Old Boy Blue

Discussion in 'General' started by Brass, Mar 29, 2021.

  1. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    Old boy blue of many years
    Who never shed his fear of tears,
    Refused to share his life with friends,
    And now's too late to try again.

    For many years now, he's been blue,
    And stopped believing dreams, it's true,
    And can't look forward one more day
    Without that touch of pain.

    So far inside his mind he walks;
    They're gone--no wife, no soothing talks,
    And faces really loved by him now gone beyond that hill
    Remain just teasing memories that come when night is still.

    In places ghosts and shadows lurk;
    The little school, the country church,
    He strains to find what he has lost,
    But learns that he must count the cost.

    The kite, with love, his mother bought;
    Not good enough--'twas all for naught.
    And little toy trucks, he now agrees,
    Were broke so further hate could feed.
    And now with no one left, he sees
    There's no where left for him to flee.

    He broke and broke; thought he was smart,
    Breaking every lover's heart,
    And so he died all through inside,
    While through it all he never cried.
     
    JennyFleck likes this.
  2. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    Lycanthroholic

    One cold and frosty moonlit night
    Whilst feeling restless, full of spite,
    I left my home, went over field,
    And chanced upon a bitter meal.

    A dog had come to challenge me.
    She sensed my evil flowing free;
    Attacked but couldn't overcome;
    She came too close; her neck was wrung.

    Such foolish courage of mortal flesh;
    Not satisfied with run and fetch.
    At least her blood-stained eyes were spared
    The sight of how her bones were bared.

    Those cold and frosty moonlit nights
    When I would spread that touch of fright
    Kept family to their house, secure,
    For such as me there is no cure.

    This is my prime;
    I'm me times ten.
    I play for blood
    Again and again.
     
    LadyOnArooftop and JennyFleck like this.
  3. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    Innocent days when I at least
    Resembled not so much the beast
    Recede from me like memory;
    Like most of you; like most of me.
     
    JennyFleck likes this.
  4. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    Deep in the woods I stood that night, the light of the moon casting her living, moving shadows upon the ground as the treetops swayed to the leadings of the warming wind, together a mesmerizing song and dance of whispered secrets and flowing form, like the timeless dance of her and me when we were both so young and . . .

    And there I stood, young again, alive with the desire for her presence which had grown to greater than ghostly proportions; a tangible essence of compelling nature pulling me from the grasp of the reality of this fleeting existence called life; some offer of hope in this terminal course.

    But I knew the truth. Winter comes--was already here. No more spring magic. No more wonder. All is known and past. The table has been cleared, and the dishes put away . . . forever. She is gone.

    Disillusioned, I no longer cared to stand. So I laid myself down among the trunks of the faithful trees, and there I slept. And in my sleep I dreamed a dream in which she lived. And when I awoke, the sun was screaming about reality, and reality would not be denied. The moon was gone. The wind, like her presence, had also died. And I was old and cold. And I could hear my old lonely self calling from some unknown place in the back of my mind, calling me back home. And it saddened me to no end because I could not remember where or when I had last seen myself truly.
     
    JennyFleck likes this.
  5. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    So I'm sitting here listening to Bad Finger on You Tube. I had nothing going for me back there in 1972. And I remember thinking that those guys got it made. Fame, fortune, etc. But things went bad for them. They ended up with nothing, and the lead singer and the bass guitarist ended up hanging themselves. Their song, Day After Day, came out in the winter of 1971, and it reflected some deep feeling inside of me concerning my life. And so I held onto it. When it was playing on the radio I knew I wasn't the only one looking out of my lonely room. But later when I was homeless and didn't even have a lonely room to look out from, the song failed to comfort me. My adopted comfort song after that was Canned Heat's "On the Road Again." Alan "Blind Owl" Wilson recounting his experience on the road, saying:

    Ya know the first time I traveled out
    in the rain and snow,
    I didn't have no payroll,
    not even no place to go.

    So there I was out in the rain and snow, and finding comfort in the song because it reminded me that I wasn't alone in this experience . . . until I had to admit to myself that Alan Wilson was dead, and I was alone, walking east because the wind was coming from the west, pushing me down the road after sunset. Cold toes! What will happen to me? A barn up ahead. I could build a room out of bales of hay. And so I did, and thus had a lonely room from which to look out. But it was dark. Nothing to see anyway. Nothing. So I thought about the desert.

    In the desert there are no illusions. The desert purifies because there are no contaminating sights and sounds. There is the sand and the heat of day, and the heat is honest, and so is its sister the cold of the night. And they never oppose each other; each gives way to the other, exchanging only a brief glance as one waxes and the other wanes, as one awakens and the other sleeps. Always the promise of a warm day. The desert.
     
    LadyOnArooftop and JennyFleck like this.
  6. LadyOnArooftop

    LadyOnArooftop UKChat Expert

    Joined:
    Apr 21, 2018
    Messages:
    576
    Likes Received:
    515
    "I Am a Rock" is my comfort song

    I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty
    That none may penetrate
    I've no need of friendship, friendship causes pain
    It's laughter and it's loving I disdain
    Don't talk of love,
    It's sleeping in my memory
    And I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died
    If I never loved, I never would have cried
     
    Brass likes this.
  7. Brass

    Brass UKChat Initiate

    Joined:
    Mar 13, 2021
    Messages:
    136
    Likes Received:
    43
    I adopted that song, too. It was later in my life, but it definitely reflected my approach to people. There was a time when I was so depressed that I hated people who smiled too much. My motto was: If you ain't sad, then you ain't payin' attention. After giving it all some thought, it was obvious to me that life was just death in an exceptionally clever disguise. As soon as you start living, you start dying because the process of living is actually the dying process.

    So, I drank.

    When I was down and out and drinking myself to the grave, unable to stop and in quite bad health, I became angry and not very good company at all. Looking back, I can now see the reason for my nasty disposition and unfriendliness towards the woman I loved. My mistake began when I presumed to see myself through her eyes. And so, putting myself in her shoes, I believed that she saw herself as the recipient of damaged goods, and that she saw me as someone giving her no choice but to deal with the reality that I was forcing upon her.

    I was a mess. She went to family gatherings and holiday get-togethers alone, unlike her siblings. And when I put myself in her shoes, I was overcome with something like grief when I considered that she would not give up on me. The grief was not for myself, but for her. She could have abandoned me, like I, for all intents and purposes, had done to her. And I hated being the source of her grief. I remembered being younger and sitting at the edge of a lake at night when the breeze was warm and strong enough to keep the mosquitoes away, and she sat beside me with her arm draped around my neck and over my shoulder. That’s all I wanted. She was all I wanted. There was no past and no future; there was just the moment. Then came the slow, terrible downward spiral into depression and drinking. They call drinking a disease. Well, the disease was not in the bottle, but in the state of my mind which sought relief from the agony of not being able to bear being in my skin for one more hour. I was self-medicating, and, like all medications, it became a daily affair.

    The state of my mind was the result of my upbringing, and I was a bitter man. Eventually, I compared myself to men who were smiling and friendly and confident, and the contrast between that and myself was unbearably stark. How on earth could she not choose to leave me. Grace under fire. She didn’t deserve any of my attitude, but I was the scourge in her life. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, having come to not believe in love because of my bitterness towards life in general--and myself in particular--and watching her face my anger toward life every day and taking the hit without much complaint brought me to a place where I had to engage in denial of the situation. I had nothing but pain to offer her, and for some reason, she wouldn’t abandon me. It was like watching a movie in which a loyal dog would stand beside her abusive master and fight to the death to protect him from everything, including even himself.

    Loneliness hardly covers the feelings involved in that state of mind. Despair is involved, and there is no talking oneself out of that state. Sometimes when one sees life in its simplicity, the truth of it can be devastating. It’s like when you’re young and you go to the fair, and your senses are filled with the carnival music, the lights on the rides, the smell of hotdogs and cotton-candy, the sounds of bells and whistles going off indicating a winner at one of the games, and the barkers talking into their bullhorns trying to pull young people in to play their games, and then the sounds of the cheers of the people in the grandstands laughing and cheering as they watch the rodeo.

    But then you get older, and you begin to notice what’s going on behind the scenes. You happen to catch a glimpse of the grubby-looking carnies running the games and rides in one of their unguarded moments, looking unhappy and tired. And while looking, you see them taking swigs from a bottle in a brown paper bag, or puffing on something they’re trying to hide but doing a poor job of it. Then you notice some guy wearing old, greasy jeans with oil on his hands, and a cigarette hanging from his lips, and he’s pouring gasoline into the tanks of the engines that make the Ferris Wheel and all the other rides go round. And you see the drops of sweat hanging from his nose and unshaven chin. So, you turn away, sorry for having seen more than you were supposed to.

    Then you wander on over to the grandstand where the rodeo is taking place. And at some point, you look deeply into the eyes of one of the bulls standing in a trailer waiting for his turn to entertain, and you see depression. For some reason, the bull turns and looks right into your eyes, like he felt you looking and knew that you were seeing what the others didn’t. And in that wordless silence, you hear him telling you the obvious. And you know that he is looking to you for hope. But you have no hope at the moment; there’s nothing you can do. And in an uncontrollable release of grief, you stand there and let out an anguished gasp of hurt, and then you just as quickly contain it, pushing it back down into that place where all hurt is stored to rot and fester and infect your being. Some of the spectators who witnessed your outburst look at you as if you were mentally ill or otherwise unbalanced. But in the next instant there is the roar of laughter from the rest of the spectators, and their attention is off you and back onto the other show. So, you walk away, and you feel like not part of them. Not even a little. You feel lonely and lost; fucking despair. And you know that, just like the bull, it’s not temporary; indeed it's hopeless. And you know that what you’re feeling is not loneliness, but onlyness, which is far worse.
     

Share This Page