Finest Worksong

Track one, side one, from Document, 1987.

Some ideas create the strangest, most unexpected pictures in your mind, am I right? I would love it if I could trace this mental image back to its root. Why does the idea of a “worksong” translate into a dark room lit by a candle, with workish instruments and implements strewn about, all covered by a thin layer of tinkerbell fairy dust?

Maybe something about burning the midnight oil, or burning the candle at both ends. 

Maybe it's about my grandpa's workshop in the basement, with grown-up grandpa things laying around all over the place, imbuing the child version of me with wonder over what magic he might be making down there.

Oh! Wait… uhhh, hmmm… it might be Snow White. Or maybe Fantasia. Or some combination of the two. Either way, damn you, Disney.

(Dear Brain… if you feel something poking you from below, those are just my eyes rolling.)

Does any of this actually go with the message of the song? Not so much. Or maybe it does, abstractly. Because anything goes with anything, abstractly. Like horoscopes, or "mysterious ways". 

Ha.

Orange Crush

From Green, 1988.

Everything I know about war I learned from the news and from movies and television, which is to say, I know only what film directors and politicians want me to know about it... so the reality is that I know absolutely sweet fuck all about it, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I hope to keep it that way.

My maternal grandfather was a soldier in WWII. He suffered nightmares long after he returned. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like for him, but it wasn't something he wanted to talk about. Which also makes me think I'm glad I don't know what it was like for him. 

I imagine it's hell on earth for everyone involved, whether their involvement is by choice or not. And with that I will STFU because I really can't contribute words on this subject, only the picture in my mind that this song gives me.

(Follow me, don't follow me)

I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush

(Collar me, don't collar me)

I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush

(We are agents of the free)

I've had my fun and now it's time to serve your conscience overseas

(Over me, not over me)

Coming in fast, over me 

Crush with Eyeliner

From Monster, 1994.

Identity is a messy thing. You think you know who you are. You dress a certain way, act a certain way, speak a certain way. You present your best self to the world, or so you think, every time you post a new profile pic on social media, post a pic of the complex meal you just cooked, post a pic of your immaculate/kooky/cozy/eclectic/artsy/worldly house/flat/apartment/room. You do all of these things to assert your version of who you are, so that everyone knows you're that guy/girl.

But are you really? How much effort did it take to get yourself that way? But maybe that's part of your identity. You aren't really you without the purple hair, the face jewellery, the sleeve tattoos, the dress made of bits of Moroccan tapestry held together with kilt pins.

And that's cool, man. That's perfectly alright. It's better than alright, because who wants to be normal in this weird world anyway? In the sea of beige, be the neon. That's how that saying goes, right? The beige deny their true selves, choosing to wear the uniform of the masses, while the neon go out of their way to hide their authentic beigeness. Or, the beige are presenting the most authentic version of themselves to the world, while the neon are the rare birds who can't keep their true colours hidden. The fake is true, and the truth is fake. What a mess indeed.

But really, the messy part isn't the mess you made of your vanity to get your make up just right, or the mess you made on the kitchen counter to cook that spectacular meal, or the mess you made in the living room to perfectly wrap and decorate the myriad Christmas presents under your tree.

The messy part is that you don't get to pick how other people see you. You don't own that. Your identity, however self-created or accidental, is all in your head. You present yourself as a writer; your mother buys you a ukulele for Christmas and tells you it was always your calling. Not that validation from others is required. You know who you are, and that's all that matters. Right?

Turning inward... every day I wake up and wish I was something else. Goth. Punk. Harajuku. Jedi. For about a year, I wasn't my true self unless I had asymetrical rainbow coloured hair. Right now, all I want is to be invisible, to fade into the background and let someone else be rainbow coloured and asymetrical. Until I bump into her on the street and curse her under my breath for being cooler than I am. Then I'll take it back.