January 19, 2007
Bow Tie Ten
COUNTRY & WESTERN MUSIC – PART 2
“Jesus Love You, I Don’t” – There are a lot of subtleties folded into either the title or lyrics of Country and Western Music. In this song there is the unchallenged assumption (among Christians anyway) that Jesus loves everybody, presumably even those who are not Christians. Many of us are familiar with lines: “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world” and “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” And there are countless others. The female singer here presents the reminder to her dude that on the spiritual or religious level, he may well be loved by Jesus; but on the boyfriend-girlfriend – just us ordinary human beings – level, he is not loved. Thus, the declaration, Jesus loves you, I don’t It’s not known if the realization that the girlfriend has pulled back her affection will cause a behaviour change on his part. It hardly matters. He can and perhaps will continue to find comfort in the uninterrupted loved of Jesus. But as for the vocalist: “Know this, errant dude: whatever Jesus does, Jesus does. But as for me…you’re history!”
~
White Trash With Money – That’s actually the title of a CD. At first I thought it was the name of the group that recorded it as well. I later learned that the artist is Toby Keith, a real popular dude in the world of country and western music. The group is Rascal Flats. Several weeks earlier I heard an interview of the group leader not knowing at the time who he was. He shared how some neighbors in an adjoining, more financially accomplished neighborhood, suggested to him that he and, by extension, his wife, were nothing but “white trash.” But because he was confident that his musical endeavors would be successful, he told the offending neighbor that he was actually “white trash with money.” The cd was a success and, despite his wife’s objections, he kept the name. Not to her objection, however, the money did follow. If anyone would bother keeping track of who laughed first, it wouldn’t be hard to guess who had the last laugh…all the way to we know where. I found the story amusing, but felt a more fitting title would have been, White Trash [although I abhor the expression with the same intensity as I do the equally inexcusable “n” word] With Cash. But nobody asked me either then or now. Besides, they don’t even know I listen to the music.
~
“Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” – This is a real gas of a song. The dude goes through a list of alcoholic beverages that his lady friend can easily handle. Some of it is pretty powerful stuff but its impact on her is either negligible or nonexistent. But ah, tequila. She starts by kickin’ off her shoes, leaves her jacket in the bathroom stall, she drops an earring in her drink, a contact in the restroom sink, does other rather strange things and comes home wrapped in a table cloth. Oddly enough when told about her displays and demonstrations of the night before, she doesn’t remember a thing. But, pray tell, why? Why on earth would she disrobe like that? And in a “public place” to the extent that a neighbourhood bar warrants that gentle designation. For an answer, we hastily return to the song’s revealing, clever title: (Because) “[It’s] Tequila [That] Makes Her Clothes Come Off.” Now if the very thought of this sequence of events doesn’t prompt a grin, perhaps we need to loosen up a bit with a glass...or two glasses of a beverage. Maybe that will make our smirk come off.
~
“I’m Down in Mississippi and Up to No Good” – The misbehaving woman is a regular topic of Country and Western Music. Moral purists might call them “loose women.” And the songs about what they do are that much more entertaining, to say nothing of convincing, when delivered to us by a female vocalist rather than a pompous, finger-pointing man. All by itself, to talk about one being “down in Mississippi” prompts no special thoughts because that state is located “down south” as we said as kids. So, initially, all we have is a geographic point of reference. The expression “up to no good” is likewise a familiar one suggesting getting into mischief or perhaps even serious trouble. Putting the two together we have to conclude that the merger is nothing short of clever. The singer is sick and tired of the mundane chores to which she is tied. Cookin’, cleanin’ floors and all that traditional stuff (meaning somebody’s gotta do it and it might as well be a woman!). She decides to call, Lisa and Carla Sue, two of her equally fed up lady friends and suggests they 3 of ‘em get out of Dodge or wherever else they were living. [The lyrics: “If anyone should ask and not that they would, I’ll be down in Mississippi and up to no good.”] I don’t remember what she said she did in Mississippi; but the very idea is interesting on the corny end and provocative on the other. We can trust that up to no good does not include knitting or selling Girl Scout cookies! The converse might be to sing about one who is down in the dumps but up in spirits. Then again, it might be best if I leave well enough alone.
~
“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” – As an expression, this is one of my favourites. And I suppose the very title is what some might even call risqué. Risqué is actually in a category that is wonderfully distinct from nasty. And the two words are different – just how different is left for debates between moralists who tend to be regular people who happen to be bored. Anyway, there is this dude who is going to the city where the girls are oh so pretty. Were that not the case, why not just stay home? He makes the trip without incident and the cry goes out to save a horse (his horse?) and ride a cowboy (him?) That’s one kicker of a line. We can’t just leave it alone, however. The word analysts in our midst wanna know, what exactly does it mean to save a horse? From whom or what and why? Surely the horse is not on this country’s endangered species list. Then again, I suppose environmentalists and animal rights advocates would not object to the inclusion should we entertain the prospect of saving the horse.
I also wonder, though, why someone would come to the (modern) city on a horse. Even the animal-dependent circus brings its horses to town via truck(s) or train. Ah, but how about this business of riding a cowboy? That’s a surprising reversal to be sure. Now let’s not be too anxious and jump to a “normal” adult conclusion that riding a cowboy ain’t different from having sex with a cowboy. I’m not a cowboy, but if I was, I’d be flattered to know that a song was written to suggest that I’d be worthy catch for bodily frolicking…in preference to my horse! All the same, fun-loving as I might be as a mythic cowboy, during the height of my unbridled passion, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who’s looking out for my horse?” On the equally serious side (ha!) when I told a friend abut my expanded musical repertoire citing this song in particular, he laughingly referenced the now less talked about movie, “Brokeback Mountain.” To his obvious relief I informed him that the song pre-dated the movie. Whew!
~
“I’m Here for the Party” – The Womanist, feminist, etc., Revolution is less dramatic than it was some years ago; but every now and then a female will make it abundantly clear to a well-meaning, no harm intended male that “things ain’t like they used to be.” So be it. At Antioch I am still reminded by female students that there is no automatic link between the words “female” and “nurturing”. And so be that as well. So I can’t help but admit to any delight when hearing a woman shameless and convincingly say/sing that she is (yup!) “Here for the party.” I love it. And what makes it more groovy, there’s nothing indicated that she required a date (i.e., a dude) to either go/get into whatever place it is presumably a local bar or (and here’s the kicker) to have a good time. Hee haw.
But the plot thickens. After making it abundantly clear that she is here for the party, she just as boldly proclaims, “And I ain’t leavin’ til they throw me out. I’m gonna have fun, gonna get me some… you know I’m here for the party!” To which I humbly add, “You go, Girl!” Or better yet, “You stay, girl!”
~
“That Girl Is a Cowboy” -- Yeah, I know. At first blush it doesn’t get much more sexually (referring to gender rather than it just explored “get me some”) confusing than this! Exactly what are these country and western folks up to? Only they can say; but as an unabashed movie groupee, I can dig it. [Talk about outdated expressions!] Again, there is this unapologetic inclination to challenge standard social expectations mores [as in more rays] or roles. A “girl” (read “woman”) as a cowboy? Like what’s up with that? Surely the wild wild west is infinitely more wild than anyone might have anticipated. But, hold up. Let me share the lyrics in the hope that they might better communicate what’s being said/sung here!
Wow! Just plain wow! Only a woman can (and should) say if a male acquaintance has earned the distinction of be (like) one of the girls. The very thought comes across as rather strange because of our stereotype lock over which we struggle to find the key. A man/male who is accepted as one of the girls cannot possibly be anything but effeminate or gay or, good grief, both. As suggested, let the women address this!
The song gives us these lines: “When I need a friend, she’s the guy I call.” I just gotta linger at this place for a bit. No matter what our so-called position is in life, no matter what our material or non material gains might be, we all fall short of having it made in the elusive shade all the time. It’s that simple; it’s that real. Yet, I dare say that for the most part when we seek a friend, better yet when we need a friend, we tend to be predictable. Meaning what? Just this. We hook up with someone who is very much like whatever if is that we are. Not exactly a clone but not radically different from a clone either. And because of tradition, we do pretty much the same the same thing over and over and then over again. When the going get tough and unbearable, we call upon that traditional friend. And that works. The radical break is to develop and maintain a new alliance. In a word, to “make” a new friend: A female’s best friend is a male and vice versa. When that happens, off on the microscopic sidelines we find a gaggle of lookelews, nosy busy bodies who giggly presume sexual alliances? Yet the song, in defiance, offers this line: “Sometimes the best cowboys aren’t real cowboys after all.”
And then there’s this: “She’s got my back even when it’s against the wall.” As true friendship goes, it doesn’t get much better than that. Again back to yesteryear. We used to say, “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” How true. Or there is the and overworked reassurance that comes from the presumed comfort of, “I got your back.” But again here we have the country and western inclination to rein in the regular, the usual, the expected, the mundane and take it to another level for consideration. To have me one’s back, i.e., to be available and as helpful as possible even when one is at one’s wits end, weak, tired and perhaps even irretrievably frustrated. For a friend to say I’ve got your back even when it’s against the wall in the best, the internal sense clearly means that the friend so in fact the buffer between the troubled person and the wall itself! It doesn’t get more reassuringly intimate or helpful than that. That’s an unusual female cowboy. A willing posse needs to round ’em all up without delay.
“I Love This Bar” -- Huh? We all have fond memories of places that brought delight to our youthful years: a park, a playground, a schoolyard, a beach, etc. The same or a similar list can be developed noting places which bring joy to our adult years. It may be a very similar list. And it would not be melodramatic to admit our love for just such a yesterday or today place. Yet to say, “I love this bar” is to confer on said bar a true mark of distinction. I can easily think of four New Haven bars which, if he would have written the songs, my father would have in mind: The Yellow Lantern, the Monterey (both on Dixwell Avenue), the Elks Street on Goffe Street & Paul and Shorty’s, on Whalley Ave, a scant ½ block from the church we attended. He loved those bars, the characters who frequented them, the incessant noise and endless flow of whatever. To be fond of a (favorite) place is not especially noteworthy. To love a bar is to acknowledge an attachment to a locale not known for its calm ambiance. But a musical genre that urges the saving of a house or pours accolades on a female cowboy, finds no contradiction in proclaiming love for a bar. All I can say is, “Two beers and hold the mayo!”
“My future ain’t what it used to be” -- Here, again, the logic of ordinary discourse has been discarded, the lyrical window of the country and western sensibility has been opened as if to say, good riddance to ordinary yet bad company. That used to be something is the ordinary reference to time passed, however long ago that might be. So to hear the expression “my future ain’t what it used to be” impels us to either scratch our heads wondering if we got the intended message right or raise questions about the sanity of the song writer. But again, that’s over customary logic which, as it turns out, is of little use here. And that’s just as well. At least we give thought, however hasty, to a future that we are positioned to do something about…right now. That’s quite a time-twisting challenge.
Posted by mbowen at 08:39 AM | Comments (0)
January 16, 2007
Bow Tie Nine
My earliest “exposure” was listening to the music which came out of Uncle Bunny’s [aka Thomas Prudence Blackwell] large radio. Brand name: unknown. Fidelity: excellent. That marvelous appliance was conspicuously placed in an impossible to miss spot in the living room of their 3rd floor Dixwell Avenue, New Haven apartment he shared for many years with his beloved Mary Saxon or Aunt Mae. Sitting in the living room was a Sunday after-church family ritual of sorts. Whoever entered therein listened dutifully…hoping something (anything!) would suddenly pop up (from anywhere!) and thus rescue the captive (captured!) family members from these terrible sounds emanating from the museum piece radio. That never happened. So, although there was not much foot-tapping, there was endless and painful listening. I never raised the question; but I always asked (myself) how anyone who did not live in Virginia could listen to – to say nothing of enjoy – music that emanated from that part of the country. All of that and more was part of a special decade we nostalgically recall as the 1950s. Four decades later, I got the answer without the benefit of a formal lesson.
Fast forward to Inglewood, California: Gloria’s “play uncle” BJ, was a master craftsman. Some might use the more convenient designation, handy man, but that would be inaccurate and an almost mean spirited putdown. To be handy is to know how to do a particular job in a manner that is just good enough. Adequate is a better expression. Handy also tends to be quick. As in quick and dirty. BJ took his time, measured, cut, aligned, etc., with anything but all deliberate speed. And while he worked, there were two other things he did without fail or hesitation or apology: 1) BJ cursed profusely and 2) he listened to Country and Western Music. I had actually long forgotten the “hillbilly” designation that Uncle Bunny used. We whispered a more telling definition: “twas shit-kickin’ music!
Try as I might, the names of the many songs I (again, unavoidably) listened to while either helping or watching him work around Gloria’s house rest securely just beyond the limits of my memory. However, all is not lost! Two songs do stand out in my mind. The first is Kenny Rogers’ “You Gotta Know When to Hold ‘Em” and, although I don’t know who the artist was/is, I also remember, “All My Exes (as in “X” and “O”) Live in Texas.”
Before getting to the fun part, let me share my new attraction to Country and Western Music. In some ways, my thoughts fold into a bigger pattern of what I’ll simply call Me and Music…s. What I label “sociologically speaking – a method of looking at certain life phenomena that I am working hard at abandoning – I will use Content Analysis. I’ll simply take the titles and/or lyrics (trusting that they have been accurately written here) and share their personal appeal as honestly as possible. My hope is that the method used notwithstanding, this doesn’t come across as too serious or laboured.
So, backing up a little bit, let’s look at my “inaugural/rite of passage” pieces. I was single at the time and found this particular reference to one’s exes (as in ex-spouse) amusing. I had no reason to want my “ex to be in Tex…” but I could easily imagine the plight of a dude who had what I’ll call “the dubious benefit of the marital plural”, i.e., having more than one “ex.” Anyway, there’s a line in the song tells us that because all his exes live in Texas, that’s why he lives in Tennessee! The peace of mind that, in some cases, only piles of miles can bring about.
As for the Rogers piece, there is practical advice and more worldly wisdom in the observation that one’s gotta know when to hold or fold cards. I know nothing about poker – or any card game for that matter with the exception of “war” and solitaire – other than what I have observed. There are indeed times when disappointed players look at their respective hands, shake their heads wearily and “fold.” Then, of course, they sometimes smile optimistically and “hold.” The same choice-making applies to walking away and/running as in the line, “You gotta know when to walk away, know when to run.” Further, not counting “your money” while sitting at the table makes real good sense. Why? First, because one might readily be relieved of one’s money by either another player or a quick-on-the-draw spectator. But not having such an unwelcome eventuality in mind, Rogers simply suggests, “There’ll be time enough for counting when the game is done.” There will be ample time and opportunity for that or some other activity later. Sage advice if ever there was any. Maybe even an unintentional touch of Ecclesiastes.
And now for the more contemporary stuff: As is often the case with me, I am not very exacting about dates; but I do pretty well at recalling distinct states of my mind or how I felt. A healthy pile of months ago – now there’s a solid reference point if ever there was one -- I suddenly found myself disgusted with much of the music I had been listening to on the car and home radio. I will never abandon my love for jazz; but I was tired of some of the redundancy I was hearing at the time. In addition, another mainstay, so called “classical” music lacked the wild and woolly big monster symphonic sound I loved as a child. [More on that later.] Endless dial flipping – I think it’s called surfing – got to be tiresome whilst waiting for the broadcast pattern to bring comfort or enjoyment. I wanted to make that an aural change. And, there along the dial’s right to left, left to right route I chanced upon two heretofore unknown stations: KZLA (93.9) and KFRG (95.1). Shortly after that I knew that I was at least temporarily hooked because I punched the numbers in with the car radio’s pre-set gizmo button whatever whatchamacallit.
What I immediately noticed was how intently I listened to the lyrics, how they usually told a story in some kind of order. As in having a beginning, middle and end. That shouldn’t be worthy of note except that too many of the songs I had been listening to not only lacked “order” but mastered the familiar “art” of both not making sense coupled with a measured stab at being as legally offensive as (FCC-regulated) permissible…to me anyway. Listening to Country and Western, I often smiled, sometimes laughed out loud and, when the good ole boy spirit hit me, I jotted the words down while waiting at a red light. New music is being composed and played even as I make these reflections; but here’s a sampling of some of what I like…and why.
Posted by mbowen at 08:08 AM | Comments (0)
January 15, 2007
Bow Tie Eight
TODAY IS A VERY SPECIAL BOW TIE DAY:
Happy Birthday, Debbie!
Mucho love,
(Dad)
Posted by mbowen at 03:00 PM | Comments (0)
January 14, 2007
Bow Tie Seven
Today’s Bow Tie was supposed to be about Country and Western music. But that will keep until another time…most likely later in the week. I decided, instead, to write about a man named Akanti. Although I had seen him many times, I had never stopped to talk to him. This morning (Sunday) was different. Akanti is a homeless man who lives on the east side of the La Brea Avenue sidewalk between Rodeo Road and Exposition Blvd. He has been in that spot at least 6 months. Most of the time he simply stands in place. Like other urban “fixtures” (human and otherwise) after a while, one stops noticing. But the weather these past few days has been unseasonably cold. The thermometer inside the Avalanche registered 31 degrees at around 7 am. One cannot help but imagine what it’s like to sleep outside in these conditions.
For the past week or so, I decided to give away my sleeping bag. It’ll be summer before I camp out again and I have been thinking about getting a new bag. At first, I was going to drop it off with someone in Skid Row…no questions asked other than “Can you use a sleeping bag?” And then I thought about taking it to the women’s center since the women who come to the day center live on the street or in one of the missions. This morning, however, I thought about the man on La Brea whose name I didn’t know at the time. All I knew for sure was that it was cold and that it was surely even colder between midnight and 5 am.
There is no parking (at any time) on the side where he stays so I drove to Jefferson Blvd., turned around and parked on the west side of La Brea. Traffic was still light and I scooted across with the bag in tow. I simply said, “Hi. Do you want this sleeping bag?” The response was interesting. He said other people had offered him bags but he didn’t need one. He pointed to a single blanket and said he was O.K. at night…although last night was cold. He then pointed to a large plastic bottle of distilled water and told me that it had frozen overnight. In fact, he had at least 10 plastic bottles neatly lined along the sidewalk out of the way of passersby. I extended my hand and told him my name; and he told me his. His teeth were uneven and as brown as the nearby telephone pole. But his eyes sparkled and his speech was clear and distinct. He spoke without pause or apology and had the presence of a man who is educated. I asked him if there was anything I could get for him and he said no. At one point he mentioned cheese and I offered to get some for him. His response was that later in the day he would go to Albertson’s (a large supermarket ½ block away) and buy some. That statement alone told me much. My parting remark was that I will come by again and see him. And when I do, I’ll simply ask how he’s doing and give him cash.
Posted by mbowen at 08:02 AM | Comments (0)
January 12, 2007
Bow Tie Six
ote: Some of the topics to be explored in The Bow Tie will be continued over a period of time. This keeps me from getting bored and maybe others as well.
I want to start with Homelessness. There is something about the very word “homeless” that is most disconcerting. It separates itself out from other words in a way that is strangely unique. For a moment, let’s take a look at this labeling game; and I don’t mean the sickening yet persistent epithet madness game. We usually identify people by geography, race, ethnicity, religion, neighborhood gang, educational or social status, political party and, of course, sexual preference/affiliation. But, think about it, each one of these categories – if we call them that – have to do with what an individual or group has as opposed to the absence of something. So to say homeless means, quite apparently, that a given human being is without a place to live. What a disaster!
Although there may well have been some, I don’t remember any homeless people when growing up in New Haven. Oh, there was a smattering of people (men) we called “bums” who we’d see sleeping or at least dozing in any one of Dixwell Avenue’s alleys. But the assumption was that was the spot they had chosen for sleeping and not where they actually lived!
As I hope to do with other Bow Tie offerings, I want to include the personal dimension. What seems like ages ago I worked among the – for lack of a better term – housed homeless. Sure, that’s a contradiction; but their so-called dwellings were Skid Row flop houses (aka SRO). Small and dank. There was really no social work done with the rag tag group of aimless men, all of whom had stories to tell, each story with its own varying degree of believability. But that was all those of us assigned to Single Men Intake were expected to do. Just check on their eligibility for General Relief by verifying the non-existence of income and personally visit their humble abode to make sure they lived (ha!) where they said they lived. So, Skid Row Los Angeles was my first County Social Worker beat. My jaunts to that part of town after other assignments were irregular. I would simply drive through on my way to some other place or just to break the monotony of moving about what a local paper calls This Considerable Town.
Roughly 10 years ago, I was at a meeting at St. John’s. As often happens with church meetings, there was food left over. And as is too often the case, cleaning up meant throwing away those pesky leftovers. Someone wisely asked, however, if anyone wanted the extra trays. Without knowing why, I said I’d take them. On the spur of the moment I decided to take the trays “someplace in Skid Row” with no specific destination in mind. I loaded ‘em up and drove the few miles to The Row. I parked on a block (I later learned it was Winston Street) that was filled with cardboard dwellings, rectangular edifices that were containers for large refrigerators or water heaters in their former lives. After parking I and went to the back of the weather beaten Ram Charger. No one paid any attention. When I (ill advisedly) announced that I had food to give away the sidewalk suddenly came alive. There was a quick and unorganized rush to the raised door. Then came a unexpectedly and booming voice that said, “You guys know better than that! You know that Mama eats first!” (Wow! Was that the voice of God barking a reminder in this all but forgotten part of town?) The “crowd” sheepishly moved back to its previously unseen spots and I saw a diminutive Black woman sitting on what was perhaps a milk crate. She said nothing but, accompanied by an escort (who was probably the source of the verbal boom) came to the back of the truck and helped herself to the food. It was not until she was though and safely perched on her plastic seat that the other – now just as hungry but more orderly than before, came and took what was left. I came away with the positive thought that although Skid Row may not been the shining example of “manners,” there was certainly a well understood code for what goes and what doesn’t.
Then the tape rolls ahead to my academic work at Antioch which began in 1992. To date I have put together a series of workshops and courses that require going to Skid Row to bring home to students the reality of living on the streets. There was the Youth in Los Angeles workshop, for example, that included a visit to the Union Rescue Mission, one of a number of missions downtown which “specializes” in programs for families. It was a real eye-opener to find families “on the street” right outside an organization in business to get them inside!
Of course, all of this city’s homeless folks are not confined to the downtown area. A course I designed titled, The City: Myth, Madness and Maturity required students to interview a homeless person preferably in their own neighborhood and then write a 5 page paper on the experience. It was (and is) important that the plight of the homeless be realized in a more personal way. Reading about what it is like to have the sky as one’s “shelter” and eye balling someone who is in such a predicament is quite different. Articles and studies on homelessness abound. As important as that kind of data might be, it can serve as an unintentional barrier or balm for human disconnect. I have purposely tried to guard against suggesting to students that they will study homelessness and, have instead, fostered the notion of learning, the difference being what happens when we talk and listen to another human being. Without going into all the particulars here I should mention the perspective I share about giving money to homeless people. I simply suggest that they do what they feel comfortable doing. If there is an unavoidable judgment made that “They will only use it for drugs,” then the student should not feel obligated to fork over some loose or not so loose change. But since that is not always the case, parting with a few coins or dollars does no harm whatsoever. Some students have, in fact, developed interesting personal relationships with homeless people…an unexpected but invaluable outcome that I will revisit in the future when I will write about a true oasis in Skid Row Los Angeles: The Downtown Women’s Center.
Posted by mbowen at 01:01 PM | Comments (0)
January 08, 2007
Bow Tie Four
I was a poet
before I was
when I was a
dreamer of real
worlds
now I remember
from breath to heartbeat
all I seen and been
and what it felt
like what it
meant
extract from “Past Present”by Amiri Baraka
~
It is rightly said that the most challenging part of a major writing project is getting started. Perhaps the same truism holds for a minor one as well. At this early juncture I won’t presume which label best fits The Bow Tie. But I will say that I have given the real beginning considerable thought. With an uncharacteristic degree of personal relief, I settled on distancing myself from any potential reader. That, quite obviously, is a strange contradiction since who other than a known or unknown reader will take the time to look at these writings in the first place? Writing is neither be created in a vacuum nor viewed in any semblance of same. There must be a writer-reader connection for the process to work. Otherwise, why bother? The alternative is to quietly engage in nonjudgmental literary navel-gazing?
So I have the task to make my caveat as clear as I possibly can: My intent is certainly not to disregard the reader altogether. In fact, I already know that my personal or indirect or casual or some other non-descript relationships with any number of people [known and unknown as the saying goes] constitute the frame of reference for a significant part of what I intend to explore and share. There, that’s been established. What I do feel compelled to note, however, is that I will try with uncharacteristic vigor to not be unduly swayed by their real or imagined approval or disapproval. Allow me to linger on this very point for a bit.
Recently, I had a conversation with a talented woman who has completed and is planning a series of film projects. During the course of a our conversation we discussed her earlier habit of being almost immobilized by the need to seek the approval of others. I suggested something I had given no thought to whatsoever until that time. After she said she now works on ways in which she does not journey into the murky territory of seeking the approval of others, I suggested this: Because we are human, we want to be appreciated. To seek approval of another person should not lead us down the slippery slope of being controlled by that same approval. Yes, of course there are exceptions of a commercial or business and personal nature. There are specific instances in which approval is what we consciously seek and approval is what we definitely need. But we were talking more generally; reflecting on how, as adults, we find ourselves (automatically) following the same patterns we engaged in as approval-hungry children.
I suggested that if we fail to have what we extend to others come back unappreciated, we remain in tack. Why? Because (in the context of our animated conversation) appreciation carries with it an aesthetic dimension, whereas approval is personal and potentially damaging or at least restrictive. As an artist, she could relate to this; and as an incessant gabber, I gave myself an unexpected High Five!
So my caveat here is to put some unaccustomed distance between myself and whomever. To “move” from ordinary close territory to another place from which I can say/write what I want to say/write without the worry of the withholding of the power of other-controlled green lights of smiles, accolades and approval. To do what I have to do, I’m gonna move………
I’m Gonna Move Way On the Outskirts of Town
I'm gonna move way out on the outskirts of town
I'm gonna move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
I'm gonna tell you baby, we gonna move away from here
I don't want no ice man, I'm goin' get me a frigidaire
When we move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
I'm goin' bring my own groceries, bring them every day
That'll stop that grocery boy, and keep him away
When we move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh Lord baby always hangin' around
It may seem funny, funny as it can be
But if we have any Children,
I want 'em all named after me
We move way out on the outskirts of town
I don't want nobody, ooh always hangin' around
(William Weldon/Roy Jacobs)
In a related vein, there is another “stance” I want to set forth here. There are those times when one must declare a certain independence or emotional remoteness from others…most especially those who are (excuse the redundancy) emotionally close. Writing in and of itself is not necessarily a lonely activity. We often choose any number of complimentary distractions and joyfully peck away at the laptop or jot morsels of our obvious brilliance on the pages of a battered notebook. All the same, that which is indispensable is clarity of thinking and, hopefully, a candor about feelings. Our countless cherished human ties notwithstanding, we can be nobody’s darling…….
Be Nobody’s Darling
Be nobody’s darling;
Be an outcast.
Take the contradictions
Of your life
And wrap around
You like a shawl,
To parry stones
To keep you warm.
Watch the people succumb
To madness
With ample cheer;
Let them look askance at you
And you askance reply.
Be an outcast;
Be pleased to walk alone
(Uncool)
Or line the crowded
River beds
With other impetuous
Fools.
Make a merry gathering
On the bank
Where thousands perished
For brave hurt words
They said.
Be nobody’s darling;
Be an outcast.
Qualified to live
Among your dead.
Alice Walker
Enough said………….the rest will have to speak for itself.
Posted by mbowen at 01:09 PM | Comments (0)