does it look like?' She was smiling.
It's Dad's old money box, I said in a half daze. A small brown wooden chest with heavy metal hinges and an equally heavy lock. The sides were scuffed and worn, but the lid always remained firmly closed.
'What's inside?' she asked.
Long nights alone, I wanted to say. Long days alone too. Everything that was too heavy to be lifted, and too frightful to share. Everything I wanted to forget, and everything I needed to remember. For something that lay untouched for so long, the thought of disturbing it now was too terrifying to consider.
'You have to open the box,' she urged.
But I'm scared.
'Open the box,' she repeated. 'Let it out,' she said, and slowly I felt the hinges give way.
Who are you? I asked, and she smiled the same smile and said 'I think you know'.
We sat for a while and said nothing. The box was now empty, it's secrets returned to their rightful place. I felt heavier, and lighter, and awake, and wondered how I could have forgotten it for so long. Perhaps the former contents were only noticeable when restored.
Can you see it? I asked. But when I turned around, she was gone.
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