San Tropez

I've been listening to Roger Waters and Pink Floyd again. Man . . . that music has a pass card to my secret lair. It just walks right in and starts mucking up the place. Self programmed through repetition. I am and have been more a fan of Floyd than the Beatles, or Led Zeppelin, or the Doors. I have been a consumer of the others, but never in the same way. I have tried several times to leave Pink Floyd behind, but they are a soundtrack of my self and however much hip-hop or alt pop, or bad rock I listen to, they remain a watermark of my musical taste.

Incidentally, my mom says that Dark Side of the Moon was her favorite album while she was pregnant for me. She listened to it constantly during those nine months. At some point when I was young . . . I want to say I was seven . . . we were driving down the street and a song came on. I started singing along, knowing the lyrics without really knowing what it was. I asked her and she freaked out a bit. It was Time. The idea that music could imprint and follow me from the womb fascinated both of us.

Sometimes it is astonishing to think that in some way my melancholy matched up with the sad introspection of post war English youth. In my mind, their reaction to their parent’s fears, to an evolving national identity, to the sadness of learning the truth, and to our ravenous and evolving global economy could not have been given a better life than through experimental music and the fact that this music made them any money at all is a tribute to their unflinching lyrics and musical virtuosity.

Hard truth is my favorite kind. I like beauty and love too, but I have always felt that the last thousand years or so have been a series of mistakes and the lies we tell ourselves so that we can keep moving forward despite the obvious insanity of each step. We are so out of balance now that the new fantasy, as expressed so vividly in Reagan’s 1987 address to the UN, is that some diabolical outside force appears to force unity and change.  (Let me just say, that I see a lot of amazing has happened too, not the least of which is me and Pink Floyd. : )

The amazing thing about this odd dream is how powerless it is . . . even at the supposed zenith of control we can do nothing but plod forward toward our own demise and wish it was different. Personally I believe we are better than that, but I see how anyone could let themselves become overwhelmed by our time. I’m sure if I knew what a president knows my mind would be changed, at least a bit.

There was a time I wanted to save the world, like Superman. And I guess I still do, but I think my tactics have evolved. To me our only hope is to look at ourselves, see the hard truth, admit who we are and what we have done, make amends, and then change. I don’t think we will. I just think it’s our only hope. I have gone from advocating wholesale global change to a faith in or hope for entanglement and its ability to spark a fire that leads to something big.

So, I spread happiness one person at a time. I hold doors open. I smile. I trust in my belief that I am connected to every atom and quark, every higs particle and each undulation of time, every desire and every star system. My ripples mean something. The way I live has an effect and one day my joy will contribute to an inevitable shift. I am empowered. I don’t try to control you. I just do what I can do. I have bad days . . .

On bad days sometimes I find my way back to Time, or Wish you Were Here, or Us and Them. I remember that I’m not alone, that it is sane to feel sad, that relentless hope is a worthy religion, that words have power . . . When the melancholy threatens to overtake me I stop and I listen to this or this or this or maybe this - and then I find my smile and walk, whistling into the twilight.

Get out of my secret lair Pink . . . and clean up before you go.