My hitherto unstated goal of posting a blog every day failed after less than a week, although I can claim an excuse which makes up in veracity what it lacks in originality: I was sick. I had not been bitten by a tick, mosquito, or even vampire; I had, in my lay opinion, simply underslept, resulting in a quite crippling migraine which made this laptop a very unwelcome companion. I am pleased to report I am all better today; I am, on another level, pleased that I have neither resorted to the artificial subterfuge of manipulating the date of this blog nor given up on the whole blogging project in the face of a single setback.
The subject of sickness recalls a lyric:
We all have a sickness, that cleverly attaches and multiplies/ No matter how we try
It comes from a song which I'd like to share with you - Dig, by Incubus. The video was selected from a shortlist by fans of the band; the striking animation is from an artist styling himself "Kaamuz".
There is a particular dig I wanted to discuss, but the hour grows late and I am, after all, not completely recovered. Ask me about the Swabian Venus sometime. It's very cool.
There is a legend told of a certain king, who with his knights betook himself unto a cave high among the mountains; and there he gathered around him his knights, and there they fell into a long sleep, for they were weary with fighting. Yet they slept, and did not die, for they knew that the day would dawn when their country would once again have need of them.
And long years passed.
And at the end of many years, came there unto the cavemouth a shepherd, seeking after a lost sheep. And he saw within the cave the king, and around him arrayed in a circle his knights; and swords were in their hands, and shields before them; and their raiment shone bright in the light of the shepherd's torch.
Then saw the shepherd a gilt horn, set high upon one wall of the cave, and beneath this horn were written the words: "To Awaken The Sleepers." And the shepherd was sore afraid, yet his curiosity was as great even as his fear; and he stretched out his hand, and he took up the horn, and he blew upon it.
And there was a great sound throughout the cave, and then a great silence.
And in that silence came a voice, that was deep and strong and yet oddly cadenced, for it was the voice of the King, and the King's dialect was not the dialect of modern men. And the King asked: "who blows upon the horn that waketh the sleepers?" Then stood forth the shepherd, those his knees trembled, and spake, though his voice trembled likewise, saying: "It is I who blew the horn."
And the eyes of the King opened, and there was in them a terrible lambent fire, and the shepherd fell to the ground.
"Rise," said the King, and the shepherd did as he was bidden. "Tell me," the King continued, while around him his knights continued in their long slumber, "do the ravens yet circle over this hilltop?" And the shepherd, who knew the hills well, said that this was so. Then waxed wrothful the King, saying, "Thou fool! Thou hast wakened us before the appointed time! While yet the ravens remain above, so must we remain below. Begone, fool, and do not return!"
This legend, in its various forms, has existed since early historic times - indeed, the prototypical story concerns the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus (Washington Irving was later to borrow from the same theme for his tale of Rip van Winkle), whose miraculous slumber and subsequent awakening is recounted in the Qu'ran, where its telling mirrors early Christian accounts from such writers as Gregory of Tours.
The Seven Sleepers, I should add, have no relationship to the Seven Sisters - unless, perhaps, you're a fan of Gematria.
A more modern Sleeper emerged in the 1990s in the UK, building on a partnership begun in a philosophy lecture between Louise Wener and Jon Stewart. Although they were subsequently joined by Diid Osman and Andy Maclure, making the band a four-piece, the Britpop outfit are remembered for Wener's androgynous, breathy, and confrontational presence - to the extent that the term "Sleeperbloke" was coined as the band rose to prominence, and denotes unremarkable persons making up the numbers in an operation. The original "Sleeperblokes" took this epithet in stride, cheerfully donning interchangeable "Sleeperbloke" T-shirts for live performances, one of which your chronicler caught while the band was on their It Girl tour. The album of the same name, released in 1996, was a Sleeper hit but hardly a sleeper hit, eventually going platinum.
Among the quirky tracks on offer on the 45-minute album was on entitled "Good Luck Mr. Gorsky." Here it is:
The unusual title recalls a legend involving the astronaut Neil Armstrong, who apparently uttered the cryptic eponym when he landed on the Moon. Since I'm not R-rating this blog, I'll be somewhat delicate in recounting it; the gist has a young Neil Armstrong losing a ball over a neighbor's fence and, in going to retrieve it, overhearing that gentleman - a Mister Gorsky - in a heated argument with his wife over a certain recreational activity for which his appetite is markedly greater than hers. As the story goes, the young Armstrong arrives just in time to hear the defiant Mrs. Gorsky aver that she will perform this particular service "when that little boy next door walks on the moon."
Although 20 July, 1969, must have been a sleepless night for Mission Control and the astronauts' families, not to mention excited viewers all over the world, Mr. Gorsky at least may be expected to have slept very well indeed...
* * *
The story is apocryphal, of course. Those killjoys at snopes.com confirm that no such words were uttered by Armstrong - although John Grunsfeld, a repairman on a Colombia mission to fix the Hubble space telescope, did call out "Good luck, Mr. Hubble!" in reference to this tale.
Neil Armstrong was the first of just twelve men to have walked upon the Moon's surface - the last being Eugene Cernan in December 1972, almost forty years ago. At least, that's the official story...
An unusual circumstance attends today's blog; time is short enough that I can't indulge my general tendency to ramble around the perimeter of the subject, admiring the topiary and getting sidetracked by the resemblence of passing clouds to former heads of state, and yet sufficient that I can't in good conscience pretend it were impossible to get my head down and write something. As a compromise, herewith a musical recommendation and review.
Adele Adkins burst onto the British music scene back in 2008, at the tender age of 19. Her debut album, entitled '19' for reasons that astute followers of this blog can probably deduce for themselves, earned her nominations for the 2008 Mercury Prize (previously bestowed upon such luminaries of the Brit music scene as Portishead, Pulp, and Gomez) and a remarkable four Grammys - album track 'Hometown Glory', written by Adele when she was just 16, won her a nomination at the following year's Grammy Awards also.
She describes her genre as "heartbroken soul," and she's not exaggerating. She has a quite simply extraordinary voice - rich, powerful, swooningly expressive. Hailed as the New Amy Whitehouse when she first emerged on the airwaves, Adele has repeatedly demonstrated that she is, in fact, the First Adele Adkins. Here for your listening pleasure is the first US release from her sophomore album '21'; you probably don't need me to tell you how it got its name: click here, and prepare to be amazed.
...In my defense, that does begin with R as well. Here's the real Adele, doing what she does best:
At home Drawing pictures Of mountain tops With him on top...
A school is a microcosm; generally, it is the first sustained experience a child has of social interactions outside the family. School is the environment in which the values and relations developed within the family unit are put on trial in the court of public opinion - the environment in which the sweater your mom finds adorable becomes the reason you get pushed into a puddle when you get off the school bus.
Daddy didn't give attention To the fact that mommy didn't care King Jeremy the wicked Ruled his world...
The phrase "child abuse" conjures vile images of pederasts, kidnappers, warped individuals with a twisted set of values - after all, you'd have to be a monster to want to hurt a child, right? Sadly, ordinary people with nothing more sinister than paint thinner in their cellars can, and do, hurt children all the time. Maybe they get drunk, or transfer aggression at a spouse or a workplace that stifles them; maybe they make themselves feel better by belittling their child; maybe they misunderstand the function of discipline and wear their child down; maybe they just don't take the time to notice, to understand, to hear the cries the child can't express - or those the child has learned to keep inside.
Clearly I remember Pickin' on the boy Seemed a harmless little fuck But we unleashed a lion...
"It builds character," we assure ourselves. "All kids go in for a bit of rough and tumble, it's part of growing up." We remind ourselves that we, too, were picked on - or knew somebody who was. Maybe we're honest enough to remember the kid we ostracized, teased, gossiped about, lied about, laughed at, taunted, made miserable. Maybe we rationalize that it's how children become adults - as though adults stop doing these things to each other whenever they can get away with it. Maybe we feel like what we suffered is invalidated if children today don't suffer it too. "I went through it," we tell ourselves from the safe vantage point of fifteen, twenty, thirty years later, "and I turned out okay." Maybe we feel threatened by our children's pain - maybe that's why we tell them they need to toughen up, take it on the chin, take their lumps, get in the game. Like it's a game. Like they're playing. Like it's not serious.
How could I forget He hit me with a surprise left My jaw left hurtin Dropped wide open...
Of course, some kids know it's not a game - or, if it is, the stakes are impossibly high and the only rule is that the winner is the one who goes furthest. These kids understand that authority is the mask hate wears when it beats you down; that all the rules, the politeness, the please and the thankyou and the can-i-have-another - all of that is part of the fabric that ties you down, the cotton in your mouth when you're trying to scream. These kids know that there is no cavalry over the hill, no light at the end of the tunnel. They know that, if there is a God, all He has for them is themselves. And they work on themselves. They do it in whatever private place they can find - maybe in a bedroom, playing angry music; maybe in a garage, practicing on action figures, on posters, on neighbor's pets; maybe just in the space behind the eyes that won't cry any more, won't give anybody that satisfaction. They work on themselves, and they work themselves up to a sticking place. And they stick there, balanced at the acme of themselves, until something tips the balance, and finally, precipitately, they fall.
Jeremy spoke in class today...
Pearl Jam's controversial song - and video - was inspired, tragically, by a real Jeremy: Jeremy Wade Delle, who shot himself to death in front of his classmates a month before his 17th birthday in 1991. He came to school late that day, and was sent to get an admission slip from the office. Instead of collecting the slip, he brought back a .357 Magnum. His last words were "Miss, I got what I really went for."
One of his classmates, Lisa Moore, recounted how they'd pass notes to one another during in-school suspension. His would always be signed "write back"; just before he found expression for what was inside him, his last note was signed "later days."
It came from a small paragraph in a paper which means you kill yourself and you make a big old sacrifice and try to get your revenge. That all you're gonna end up with is a paragraph in a newspaper. Sixty-three degrees and cloudy in a suburban neighborhood. That's the beginning of the video and that's the same thing is that in the end, it does nothing … nothing changes. The world goes on and you're gone. The best revenge is to live on and prove yourself. Be stronger than those people. And then you can come back. ~ Eddie Vedder
