Cerebellum Blues

A work in progress.

I can't deny it. I've  been feeling mighty sorry for myself over the past several days. I've been fretting about my constant dizziness, my nausea, my deformed middle finger on my left hand, my money woes, my work woes. It's an impressive list. But rather than write a song inspired by all the wrongness in my life, I decided to write, in the words of Robert Plant, "a song of hope". I can't tell if it's done yet, and there's no music to it, but I thought I'd put it out there and see what kind of comments  (if any) it got. If you like it, let me know. If you hate it, let me know why.

The Road Back
Started Tuesday, March 4, 07

There is no map for what lies ahead
But still I know where I'm going   
I'm taking lefts
I'm taking rights
I'm speeding up
And I'm slowing

The lights they turn from green to read
My only guide is a memory flowing
I hit the brakes
I hit the gas
I shift gears
Without knowing

Anything about anything
Because I confess I'm no king
Of this road I'm on
This journey has been too long
But I think I'm finally on the right track
I think I'm finally on the road back

I've driven through the hardest rain
Coming down so hard I could not see
I've run some lights
I've missed some turns
I've missed some signs
I could not read

I've driven down the saddest lane
Leading nowhere I'd ever want to be
I've done u-turns
I've done k-turns
I've gone the wrong way
Down one-way streets

And nothing, nothing
Has made me feel like I'm a king
Of this road I'm on
This journey has been too long
But I think I'm finally on the right track
I think I'm finally on the road back








       

The heart is a lonely hunter, indeed.

That title, save for the ever-so-slightly glib "indeed" at the end, was written by Flannery O'Conner, a writer whose work is not very familiar to me.

AND I WAS AN ENGLISH MAJOR! Oh, the shame.

Anyway, I first heard this title in a writing class I took with of those highly annoying YOU CAN DO IT! type teachers, and over the years, it has stuck with me. I confess, I'm still not totally sure what it's supposed to mean, since I was too lazy to read the book, but for me it has come to signify that the artistic process -- discovering what's in your heart and expressing it -- is something to be done alone. And this has been a hard truth for me to swallow. Because as someone who suffers from depression, being alone is not a great place for me to be. And yet I LOVE writing songs. Cruel, no? To do the thing that matters most to me, I have to endure the thing that hurts me the most. Naturally, this situation has me feeling good, then bad, then good, then bad, then good... you get the picture. So I decided to write a song about it, a song that in the end has become less a song about discovering what's in one's heart, and more a song about living with depression. I'm not sure it's done yet, but here's what I've got so far:

Yo Yo
Written on The Maton (with special thanks to a long-lost friend of mine named Eric Anthon Eff, who wrote a lyric titled "Yo Yo Boy " back in the '80s)

Life pulls me up
Then drops me down
And I don't see any method to the madness

I try to be tough
I try to act like a clown
I try to keep from falling back into sadness

I take long walks
I try to meditate
And I talk and talk
But even drugs can't change my state (of mind)

I am like a yo-yo
Rising and falling
I'm just like a yo-yo
I'm not the one to hold the strings
I am like a yo-yo
Rising and falling
I'm just like a yo-yo
And every day it's the same old thing (for me)

Life gives me hope
Then leaves me twisting in the wind
And I can't see the rhyme or the reason

I try to cope
I try never to give in
But it's just like trying to fight a change of seasons

And I play my guitar
I call a friend
I take a drive in the car
But the ups and downs they never end (for me)

CHORUS

(MIDDLE 8)
And I walk the dog
And I sleep all morning long
Rock me baby
There's something wrong (with me)

Cause I'm like a yo yo (into solo over chorus)

(MIDDLE 8)

(CHORUS TO END)

A tune I'm working on.

Lest you thought this blog was just going to be mean-spirited movie reviews, here's a post about music. 'Bout time!

I don't think I've posted these lyrics before, but if I have, I apologize. Anyway, I thought of the title of this song while stumbling toward Peet's one day and jotted it down immediately, because I really thought it was pretty good. The message of tune -- it's the flaws we love -- couldn't be more true for me. Perfection is dull, and perfect beauty is only interesting as art, not as real life. Don't believe me? Visit Geneva. Also, I grew up with vinyl and the thing I miss most is the snap and crackle of dust after the record has stopped and you're sitting there in the dark, drinking maybe, forgetting time, forgetting the world, forgetting unhappiness. You're at peace.

Dust In The Vinyl (UNFINISHED)

I could sing about her clear blue eyes
The way she laughs when she tells a little lie
The way she can keep me up at night

But though I love the feel of her lips
Her favorite perfume, and how she moves her hips
There's even more to love in the way she can slip

Because like laugh lines on people who've known loss
Like cigarette burns through the guitar's gloss
It's the little wrongs that can make a thing more right
It's like dust in vinyl as the record plays late into the night

And I could tell you about her French
About her Russian and her perfect accent
How she speaks her mind in an argument

But the real charm is not just in her words
Or in the way she laughs at all that's absurd
Or in her power to be completely assured

Because like a scar down the middle of a naked back
Like chips in the paint of a piano that was all black
It's the little wrongs that can make a thing more right
It's like dust in vinyl as the record plays late into the night

I could sing about how her skin is so pale
Or how she laughs when she tells a tale
But it's a better song about how she bites her nails

Because like an accent that just can't say certain words
Like a wrong note in the middle of a verse
It's the little wrongs that can make a thing more right
It's like dust in vinyl as the record plays late into the night