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31 March 2024
Tags: Gratuitous Nudity, Music
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The Porcelain Trappings of Youth

Lamenting the advance of age, lately I’ve been ruminating on how music and songs and most forms of entertainment fail to elicit the same thrills they did in my younger years. Most of my friends in this same age bracket have voiced similar concerns and realizations, bogged down as we are by the typical traipsing through our middle-aged years with stultifying routine and unsurprising regularity. It does make Jack a dull, dull boy indeed.

Every once in a while, however, a song still comes along to spark some of that long-lost sparkle, to thrill in the way that music and art and friendship and love once thrilled. A combination of lyrical majesty, musical enchantment, and vocal talent, ‘Mr. Porcelain’ was written by Jude York and is a lovely little song for those just embarking on the romance of life, and for those of us who have been through it a bit, and can look back and sigh with wistful longing and sweet relief. 

Not self-deprecatingI hold my head high most of the timeLike the candle I lightest of breezesHe changes the seasonsIs it gettin’ hot in here?
Oh, he’s so attractive, could never be himI think he might break if my hand touched his skinI’ve never been so close to such pretty thingsAnd it hurts to be only of earth

Mr. Porcelain dollMr. Instagram scrollMr., flatter me enough just to keep me on my toesDoes it ever get lonely up there on the wall?To be looked at, but never to holdMr. Porcelain doll
I could neverOh, I could neverOh, I could neverHe wasn’t made to hold
I could neverI could neverI could never
Remembering one’s youth can be dangerously tricky, as it so often comes along with dreams and wishes of recapturing one’s youth, or revisiting spaces and scenarios in order to do them right. That is territory I don’t like to tread. When I see people I know and love wading into those treacherous waters and flailing about in despondent despair, as if held down by a spell, drowning in their own fears of growing old and desperately attempting to hang onto youth in whatever warped way they can, I’m reminded that maybe I should be in my own state of panic. For me, though, that panic takes the form of apathy, and the inability to muster the same passion I once did for songs and melodies and movies and theater. When I mourn the passing of youth, that is the loss I mourn most – more than any physical attributes and ease, more than fitting into a 29-inch pair of jeans, more than staying out all night and not looking any worse for wear the next morning. 
He can’t be mine to hold on for a minute
Did he mean to say that?Mistook me for an ex that he meant to text backMy heart’s beating out my chestI think he said
You’re so attractive, where do I begin?I think you might break if my hand touched your skinI’ve never been so close to such pretty thingsAnd it hurts that you’re so down to earth
Mr. Porcelain dollMr. 20 years oldMr. Flatter-me-enough as if I didn’t knowDoes it ever get lonely, a rose on the wall?To be looked at but never to holdMr. Porcelain doll
I could neverOh, I could neverOh, I could neverHe wasn’t made to hold
I could neverI could neverI could neverHe can’t be mine to hold
At such times, it’s also useful to note that one’s youth is filled with folly and foolishness, and I’m grateful to have always understood this, to be as bothered by all that I didn’t know and understand, which in turn led me to desire something deeper, something more than being young could ever deliver. From my very first memories as a child, all I ever wanted was to be older. Wishes, like beauty and youth, don’t always bring us what we really want. 
He’s so beautifully perfect on everyone’s phoneTo be looked at knowing he’ll never callMr. Porcelain doll
I could neverI could neverI could neverHe wasn’t made to hold
I could neverI could neverI could never (I could never)

When I pass by a porcelain doll today, all those pretty young things just starting out on their own journeys, making a mess, a muck, and a magnificence of their own youth, I don’t envy them. Envy was never a good look on anyone, least of all me, and happily I have largely been able to avoid it. Perhaps it would have been different if I hadn’t been fortunate enough to enjoy few porcelain years of my own. And perhaps I’d mourn them if I enjoyed them more.

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