Stream of consciousness on the way home from work on Monday, September 9, 2006

I was walking alone in the dark and the wind was blowing and the air was cold and I was happy. And the music emanating from my headphones was so becoming of everything around me that, at some point, I could no longer decipher where it was coming from: was it really the small mp3 player tucked away in the warm pocket of my jacket, or was it the trees, the air, the buildings—my soundtrack. And as I walked—more like strolled—I could barely stop myself from swaying—more like skipping—to Nikitini, husband and wife, singing about the ephemeral nature of all but the waltz. And that, too, made me happy. Normally, I am able to drive myself into an almost theatrical melancholy simply by playing the right tracks…just to remind myself that I’m alive—that and I like to be sad sometimes.

I like the bitter sadness that comes with acknowledging that I’m merely human. That this is it: this is my life, for better or for worse. That no matter what the hell else is going on in that—my life—I always have this: the night, the street, the music. Ok, so maybe the music is terminable, after all, I can lose the mp3 player, or have it stolen, or the battery might die. Although I won’t deny that the absence of my mp3 player would put a kink in my self-inflicted sadness, there’s always comfort in knowing that I can’t lose the street—nobody can steal the trees and buildings and the moon can’t run out of batteries.

Likewise, nobody can take away the building on the corner of my street that has, in just 10 months, grown right before my eyes. When I was still broken, I would visit the building, which, at that point, was not yet the sum: just parts. I would look at the mounds of materials that, when arranged, would become a building. I don’t remember when he told me, but I remember that he loves construction sites—loves watching them progress from nothing to something. Actually, I do remember when he told me. The point is that, 10 months ago, the building and I were an equal mess and 10 months ago I didn’t know what I, or the building would look like in 10 months’ time. To be honest, I couldn’t think that far ahead. But, time passed, and I checked up on my building, every now and again, just to see how it, and I, was doing. Today I went again. The building is tall, hovering up somewhere near the sky. Ten months ago, when it was approximately my height, I cowered before it. I couldn’t stand looking at it because it served as a reminder…much like everything does when your heart is bleeding. But today, I realized that we did it, and more. And I stood there with the monument to my personal growth, and I wondered whether the guys building it knew how important it was.

Sometimes I play Norah Jones. Most of the songs start with a very mellow and melancholy acoustic guitar. And I’m walking, and the wind blows—or it doesn’t—doesn’t matter—and, again, I get the feeling that the music is pulsating through the air, that everyone hears it, and if they don’t hear it, then they can’t possibly be as alive as I am. After the first few counts, another instrument comes in, and I’m always disappointed. It’s not that I didn’t know it was coming: I’ve heard the song a hundred times, but I always hope that Norah realizes that the melancholy guitar was just perfect.

Then there’s Cake:

People you love, will turn their backs on you.

You’ll lose your hair, your teeth,

Your knife will fall out of its sheath,

But you still don’t like to leave before the end of the movie.

People you hate will get their hooks into you,

They’ll pull you down, you’ll frown,

They’ll tar you and drag you through town,

But you still don’t like to leave before the end of the movie.

No, you still don’t like to leave before the end of the show.

That one always gets me: how could it not…did you read it? The music makes it even sadder. But the kind of sad I like. The kind of sad that makes me realize that even if the world turns hostile, I can always lean on myself – and my MP3 player.

There’s everything else, and then there’s Dave Matthews:

Work ourselves, fingers to the bone, suck the marrow, drain my soul.

Pay your dues and your debts. Pay your respects.

Everybody tells you ‘You pay for what you get.’

You pay for what you get.

Everybody asks me how she’s doing, ‘Has she really lost her mind?’

I said ‘I couldn’t tell you: I’ve lost mine.’

Words, words, words: Have you heard a burdened hand is much better than

Any number of feet to wander? Fly away. Stay.

You pay for what you get. You pay for what you get.

Everybody asks me how she’s doing, ‘Is she really all she says?’

Everybody asks me how she’s doing, since she went away.

I said ‘I couldn’t tell you, I’m ok.’

Surprise, surprise: You pay for what you get. You pay for what you get.

What does it mean? I’m not sure, but today I listened (also on my handy mp3 player) to a lecture by Rabbi Akiva Tatz, in which he says that it is unfortunate that when we think/talk/reason with ourselves, we do so in the form of an inner dialogue: using words. We no longer think in terms of what really is, but are rather limited to working with and through emotions that can be, in one way or another, named, labeled and explained with the hardly sufficient reservoir of elaboration that is the human vocabulary. And so, Dave frees me from the chains of semantics, by combining words and ideas in – at times – such an illogical manner (of which the above lyrics are hardly an example) that I feel as though what he wanted to say just plain and simple can’t be said. There’s not ‘hidden meaning’ behind ‘clever words’. The contrary: he uses plain words and sometimes almost nonsensical images to conjure up a feeling by association.

Of course I don’t know that that is precisely what Dave does when he writes, and I am actually prepared to argue that he does no such thing. But who knows? Below, another song by Dave Matthews:

Story of a man

Who decided not to breathe:

Turned red, purple, then blue, colorful indeed.

No matter how his friends begged and pleaded, he would not concede.

Now he’s dead, you see,

Cuz’ everybody knows you got to breathe.

But, oh God, under the weight of life, things seem brighter on the other side.

Another one, see this monkey sitting in his tree,

One day, decided to climb down and run off to city.

Look at him now: tired and drunk, living in the street,

As good as dead, you see,

A monkey should know ‘Stay up your tree!’

But oh God, under the weight of life, things seem brighter on the other side.

Another one, a big-eyed fish swimming in the sea,

Oh how he dreamed he wants to be a bird, swoop and diving through the breeze.

One day, caught a big blue wave up onto the beach.

Now, he’s dead you see,

A fish’s dreams should stay in the sea.

But oh God, under the weight of life, things seem brighter on the other side.

And I realized today, that, for me, music, the night and being alone is the optimal combination drug. I’ve got uppers and downers and the emotional, psychological and physiological sensation that I experience—the high—is indescribable.

While in that state, I am wholly overwhelmed and humbled, by the towering apartment buildings with the warm yellow—sometimes bordering orange—lights bursting through the curtains of the windows. The buildings are all huddled in a bunch, and when I turn the corner that brings me to the final stretch of my walk home, I am faced with a site that takes my breath away every time: The huge and yet objectively unattractive apartment buildings all standing on different plains—a different window-light mosaic gracing the façade of each one. I walk, not taking my eyes off the buildings and the windows for even a moment, and with every step, the entire picture changes. I determine the perspective: I can move forward, backward left or right, and the entire picture, all of the buildings will change and move around me. They can’t move me, but I can move them.