The morning rain slants against the living room window. Seagulls fly above the houses arcing and floating in the blustery wind.
Ever since listening to an interview with the philosopher-poet David Whyte, I’ve been turning over in my mind this coin of an idea that we’re all dancing towards our own disappearance.
Last night I went to a show. I didn’t know either of the bands, but they were both great. The main act, a band called Sgt. Splendor, put on such a good show and put me in such a good mood, that I walked home in the rain at 2 am and didn’t give a shit about getting soaked.
Earlier in the night a prostitute tried to pick me up (or at least I think that’s what was going on). I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended (do I look like an easy mark? desperate? lonely? a sucker? moneyed?). She gave me lots of compliments. Said I had swagger and style. Not sure how I pull off swagger or style from the corner of a bar, but sure, ok. I’d have been more impressed if she had used old-timey phrases and said she liked the cut of my jib or I had panache. I guess I like my prostitutes to have a quirky sense of humor. I was fine with talking to her at the bar, but I think she was a little ticked when she realized I wasn’t buying… time is money. I suppose this was to be expected at a dark and loungey bar called the boom boom room.
Knowing it was going to rain today, I bought a loaf of thick-sliced, country white bread so I could have French toast for breakfast. I’ll make some cookies later and thaw some bolognese sauce for dinner. It’s that type of day. One in which I’ll play the slow and sultry tunes as I ease into my own disappearances.
A new old favorite is “Chains and Things” by B.B. King
Another new favorite (one that’s been on heavy rotation for me) is “Dew Drops” by JJ Grey and Mofro. I love the chorus: “I’m walking on moonlight. Walkin’ in the starlight place in my mind. Walkin’ on moonlight in the day.”
The interview with Whyte talked about the strange beauty in grief and sadness and regret. He calls it a well-felt sadness.
So in a way, grief then turns to elegy. And elegy is always the conversation between loss and celebration that you had the privilege of being alive on the planet at the same time. I mean, how incredible is that? Of all the millions and hundreds of millions of lives there have been since the beginning of conscious time, we were alive together at the same time on the same planet for a brief span of years. We got to breathe each other’s air. How incredible is that? That’s the elegy to be able to speak. And you were able to actually be in the presence and witness of that gift.
On regret Whyte says:
But I sat down and I wrote it and I realized regret has been the deeply unfashionable quality over the last 30 or 40 years. Lots of people are going around saying, “I have no regrets and you should have no regrets.” And I always say to myself, “Where have you been all your life? You should get out more and actually create some because there’s no life you can live without regret. The only question is, will you actually feel your regret to its fullest? Because a proper regret puts you into a better relationship to the future.”
Of vulnerability and cynicism he says (the name of the podcast is Sounds True):
So we tend to think of vulnerability as a weakness, but it’s really interesting to think of it as the place where you’re open to the world where you want to be or not. You’re just made that way. You were made to create sounds true and to get the word out to people. That’s just the way you’re made. That’s your vulnerability. You’re vulnerable because you care about it. Your work makes you vulnerable because you care about it.
And the only way you can stop being vulnerable is to stop caring, and many people do that, of course, it’s one of our great defenses. I’m going to stop my dream because it’s breaking my heart, so I’m going to stop caring. And then you create the identity of the cynic. The cynic always has all the answers and all the evidence behind them. They’re very powerful that way. They’ve got all the evidence as to why you’re just going to get your heart broken, whatever you do.
In many ways, it’s true, there is no sincere path a human being can take where we won’t have our hearts broken. So we can only choose to take the path that we really care about. So that’s the path of vulnerability. It’s also the path of artistry. And out of that, we start making incredible invitations.
I share Whyte’s thinking because a lot of these songs, especially blues songs have these sad, almost so awful that they’re comically cliched, lyrics but they’re coupled with these seductive rhythms. There’s a leaning in to the heartache that, as Whyte suggests, is the path to artistry.
“My Baby caught a train. Walked away on me. My baby caught a train. Left me standin’ in the rain…”
“I’m so tired of playing – playing with this bow and arrow…”
It’s a slow and rainy morning. It’s the kind of morning where it’s easy and enjoyable to get lost – in art and thought, music and beauty.