Category Archives: Music

25
March
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Oeuvre ~ Part I

This week sees the long-awaited new album by Madonna, and that’s all that really matters. In anticipation and honor of that, I’ve compiled a quick collection of mini-reviews on all her full-length studio albums. (Meaning I’m bypassing soundtracks and greatest hits collections – which admittedly excludes some notable work, but this is not the final say. One exception – I’m Breathless, which is both a bit of a soundtrack, and a proper full-length studio album that she co-wrote.) To begin, we’ll focus on the first decade of music (and I’ll even give them some Entertainment Weekly-like grades, based solely on my personal preference.)

 

Madonna ~ 1983: For her self-titled debut, she introduces herself as a dance-friendly R&B artist, a role she would return to again and again. Oddly enough, this may be my least favorite album. It came out just before I was cognizant of music, so I missed this first flush of fame and glory, and the only songs I still enjoy are the classic ‘Holiday’ and a little bit of ‘Borderline’. Some will argue that ‘Lucky Star’ is one of her greatest, but I disagree. Never liked it and never will.
Grade: C+

 

Like A Virgin ~ 1984: For many, this is the one and only Madonna album, and I believe it remains her best-selling album in the US. This was what made me, and countless others, fall in love with her – only it wasn’t the sexy come-ons or titillating titles, it was the pure gold of a few genius pop songs. From the jaunty opening sass and irony of ‘Material Girl’ to the racy title track, from the creamy-smooth coos and luscious laughter of ‘Angel’ to the cheeky, sartorially-sexy vibe of ‘Dress You Up’, there are myriad highlights here of an artist who defined the 80’s and made them her own. A few uneven moments (‘Pretender’ and ‘Shoo-Bee-Doo’ perhaps) slightly mar the genius at work, exposing an occasional reliance on rhyming clichés, but as a whole Like A Virgin remains a vital, and potent, collection of songs.
Grade: B+

 

True Blue ~ 1986: Worldwide, I think this was her best-selling album, though in the US it slightly paled in comparison to the white-hot Virgin. Personally, I liked this even more than her sophomore effort, and though steeped in the limits of 80’s synthesized instrumentation, it is a more cohesive album. The unlikely lead single was a ballad, ‘Live to Tell’, and to this day, it stands up as one of her finest. Followed by ‘Papa Don’t Preach’, the songs on True Blue were our first hint that Madonna could get serious and thoughtful, and make pop music that mattered. Solidifying the album’s status were two more stellar singles, ‘La Isla Bonita’ and ‘Open Your Heart’ – both examples of how to craft the perfect pop song. Even the filler (‘Where’s the Party’) astonished.
Grade: A-

 

Like A Prayer ~ 1989: Musical majesty at its finest. This is easily her best album of the 80’s – and probably her second-best of all time. The title song alone stands in history as one of the greatest, and most enduring, examples of musical pop art, and the entire album is a keystone of Madonna’s legacy. Lyrically confessional, musically adventurous (LAP largely eschewed the synthesized sounds of the 80’s for live, organic instrumentation, and even a Gospel choir), and emotionally charged, it found Madonna getting real while getting down. Like in ‘Express Yourself’ – a clarion call for girl power and an instant Madonna mantra, the song brought the bass and the funk, staking its independence in the wake of her divorce. Soul-revealing cuts like ‘Til Death Do Us Part’ and ‘Oh Father’ were buoyed by the sunnier sides of ‘Cherish’ and ‘Dear Jessie’, and the album brilliantly manages to balance light and dark, happiness and sorrow, and love and loss. Even the dud of its last song, ‘Act of Contrition’, can’t take away from its luster and glory.
Grade: A+

 

I’m Breathless ~ 1990: Not technically the soundtrack to the movie Dick Tracy, it was “From and Inspired By” the film, which explains the 180 degree turn to a jazzy, musical pastiche of 20’s and 30’s slanted music. Lead single ‘Vogue’ stood on its own, and grandly so (largely apart from the rest of the theme), while Madonna sings some songs by Broadway master Stephen Sondheim and makes them her own. Vocal lessons apparent, her voice extends deeper and far beyond the chirps of her first album, and her breathing and lines are more assured. Highlights include the Oscar-winning ”Sooner or Later’ and the saucy (though-by-now-quaint) ‘Hanky Panky’. This would be the closest Madonna would get to Broadway until Evita, and it marked a promising beginning, even if the fans weren’t so quick to embrace it. Personally, I loved it all – even ‘I’m Going Bananas’.
Grade: B+

 

Erotica ~ 1992: Dark, chilly, sexy, and adventurous, Erotica was under-rated from the start, and remains so to this day. It actually offered a more varied take on sex and love than it’s given credit for, with thrilling titles that delved into deeper and more complex themes than a roll in the hay would ever support on its own. From the vamping title track to the giddy racing dance-romp of follow-up ‘Deeper and Deeper’, Erotica found Madonna doing dance-pop as only she could, even as her themes scared off the less-experienced. There should have been more singles than ‘Bad Girl’ and ‘Rain’, two of the softer (but no less beautiful) ballads, but I think she may have wanted to rein things in at that point. It’s too bad, as ‘Thief of Hearts’ and ‘Words’ were hook-filled and bridge-tastic, and even an overdone cover of ‘Fever’ or a silly throw-away like ‘Bye Bye Baby’ sounded better than most of what was on the radio. Erotica closed her first decade of music with a dark, challenging flourish ~ alienating some, winning over others, and setting the stage, in ways both good and bad, for what was to come. The album, though, was a winner.
Grade: A-

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16
March
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #66 – ‘Rain’ ~ Fall 1992/Summer 1993

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I feel it
It’s coming…

It turns out I’ve already written about the next iPod selection for the Madonna Timeline, ‘Rain’, but it was before the official Timeline came into existence, so I’m putting the original up here now. It was written a couple of years ago, but it’s a memory that’s true, a memory that has lasted, and a memory that still matters.

Rain – feel it on my fingertips, hear it on my windowpane,
Your love’s coming down like rain.
Wash away my sorrow, take away my pain,
Your love’s coming down like rain.

Sixteen years ago I did not have my driver’s license. I was old enough to drive, I just hadn’t gotten around to making it officially legal, mostly because I didn’t care. Still, I loved sneaking out at night when my parents had gone to bed, putting the car in reverse, and starting it as the wheels eased out of the driveway.

When your lips are burning mine
And you take the time to tell me how you feel
When you listen to my words
And I know you’ve heard, I know it’s real
Rain is what this thunder brings
For the first time I can hear my heart sing
Call me a fool but I know I’m not
I’m gonna stand out here on the mountain top

That fall was difficult for me on a number of levels. It’s not worth going into depth about it – it was simply a lonely time, and the onslaught of dreary gray weather did nothing to abate my melancholy. As a cold rain began to come down, I drove out of the small city and onto the back roads of upstate New York.

Rain – feel it on my fingertips, hear it on my windowpane,
Your love’s coming down like rain.
Wash away my sorrow, take away my pain,
Your love’s coming down like rain.

The rain was tearing the leaves from the trees – dark brown ones from the lofty reaches of grand oaks were driven down by the wind. The car sped along the messy road. Back in my bedroom, a plastic bag, a large rubber band, and a bottle of sleeping pills awaited my return. A page of the suicide manual ‘Final Exit’ was marked, its instructions strangely void of emotion, no guidance on what to feel.

When you looked into my eyes and you said good-bye,
Could you see my tears?
When I turned the other way, did you hear me say,
I’d wait for all the dark clouds bursting in a perfect sky
You promised me when you said good-bye
That you’d return when the storm was done
And now I’ll wait for the light, I’ll wait for the sun…

The road turned, twisting itself along a line of trees. Rain pelted the windshield, a curtain of falling leaves parted for the car, and my sweaty palms and wet eyes glazed the glass between us. On the radio they were playing an as-yet-unreleased Madonna album, ‘Erotica’ (back when radio did that sort of thing). I would never get to hear it in its entirety, not if everything went according to plan. It was the one drawback to ending it that night. I could bitterly rejoice at skipping all my math homework due the next day, and defiantly put off cleaning my room – add it to the mess I was leaving – but I would not be able to hear the rest of Madonna’s music, not if I left tonight.

Rain – feel it on my fingertips, hear it on my windowpane,
Your love’s coming down like rain.
Wash away my sorrow, take away my pain,
Your love’s coming down like rain.

It was a simple ballad with a simple chord progression and a simple resounding theme of yearning, and if Madonna was having a rough go of it then how could anyone, much less myself, be expected to do any better?

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say, never go away…

So I decided to wait, at least until the album came out and I could get a proper listen, promising myself that I could always come back to where my head was at and do it right then.

Waiting is the hardest thing
(It’s strange I feel like I’ve known you before)
I tell myself that if I believe in you
(And I want to understand you)
In the dream of you
(More and more)
With all my heart and all my soul
(When I’m with you)
That by sheer force of will
(I feel like a magical child)
I will raise you from the ground
(Everything strange)
And without a sound you’ll appear
(Everything wild)
And surrender to me, to love

There would be other attempts at self-annihilation, and there will always be that part of me that sometimes wishes to go away, but for that moment, that night, the simple promise of a Madonna song was enough to bring me to another day. It was the night a Madonna song saved my life.

I feel it,
It’s coming,
Your love’s coming down like…
Rain.

Song #66 – ‘Rain’ ~ Fall 1992/Summer 1993

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09
March
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #65 ~ ‘Where’s the Party?’ – 1987

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Working Monday through Friday
Takes up all of my time
If I can get to the weekend
Everything will work out just fine
That’s when I can go crazy
That’s when I can have fun
Time to be with my baby
Time to come on down…

The year was probably 1987. A young boy dances around his bedroom to Madonna’s ‘You Can Dance’ remix album. He doesn’t know exactly what it’s like to work Monday through Friday, but school is a good approximation. When the weekend arrives, he has nowhere to go but his bedroom, and he has nothing to do but dance.

Where’s the party?
I want to free my soul
Where’s the party?
I want to lose control

A complete product of the 80’s, he is superficial, colorful (some might say gaudy), and just a little bit cold. There would always be something coolly clinical about him, something glossy and frigid, like the modern doo-dads being sold at the store that replaced Edna’s Edibles on ‘The Facts of Life’.

Couldn’t wait to get older
Thought I’d have so much fun
Guess I’m one of the grown-ups
Now I have to get the job done
People gave me the business,
I’m not living in fear
I’m just living in chaos
Gotta get away from here.

How he loved that silly show, even if his Mom thought it crass and crude. He just saw a group of girls growing up, and he always wanted to be part of something like that. For the rest of his school years, he saw himself as Blair, searching for the friend she found in Jo, all to no avail. At that age, friendship was all – friendship was everything. He hadn’t quite reached the era of romance.

Where’s the party?
I want to free my soul
Where’s the party?
I want to lose control

And so he danced – alone in his bedroom, with the door shut and the world blocked out. He roamed the canyons of his mind, while lost in visions of his favorite Swatch, mesmerized by the blinking of a decorative stoplight, lulled by the mechanical movement of a wave machine – surrounded by the bells and whistles of the 80’s. Dub versions, 7 inchers, 12 inchers, and more – he spun wildly round and round over the dirty cream-colored carpet before collapsing in an out-of-breath heap.

Don’t want to go on too fast
Don’t want to let the system get me down
I’ve got to find a way to make the good times last
And if you show me how,
I’m ready now…

The party was there, the party was then, and even if it was a party of one, the party still raged. On a Saturday night (I guess that makes it all right), he played and rewound and played again that gray crystal-like cassette, watching the rolls of glossy brown filament spin in tandem like some simple yet intricate clockwork. Outside, the dark night stood watch, as the dancing shadows of a boy played upon the blinds, and the safety of a well-lit childhood bedroom begged for a few more carefree years.

Song #65: ‘Where’s the Party?’ ~ 1987
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24
February
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #64 ~ ‘Nothing Really Matters’ – Late Winter 1999

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Nothing really matters
Love is all we need
Everything I give you
All comes back to me.

At the time, I was deep into my first serious adult relationship with a boyfriend. We were driving South – to Tennessee – to visit his home and family. It felt like a big deal, but also the most natural thing in the world. We left the Northeastern Winter, traveling into the spring of the Southern mountains. We arrived as dusk settled on a balmy but cool late-winter night.

This has always been one of my favorite times of the year in which to travel, the stultifying stagnation of winter usually has me beat down by this point, and I’m antsy and bursting to go somewhere – anywhere – and there’s no better where than a road trip.

The year of ‘Nothing Really Matters’ had been a snowy one in Boston, but as we drove deeper into the warmer climate zones, the dirty snow melted away, so that by the time we reached Tennessee, the ground was barren of winter, even if spring had not yet broken.

Looking at my life,
It’s very clear to me,
I lived so selfishly
I was the only one.
I realize that nobody wins
Something is ending
And something begins…

I don’t remember much of my meeting with his Mom. We got along well, talking for a bit in the kitchen after I put my bags in Paul’s childhood room. A walking iris bloomed in the front window of the living room. For the first time in my life, it was a plant I didn’t recognize.

(Later, years later, I’d find a walking iris in a local greenhouse and bring it home. They’re a strong breed, multiplying at the end of their blossoms like a spider plant, each one a new baby waiting to send forth roots once in contact with soil. The blossoms come at the tail end of Winter, just in time to soothe a snow-weary countenance.)

Nothing really matters
Love is all we need
Everything I give you
All comes back to me.

As I went to bed, alone, in my boyfriend’s old room, after he kissed me goodnight and went to sleep on the couch, I felt the daunting task of possibly entering a whole new family. It was a happy worry though, and I had the hope of one day belonging.

Sleep took a while to arrive. The room was bluish gray in the dim night, the shadows of toys and books were long and deep. Lying in his bed, I wondered what he’d been like as a boy. Would we have been friends? I breathed in the scent of the pillow, curling into myself, trying to forge into his past and his dreams.

Nothing takes the past away
Like the future
Nothing makes the darkness go
Like the light…

For the next few days we explored Chattanooga – visiting a cave and the historic sites of war battles, posing in front of waterfalls and cannons. We had dinner with his Dad and his girlfriend. At an imported furniture store we examined a Japanese tansu, and I bought a collection of heavy marble spheres, polished to a high gloss. (To this day, they sit in a green bowl in my living room, an echo of the past, a pleasant reminder of that almost-spring week.)

As we walked through the town of his youth, thoughts of a future life together rolled out before me, like some long hallway runner, and I felt warmed at the thought. Everything about my boyfriend warmed me at the time – it was my heart that held a chill.

You’re shelter from the storm
Give me comfort in your arms…

In all, it was a very pleasant visit. As in much of our relationship, I was in a somewhat hazy space of not quite letting my guard down, but that time together was a happy one. As for Madonna, this song marked the last single from the ‘Ray of Light’ album, and it was a bittersweet close to that heretofore-unmatched musical era. To accompany it, she shot one of her most ravishing videos, based loosely on the book ‘Memoirs of a Geisha.’

It was a spectacular image overhaul – her hair black, shiny and bone straight – and fifteen years into her long line of transformations, it was a glorious reminder of her power to surprise and find new inspiration.

The video features a vivid, red-accented, kimono-draped atmosphere with a striking Japanese motif – a slightly disturbing clip of high-pop-art that shows what video can, at its best, achieve. She performed this song live on the Grammy Awards – her first-ever Grammy performance.

(Vocally, not her best, as nerves seem to have gotten the best of her, but visually a stunning echo of the video.) She deservedly won a few golden gramophones that night, for the ‘Ray of Light’ album, and looked radiant doing so.

Nothing really matters
Love is all we need
Everything I give you
All comes back to me.
Song #64: ‘Nothing Really Matters’ – Late Winter 1999
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16
February
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #63 ~ ‘Bad Girl’ – Winter 1993

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

This is one of those songs that has a number of memories attached to it, adding to its resonance over the years, evolving into something that morphs to the scene at hand. That’s the way it is for many of Madonna’s best songs – they open themselves up to multiple-readings, myriad meanings, and in so doing operate on many levels. ‘Bad Girl’ was released in the rather snowy winter of early 1993, a rocky time in the aftermath of the ‘Erotica’ brouhaha, and over the years all I have left of the song is a pastiche of rather shaky memories, without narrative or structure – mere wisps of images, elusive as smoke, and as hard to grasp.

Something’s missing and I don’t know why
I always feel the need to hide my feelings from you
Is it me or you that I’m afraid of?
I tell myself I’ll show you what I’m made of
Can’t bring myself to let you go…

Scene 1:
The back roads of upstate New York. Holding my high school girlfriend’s hand, not knowing if we would make it through the coming summer – our last at home – not knowing how to hang onto the night, I sit in the backseat of a friend’s car. The snow muffles the evening, as our friends sit in the front and talk of other things. Beneath amber street lamps, it glows an eerie yellow. On nights like this, the snow is a frigid comfort. As the wheels spin on a slippery patch, it seems as if even in the case of a crash, the snow would cushion the blow, blunt the impact, gently toss the car back on track. Luckily, there is no crash that night, just the soft crunch of white stuff beneath the wheels. I look out the window, gaze up into the falling flakes, peer at receding eternity, and squeeze her hand a little harder.

Don’t want to cause you any pain
But I love you just the same
And you’ll always be my baby
In my heart I know we’ve come apart
And I don’t know where to start
What can I do?
I don’t want to feel blue…

Scene 2:
The snow has turned dirty. The years have clicked ahead. The messy end of another winter leaves mud and salt swirling on the streets. A new girlfriend, an end to innocence, and the difficult duplicity of adulthood.

A betrayal of the heart. A betrayal of the body. A betrayal of the sacredness of sex. The scent of another woman on her fingers, the impossibility of it, the slutty suspicions confirmed and quickly sent into oblivion with a smile. We had both been bad then, and we both smiled to ease the double blow. We took the pain we inflicted and felt and ran with it, delving deeper into our mutual destruction, powerless to salvage more than a slow-fading disdain.

The snow soon melted, dirt unto dirt, and the winter went away. The women of my romantic life were filing into the past, into the dim but warmly-remembered history of a somewhat messy path to the man I always was but never acknowledged. The age of women, at least for me, had come to its conclusion, and the only question was how much trickier might men prove to be?

Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing someone else’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy when I act this way.
Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy, I’m not happy…

Scene 3:

A stranger’s bed. A morning after. A dim gray glow of dawn. He has had his drunken way with me, and I with him. Untangling my limbs from wrinkled sheets, I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from my contact-irritated eyes, blinking to see clearly, and wondering at another mess I’ve made. I seem to recall a third guy – yes, there were three of us – and it was never as hot as it’s made out to be. Even in the supposedly-fun and unattached debauchery, there are jealousies and entanglements, but somehow I had been the one to last, to win, to stay the night – though in the rising sun it felt anything but a victory. One cannot win through submission. One cannot triumph in degradation. One merely survives, if one is lucky, and moves on.

Something’s happened and I can’t go back
I fall apart every time you hand your heart out to me
What happens now? I know I don’t deserve you
I wonder how I’m ever gonna hurt you
Can’t bring myself to let you go
Don’t want to cause you any pain
But I love you just the same
And you’ll always be my baby
In my heart I know we’ve come apart
And I don’t know where to start
What can I do?
I don’t want to feel blue…

As for the song, it was a commercial dud, adding to the perceived failure of the ‘Erotica’ album, but it came with one of the best videos Madonna has ever made. Directed masterfully by David Fincher (yes, that David Fincher), it tells the dark story of a woman losing herself in wine and cigarettes and one-night-stands. We’ve all been that woman at one point or other – at least I certainly have – and it’s a frightening place to be.

It doesn’t seem so at the time. I mean to say, it’s a long spiral downward – and not all of it is bad – so when you’re finally looking up from below, it can come as a shock to see how far you’ve descended.

Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing someone else’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy when I act this way.
Bad girl, drunk by six,
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips
Smoked too many cigarettes today
I’m not happy, I’m not happy…

This is an epic video – cinematic in scope and visuals, with just enough intrigue to drive the narrative, and it features one of Madonna’s strongest performances. Her blank face beautifully framed by the softest of bright blonde curls, she gives off the emptiness of her character while fighting for feeling. Through it all, her hurt is palpable, her pain apparent, and her trajectory bound solidly to imminent destruction. It is the perfect almost-apology for the ‘Erotica’ period, a video capsule of self-punishing come-uppance, in which Madonna may be sending her naughtier-self into an exile from which she has never returned.

I’m not happy, I’m not happy this way
I’m not happy this way
Kissing some kind stranger’s lips…

Song #63: ‘Bad Girl’ – Winter 1993

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23
January
2012
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #62 – ‘Open Your Heart’ ~ Winter 1987

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Early evening, in the midst of an endless and snowy winter. In the hallway of my childhood home, the television in my parents’ room glows, and MTV – a relatively recent addition to our lives – is playing Madonna’s ‘Open Your Heart’ video. I am alone upstairs, looking into the mirror above my mother’s bureau, while anonymous men look into the peep-show of Madonna’s video world.

The carpet in the room is blue, the bedspread a faded pastiche of pastels. Pale white-washed furniture stands on elegantly carved feet, while two candelabra lamps glow on each end of the bureau. It is one of my strongest childhood memories, and I don’t know why, for nothing other than Madonna and my solitude was happening, yet I distinctly remember that moment, that scene, the way the light fell – more than I remember most of my birthdays. It must have been early 1987, which made me all of eleven years old.

I see you on the street and you walk on by,
You make me wanna hang my head down and cry,
If you gave me half the chance you’d see,
My desire burning inside of me…

As a kid, I wasn’t the most social of children – preferring to entertain myself in solitude, far more interested in walks in the woods or the pursuit of solitary projects in my room. Yet part of me longed for company, to be a part of something, even as I pushed my contemporaries away. It was the essence of this song – yearning for someone to open their heart and include you in their life. I couldn’t see that then – I only loved a catchy hook and a decent beat.

But you choose to look the other way…

Back then, I never really hung out with people. School was my social scene, and it was enough. It was more than enough, actually, and it was like work. As such, it was tainted with the drudgery of forced labor, lacking in the joy and play that I wanted to surround social activities. I was well-liked enough, but I left those friendships and relationships at school, and was happy to do so.

I took the easy way out and just hung out with the friends my brother brought home. It was easier that way, and I could get away if I got bored, without being expected to provide entertainment, any sort of babysitting, or the awkward exit strategy.

My brother’s friends, younger than me by a year or two, were good enough for companionship, for the boyhood camaraderie that I simultaneously sought out and rejected. I always wanted for adventure, for some ‘Stand By Me’/’Goonies’ journey filled with exciting twists and turns, and a small, measured dose of danger to keep us on our toes – but such travails work best when you’re not alone.

We did the best we could, finding thrills in night-time games of hide-and-seek, now and then embarking on the planning of a fort in the woods (which would never see any real building), or enacting bike chases in front of befuddled neighbors.

I’ve had to work much harder than this
For something I want
Don’t try to resist me…

For all my enjoyment of solitude, part of me wanted to be some integral part of a pack, an instantly-assimilated team player, even as my otherness made it impossible. On one night, my brother was invited over to his friend’s house for a sleepover. I desperately wanted to go too, but pride prevented me from asking outright. Instead, I called over to the house, inventing some lame easily-seen-through excuse to talk to my brother. We spoke briefly, and then he had to go. About half-an-hour later I called back. I asked for my brother again, and his friend’s Mom asked if I wanted to come over. A quick feigning of surprise and utter interior relief, and I was soon part of the sleepover, running around the wood-paneled basement and hiding from their huge dog.

Open your heart to me, baby,
I hold the lock and you hold the key
Open your heart to me, darling,
I’ll give you love if you,
You turn the key.

I’ll probably never know what my brother and his friends thought of me, other than some sometimes-bothersome tag-a-long, or funny older brother – he claims to not remember much, and even my perfect memory has suffered a little deterioration. But whenever I hear ‘Open Your Heart’, the memory comes back – the memories, I should say – and instantly I’m that little boy again, begging to be asked, to be invited.

I think that you’re afraid to look in my eye
You look a little sad, boy, I wonder why
I follow you around but you can’t see
You’re too wrapped up in yourself to notice
So you choose to look the other way
Well I’ve got something to say…

‘Open Your Heart’ was, looking back, one of the major themes of my boyhood. As much as I fought against it, all I really wanted was to belong, and to be welcomed. All of my acting out, all of my strange behavior, all of the weird attention-getting antics ~ they were my convoluted ways of pleading for acceptance and love.

Don’t try to run I can keep up with you
Nothing can stop me from trying
You’ve got to open your heart to me, baby
I hold the lock and you hold the key
Open your heart to me, darling
I’ll give you love if you, you turn the key…

The strange thing is, the very ways I went about finding friends and companionship were so odd, and my interests and passions so atypical of an eleven-year-old boy (plants, flowers, tropical fish, Madonna, unicorns, dolls, glitter) that I alienated as much as I sought. It would be a conundrum that haunted my way through adolescence and into adulthood, and in so many key ways is with me to this day. All I can do to counter it, to vainly strive to show what it all means, is to put up a Madonna post and have her plead my case.

Open your heart with the key
One is such a lonely number
Open your heart, I’ll make you love me
It’s not that hard, if you just turn the key
Don’t try to run I can keep up with you
Nothing can stop me from trying
You’ve got to open your heart to me, baby
I hold the lock and you hold the key
Open your heart to me, darling
I’ll give you love if you, you turn the key…

Song #62 – ‘Open Your Heart’ ~ Winter 1987

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16
January
2012
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #61 – ‘Deeper & Deeper’ ~ Fall/Winter 1992/93

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

It was a cold winter night, and the big Victorian house was drafty at best. Downstairs, the wind swept by stained glass, while the wrap-around front porch offered little protection. Despite this, the dark home offered warmth and refuge, the velvet red wall-paper in some rich damask pattern winding through the first few grand rooms. This was Suzie’s house, where she grew up, and where my family spent all of our holidays. It was the repository of memories old and happy, sad and pronounced, silly and momentous. On the night at hand – sometime in late 1992 or early 1993 – Madonna had just released ‘Deeper and Deeper’ from the infamous ‘Erotica’ album, and we were convening for a Friday or Saturday night of nothing. No more than seventeen years old, we had no idea what the outside world held in store, nor how protected we were in that old Victorian.

When you know the notes to sing,
You can sing most anything,
That’s what my Mama told me.
Round and round and round you go
Where you find love you’ll always know
I let my father mold me.

Deeply-stained wood framed everything, and the staircase wound round and round, higher and higher, or deeper and deeper. A small group of us wandered the dim corridors, peering into darkened rooms, seeking out the refuge of light in the kitchen, or the hidden recesses of secret passageways. Empty bedrooms, cold tiled bathrooms, and the call of darker secrets in the attic high and beyond lent the evening a slant of mystery. The flickering light of a few candles fluttered on the velvet walls, while shadows grew and receded.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

A bit of music played, someone did a little dance, and I sat on the couch and watched it all unfold, the only boy among all the girls, accepted as one of them, my gayness already entrance to the world of women. I leaned back and let my eyes close. A copy of the Sex book sat on the floor, and someone rifled idly through it. Ripples of laughter echoed from the kitchen down the hallway. Surrounded by ladies-in-the-making, I felt completely at home. No matter what else happened – and much did – I would always feel that comfort with them.

All is fair in love she said
Think with your heart not with your head
That’s what my Mama told me
All the little things you do
Will end up coming back to you
I let my father mold me…

How I loved those girls, and how loved they made me feel. When you took away the sexual tension between two people of the opposite sex (as being gay tends to do), it’s much easier to get along and become great friends. I wasn’t there yet though, and so we danced upon the rollicking sea of teenage hormones and the taste of freedom on the tips of our tongues.

Daddy couldn’t be all wrong
And my Mama made me learn this song
That’s why I can’t help falling in love
I fall deeper and deeper the further I go
Kisses sent from heaven above
They get sweeter and sweeter
The more that I know.

They would grow into women before my eyes. One would fuck me, one would hold me, one would laugh at me, one would make me laugh, and one would love me for life. Through it all, the woman to whom I compared all women sang her siren song.

Someone said that romance was dead
And I believed it instead of remembering
What my Mama told me, Let my father mold me
Then you tried to hold me
You remind me what they said
This feeling inside, I can’t explain
But my love is alive
And I’m never gonna hide it again.

The most fun song on the ‘Erotica’ album whirled its dancing beat, and on the television upstairs the video played in an amber-lit room. On-screen, the candles and the incense glowed, the whole sexy Madonna mystique was in full effect, with echoes of Dietrich in her blonde-afro wig, and waves of Andy Warhol rolled through the disco party scene. There were drugs and danger, and the master re-arranger, and then, finally, for the first time, Madonna quotes herself, and the then-rather-recent past of ‘Vogue’:

You’ve got to let your body move to the music,
You’ve got to just let your body go with the flow.

The music took up again, spinning wildly into dizzy abandon, and with it a little pocket of our youth was turned inside out, emptied and torn, ripped ragged in the wind of that last winter of our high school years. We loved each other then, as best as we could. We tumbled together down the final rocky stretch of childhood, holding onto one another, grasping and pushing and pulling, hoping to make the night run on forever…

Falling in love
Falling in love
I can’t keep from falling in love with you
There’s nothing better that I’d like to do.

Song #61 – ‘Deeper & Deeper’ ~ Fall/Winter 1992/93

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10
January
2012
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #60 – ‘High Flying Adored’ – Winter 1997

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

High flying, adored
What happens now, where do you go from here?
For someone on top of the world
The view is not exactly clear
A shame you did it all at twenty-six
There are no mysteries now
Nothing can thrill you, no one fulfill you
High flying, adored
I hope you come to terms with boredom
So famous so easily, so soon
It’s not the wisest thing to be
You won’t care if they love you
It’s been done before
You’ll despair if they hate you
You’ll be drained of all energy
All the young who’ve made it would agree

Okay, I admit it: I almost cheated on the Madonna Timeline. When I saw that ‘High Flying Adored’ was up next, I was about to skip over to the next song because this is really mostly Antonio Freaking Banderas. But I stayed true to the method of the madness, and am putting this up now, in the order in which it was received.

Not much to say about this bit from Evita. It takes place when Eva Peron is first realizing her glamour, and a bit of her power, and whenever I hear it I think of Madonna walking up that flight of stairs, impeccably gussied-up in a sparkling evening gown, hair pulled dramatically-high into lofty bun (the start of the transformation into Eva’s signature chignon), and head held aristocratically above it all. It’s the attitude I try to convey whenever I walk into a roomful of people I don’t know, but especially into a roomful of people I know well. Sometimes the latter is harder to do, and for those times it’s nice to employ a little Evita as armor.

High flying adored…
That’s good to hear but unimportant
My story’s quite usual
Local girl makes good, weds famous man
I was stuck in the right place at the perfect time
Filled a gap, I was lucky
But one thing I’ll say for me
No one else can fill it like I can.

Song #60: ‘High Flying Adored’ – Winter 1997

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06
January
2012
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #59 – ‘Like It Or Not’ ~ Winter 2006

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

You can call me a sinner
Or you can call me a saint
Celebrate me for who I am
Dislike me for what I ain’t

The iPod has selected ‘Like It Or Not’ from 2005’s Confessions on a Dance Floor album for the first Madonna Timeline entry of 2012. This one bucks the last-song-of-the-album-that-often-sucks tradition Madonna has sometimes employed (‘Act of Contrition’, ‘Gone’, ‘Voices’). Filled with confidence and matter-of-fact defiance, it haughtily exhibits the classic Madonna-mantra of self-empowerment, but after twenty years into her career it wasn’t so much an act of haughtiness as simple truth.

Put me up on a pedestal
Or drag me down in the dirt
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But your names will never hurt.

It’s an excellent starter for 2012, a year which will usher in a brand new Madonna album (her first on a new record label), a Superbowl performance, and the wide opening of her directorial effort W.E. Once again, we seem “poised on the precipice” of greatness, and she will be the one to take us there.

I’ll be the garden
You’ll be the snake
All of my fruit is
Yours to take
Better the devil that you know
Your love for me will grow

Even when it seems she has nothing left to prove, there are those who would not have her around at all, so this is a necessary reminder of her power and relevance, her lasting contributions, and the promise of so much more to come.

Her live performance of this song, on the Confessions Tour from 2006, is a simple, straight-forward delivery with some serious strutting, and a chair straight out of Cabaret. It’s Madonna at her best, connecting with her audience, but just as happy being alone and doing her own thing.

Because this is who I am
You can like it or not
You can love me or leave me,
But I’m never gonna stop.
Song #59: – ‘Like It Or Not’ ~ Winter 2006
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13
December
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

What’s new Buenos Aires?
I’m new!
I wanna say I’m just a little stuck on you,
You’ll be on me too.

Not-so-secret confession: I don’t sing. Well. I don’t sing well. But I love to do it, when alone, usually in the car on a long-distance drive in some strange state where passers-by don’t stand a chance of recognizing me. (Once I was belting out a Norma Desmond aria on Western Ave. and my friend Paul was sitting in the car next to me laughing his ass off. I’ve never sung on Western Ave. since.) What does this have to do with the next iPod selection for the Madonna Timeline, ‘Buenos Aires’? Well, back in 1996, as I was preparing for the Royal Rainbow World Tour, I recorded myself singing this song, over and over, on a cassette tape, and then sending it out to a highly-select group of friends. It remains one of my most embarrassing moments, in a lifetime of embarrassing moments (mistaken for a clown at Ponderosa anyone?)

I get out here, Buenos Aires
Stand back!
You ought to know
What you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality.

At the time I didn’t care – it was such a fun song, and I was so excited about Madonna in Evita that I would have done just about anything to express my joy. That’s the problem when I get really psyched about something – I want to share it with everyone, and I can’t contain the exuberance inside, so it ends up spilling out in all sorts of silly manners. Case in point: me singing ‘Buenos Aires’.

Fill me up with your heat, with your noise
With your dirt, overdo me!
Let me dance to your beat, make it loud
Let it hurt, run it through me!
Don’t hold back, you are certain to impress
Tell the driver this is where I’m staying.
Hello, Buenos Aires!
Get this, just look at me dressed up, somewhere to go
We’ll put on a show…

Putting on a show is all I wanted to do, so when I was visiting my friends, I made them all see Evita with me. I took troupes from Ithaca, Rochester, and Boston to take in the spectacle of Madonna as Eva Peron in a big-budget musical extravaganza, and for the most part people were politely impressed. Granted, it would never quite reach the excitement that I was experiencing, but most were good sports about it (especially Suzie, who took in a 2 AM showing of it in NYC AFTER seeing the musical Chicago – that’s a musical-soaked evening for anyone, and she was a trooper.)

Take me in at your flood, give me speed
Give me lights, set me humming
Shoot me up with your blood, wine me up
With your nights, watch me coming
All I want is a whole lot of excess
Tell the singer this is where I’m playing
Stand back, Buenos Aires
Because you oughta know what you’re gonna get in me
Just a little touch of star quality…

Fortunately, when all we need at this time of the year is a break from holiday madness, this song lends itself to silliness – and if you read the lyrics alone you may want to take Tim Rice to task for some of them. It’s one of the dancier-ditties from the Evita opus, with some Latin-inspired percussion and a driving beat. Personally, I love it, and it’s the moment when the movie truly starts to soar.

And if ever I go too far
It’s because of the things you are
Beautiful town, I love you
And if I need a moment’s rest
Give your lover the very best
Real eiderdown and silence.

At this point, Eva was just starting out on her own, making her way to a strange city, and doing whatever it took to get by. That sort of struggle was familiar to Madonna as well, and to anyone who got away from home and had to learn to be all right alone. It’s a time of desperation and desire, a drawn-out moment of being on-the-verge – of your future, of your life, of the person you were destined to become. For those who dare to try, who dare to dream, there is always the threat of extinction, but it is always worth the risk. We thrash ourselves about and put it all on display so you don’t have to.

You’re a tramp, you’re a treat
You will shine to the death, you are shoddy
But you’re flesh, you are meat
You shall have every breath in my body
Put me down for a lifetime of success
Give me credit, I’ll find ways of paying…

In the midst of holiday mayhem, sometimes you just need to get away from the insanity, escaping to a place of fantasy and make-believe, the idealized city-scape of Eva’s Buenos Aires for example, where all you need to conquer the world is a dance and a dream, and just a little touch of star quality.

Song #58 – ‘Buenos Aires’ – Holiday 1996
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01
December
2011
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #57 – ‘Little Star’ ~ Spring 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Never forget who you are, Little Star
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
God gave a present to me
Made of flesh and bones
My life, my soul
You make my spirit whole.

This is a non-traditional Madonna Timeline, going back to something I wrote ten years ago, and an event that happened twenty years ago. The song is ‘Little Star’, from 1998’s epochal ‘Ray of Light.’ The hazy fog of early Spring is trying to arrive, while the chill of Winter has not yet limped off. The musical beauty of the entire ‘Ray of Light’ album finds a highlight here, with its light, skittering beats, but soothing overall lullaby-ish feel. An ode to her newborn daughter Lourdes, it is a heartfelt gem of motherly love and a wistful blessing for her baby’s future.

Never forget who you are
Little star
Shining brighter than all the stars in the sky
Never forget how to dream
Butterfly
Never forget where you come from
From love

Yet as personal as Madonna’s songs can sometimes be, they speak on a universal level as well, and for me this will always remind me of the story I wrote for a now-defunct newspaper back in Amsterdam, NY. As I wrote it, I listened to this song on repeat, felt the thawing of a long upstate Winter, and the new breeze of Spring. My story has little to do with the song, but somehow the melody, the yearning, the wish for something good came to be a part of what I was writing. The love of a mother for her child also has resonance here, in heartbreaking ways.

You are a treasure to me
You are my star
You breathe new life
Into my broken heart…

It’s been over twenty years since the boy in the following story killed himself. There are songs that were popular then that take me instantly back to those dark days that followed – ‘Hard to Say Good-bye’, ‘Save the Best for Last’ – but it’s this one that has come to symbolize the healing powers of time, the way life continues to go on, no matter how devastating the moment. In some ways it’s like it never happened, and in others it’s like that was all that had ever happened.

The Boys of McNulty
(Written for The Sidewalks, Spring 2001)

We were never supposed to have been friends. By high school he was a popular jock and I was a dorky honors student. He played basketball while I played the oboe. We didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. In the end we both gave in a little, distancing ourselves from one another and pretending the past had never happened. But I can’t forget. It’s been almost ten years since this city lost Jeffrey Johnson, and still I can’t forget.

We were far from good friends during our waning years of high school. Though our lockers were close together, there couldn’t have been two more outwardly different guys. It didn’t start off that way. In the beginning we were equals, similar in many ways. We both went to R.J. McNulty Elementary School, we both lived in the Van Dyke area, and we were both lovingly brought up by two good parents. Jeff and I each had different best friends, but the boys in the honors class of McNulty were in many ways a brotherhood ~ bonding together against the icky, and more numerous, battalion of girls.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In Mrs. Loomis’s second grade class we were awarded stickers for a good day of work. We amassed these treasures on a personal folder with our names printed neatly across the top, and at the end of the year the student with the most stickers would win a prize. We all had more or less the same number of stickers, though the subtle differences were discussed and debated among us.

One day my Mom innocently told me how Jeff’s Mom had once said that Jeff wished he had as many stickers as I did. Never one to let an opportunity like that go by, I confronted Jeff and he embarrassingly admitted it. I felt badly as soon as the words left my mouth, and his slightly crestfallen mood confirmed that I had unnecessarily inflicted pain to make myself feel better. But kids don’t realize this, and while outwardly I acted superior to him, inwardly I wondered at who the better person really was, and why it even mattered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Each February his family threw him an elaborate birthday party. I begrudgingly attended these events, mostly on the stern advice from my parents, but I inevitably had a good time, always glad I had gone when all the other kids were talking about it the following day at school.

There was a lot of love in the Johnson house. Jeff’s parents and his brothers might have sometimes seemed at odds, but they had an easy way of getting past all disputes, talking and laughing through it all in a manner that differed from the quiet turbulence of my own home. His Mom organized the party games: Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey, and a homemade party task that involved dropping a clothes-pin from the height of your waist into a thin-necked jar on the ground (this being the only one I had a chance of winning due to my height, or lack-there-of). These were innocent parties, where boys and girls were friendly and everyone seemed to get along with each other.

It was in gym class where Jeff was truly at his best. He was by far the tallest and most athletic out of all of us: the first to climb to the ceiling on those giant ropes, the kid who routinely hit home-runs during wiffle-ball, and the one who kicked the ball farthest during kickball. Once or twice a year Mr. Noto brought out a gigantic sphere ~ five feet across and covered in patches of ripped cloth. The class played various games with this ball, the culmination being a contest between two teams who fought to get the ball to the opposite side of the gym. We started in the middle, and groups of us tried to push and maneuver this impossibly immense thing across the lacquered floor.

One contest featured three boys against three boys or three girls against three girls, another pitted all the boys against all the girls (the girls usually won, but only because they outnumbered us two-to-one). In a novelty match-up, Mr. Noto himself challenged our greatest player, Jeff, who was almost up to the teacher’s height anyway. Still, it wasn’t quite a fair match, so he gave Jeff a little help: namely, me. (And little help I was.)
It was Jeff and I against the brawny teacher. Huffing and puffing and exerting all their energy, Jeff and the teacher battled it out while I fought not to step on my cardigan sweater. Needless to say, Jeff and I lost, but we had put forth a valiant effort, and that was what mattered.

A few months later we were taking part in the end-of-the-year physical education tests, a time when we journeyed outside to figure out how many push-ups and sit-ups we could do in a minute, how far we could throw a shot-put, and other essential tasks which would no doubt prepare us for a well-rounded life.

Apparently not content to humiliate us with the gigantic ball episode, Mr. Noto discreetly approached me as Jeff was preparing to throw the shot-put (that eight-pound ball of iron that people throw for… whatever reason). He said that he’d throw it past Jeff, and I was to run out as though it was my throw. Even I thought this was funny since Jeff was at least a foot taller than me and had muscles where I had bone. As he reached the length of his shot-put effort, my supposed throw flew past him by a few feet. His jaw dropped and he looked around incredulously, eyeing the shot-put, eyeing me, and eyeing how far it had out-distanced his throw. For once I had beaten Jeff Johnson outside of the classroom, if only for a moment, and when he finally figured out what we had done, his smile was grand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On one spring day I got a call from Jeff. School was out for the day (was it the week of Easter vacation?) and a group was playing Dungeons & Dragons at Bill’s house. It was Bill, Jeff, Chris, Joe, and Ben, I think ~ the boys from McNulty. I wasn’t really into the game, and would have much rather stayed at home watching soap operas, but they needed another player to make it even. Reluctantly, I agreed to come down.

I did not have the first clue as to what went on in a Dungeons & Dragons game, and I still don’t. I saw a bunch of weird dice, some crazy rule books, and told them to just tell me what to do and when to do it. The day was burning slowly along, my disinterest in the game somewhat mollified by the presence of friends and the suggestion that we go outside and act out a scene from the game. Someone (and I swear to God it wasn’t me) threw a bunch of stones to signal a battle or something, and one of these flying boulders hit Jeff right in the head. There was a moment of surprise on his face, just before the pain registered, followed by Jeff scrunching up his face, holding his head, and crying.

Like all tough boys our age, we avoided eye contact at first, embarrassed and ashamed in the presence of anything remotely akin to naked emotion, but to our credit we worked up the courage to see that Jeff was all right. We trudged back inside ~ perhaps our re-enactments were better left to our imaginations ~ but I wanted no more to do with Dungeons & Dragons. Jeff’s crying had spooked me. He was the strongest boy I knew. If he could crumble with the well-aimed toss of a stone, what would become of the rest of us? After allowing them to divide the rights to my character, I cited a pressing engagement and walked the few blocks to my home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Such was the then-slow passing of our years at McNulty. There were battles and fights and disagreements, but we always managed to stick together. As we prepared for Middle School, we seemed to linger a little longer after class, and laugh a little more. When our time at McNulty came to a close, we shared a distinctive bond, but it was the elusive bond of childhood ~ a bond that would quickly disintegrate with the onslaught of adolescence.

Jeff and I shared a unique friendship ~ sometimes brotherly, sometimes adversarial, often competitive, occasionally poignant, always honest ~ and in some small but fundamental way we each had a hand in shaping and influencing the other’s life, as all childhood friends do.

I can still vividly recall our last meeting during that summer. School had just ended for the year and I hadn’t seen Jeff for a few days. He had been our paper boy for a while, and I was purposely avoiding him during the afternoon delivery hours. I can’t say why, except that I didn’t want to face him for some reason. On this day, he caught me by surprise.

He rode his bike up to our side-porch, his worn, gray newspaper bag slung heavily over his shoulder, and he sheepishly handed me an envelope. It was near the end of June ~ the end of our years at McNulty, the end of our innocent friendship, and the end of our Youth.

“My Mom wanted me to give this to you,” he said. I opened it as he sat on his bike on the other side of the gate. It was a picture of the five of us at a Gifted and Talented Competition, taken a few weeks prior. We had to get an egg through an obstacle course without breaking it. Dubbing ourselves the ‘New Yolkers’ (most decidedly NOT my idea), we were dressed alike in white T-shirts with a ‘NY’ Logo inside of an egg, drawn on with black marker. Of course, our egg broke within ten seconds of beginning the challenge, but I still had a fun time. After we lost so dismally, Jeff’s Mom rounded us up for the picture I now held in my hands. I remember his embarrassment at having his mother take the photo, and his red cheeks are still there, framing his forced smile. Such parent/child sentimental ways touched me ~ his Mom trying so valiantly to hold onto her youngest son, even as he inched and yearned to grow up.

I thanked him for the picture and felt a sudden sadness, despite the hot sun and the promise of a full summer ahead. I think I knew that we would never be the same again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Upon entering Wilbur Lynch Middle School, our little group was splintered into five different factions. I was placed in the Honors program and I think Jeff was in Regents. Our lockers were close by, but we rarely spoke. We had one class together that year ~ our last one ever. It was Health 101 with Miss Siebe. Jeff sat behind me ~ Johnson following Ilagan in the abysmally tiresome alphabetically-ordered classroom configuration. We passed answers back and forth during tests and cracked jokes at our not-so-well-liked teacher. The next year we didn’t share any classes at all.

I don’t remember much about Jeff during our early high school years. Did he attend Bishop Scully for a while? I don’t recall. We registered each other’s presence peripherally, if at all. It wasn’t until our junior year, and a few days before his death, that we made any sort of meaningful contact, and to this day I’m not sure what it meant.

His locker was near mine again. The bell had rung for the next class to begin, and Jeff and I were straggling behind everyone else; the halls were quickly emptying of noise and students. Looking up at him as I picked out books from the bottom of my locker, I first noticed his cross ~ a silver one hanging on a black cord around his neck. I made note of it because it struck me as vaguely uncharacteristic for Jeff Johnson to wear anything remotely like jewelry. When I rose to my full height (and still looked up at him) I saw that he was staring at me strangely. It was the most we had looked at one another in years.

There was a slightly disturbed expression on his face, an unsettling look in his eyes and I wish so badly that I had asked if he was all right, instead of giving him a disgusted glance and demanding in a sarcastic, annoyed tone, “What?!” He simply shook his head slowly and awoke from his weird trance. It would be the last time I saw him, at least the last time that I remember.

A few days later my parents would knock on my door, sit down on the bed, and scare the hell out of me with their grave faces before saying that Jeff Johnson had shot himself. I managed a quiet “Oh…” and didn’t say anything more about it. The rain started shortly after that, and wouldn’t let up for days afterward. Amsterdam’s perfect All-American boy was gone forever, and we were all left wondering why.

For reasons of my own, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, ‘That should have been me.’ Jeff had everything. He was attractive, smart, friendly, and well-loved by everyone. I often doubted that I possessed any of those traits. I wanted suddenly to go back and give him all of my stickers in second grade.

I did not attend his funeral. Almost everyone else in the high school did, but I simply couldn’t. That wasn’t the Jeff I knew, at least it wasn’t the Jeff I wanted to know. Or maybe it was, and I couldn’t bring myself to go because of that. I didn’t need to say good-bye ~ I had done that in the summer after sixth grade, when we both said farewell to the shared past and began walking different ways.

The sad truth is that if Jeff were alive today we probably would not be friends. I have trouble enough keeping in touch with people from last year, much less someone from high school. I mourn for the many other people who would have been lucky enough to have known him ~ but mostly I mourn for the boy who handed me the picture of our childhood, and somehow quietly understood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

May the angels protect you
And sadness forget you
Little star
There’s no reason to weep
Lay your head down to sleep
Little star
May goodness surround you
My love I have found you
Little star
Shining bright…
Song #57: ‘Little Star’ – Spring 1998
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25
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #56 ~ ‘Words’ – Winter 1993

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

The iPod has gone back to the early 90’s, when Madonna released the darkly-shaded ‘Erotica’ album. It was the perfect fit for an icy winter, and the somewhat icy heart I had at the time. I wasn’t always the best boyfriend. Oh, I tried, but in my younger years I was much more selfish (if you can imagine), much less concerned with any sort of altruistic love, and extremely exacting that I would be the one in charge. It is with a bit of embarrassment and shame that I admit one of my ex-girlfriends claimed that ‘Words’ was the perfect embodiment of the man I was when I was with her.

You think you’re so smart
You try to manipulate me
You try to humiliate with your words
You think you’re so chic
You write me beautiful letters
You think you’re so much better than me.

Now, I’ve honestly never thought of myself as better than anyone else (better-dressed perhaps, never wholly better), but that was the only line that didn’t ring true. There was manipulation, humiliation, and I could write a killer letter. Balk if you will, but I also don’t consider myself the most attractive guy, so I developed other talents, starting with my way with words. If my face and body didn’t entice (and more often than not they didn’t), or my fancy outfits failed to impress (as if!), I could still capture a heart with a clever turn of phrase. A little bit of laughter went a long way, and women were somehow better than men at seeing through to the heart of who I was, to the kindness and goodness of a soul even when the rest of the package paled in comparison. That didn’t bode well for the life of a gay man, but back then I was still forging my way with the ladies.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

It carried over to the men I dated as well, and when you’re the one who finally gets hurt, you sometimes make up your mind to be the one who’s on the inflicting end from that point on. To be in control of your emotions, to act as if you could not care less – these were the desired states of existence.

You think you’re so shrewd
You try to bring me low
You try to gain control with your words.
But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

While it’s a standard slice of 90’s dance-pop, ‘Words’ is a pretty strong song, unfortunately under-rated like much of the ‘Erotica’ album. Dark and gritty, with the residual heat of love-gone-awry, Madonna’s delivery reeks of disdain and regret, both with the object of her derision and herself. There is anger here, backed by strength and simultaneously under-laid by vulnerability – a rather nifty accomplishment for a piece of pop filler. Not to mention the fact that the bridge is just pure heaven:

Friends they tried to warn me about you
He has good manners, he’s so romantic
But he’ll only make you blue
How can I explain to them?
How will they know?
I’m in love with your words, your words…

Looking back on that time, on the almost-man I was becoming, I see my folly, and my cruelty. I hear the words and cries of those few women I’ve ever dated, and I know the ways I’ve hurt them. I would inflict similar pain and heartache upon some of the men in my life. Hurt is hurt, regardless of sex and gender, and I did deserve a come-uppance.

You think you’re so sly
I caught you at your game
You will not bring me shame with your words

There aren’t many blog posts where I openly admit to my failings. I have thousands of ‘friends’ on FaceBook and Twitter to regularly take the piss out of me; this is the sole space of the Internet where I can craft and create the image of the man I would most like to be. Yet there is room for honesty, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, we have to own up to our mistakes if we are to learn from them. If they never happened, we wouldn’t improve or evolve, and I am hell-bent on both. Even so, it’s tough thinking back to the jerk I could be, and even tougher when it was Madonna’s words being used against me.

But your actions speak louder than words
And they’re only words, unless they’re true
Your actions speak louder than promises
You’re inclined to make, and inclined to break.
Words, they cut like a knife,
Cut into my life, I don’t want to hear your words
They always attack, please take them all back
If they’re yours, I don’t want anymore.

The bottom line: guys can be dicks. And, technically speaking, I’m still just another guy. To hear Madonna aiming such accurate accusations at the man who has done her wrong had its own influence on me, even if it wasn’t until years later. God knows I’ve certainly had my dick moments. Some days, I still do.

Too much blinding light
Your touch, I’ve grown tired of your words…
A linguistic form that can meaningfully be spoken in isolation
Conversation, expression, a promise, a sigh, in short, a lie
A message from heaven, a signal from hell
I give you my word, I’ll never tell.
Language that is used in anger
Personal feelings signaling danger
A brief remark, an utterance, information
Don’t mince words, don’t be evasive
Speak your mind, be persuasive
A courage, a commitment, communication
Words.

Song #56: ‘Words’ – Winter 1992-1993

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18
November
2011
Tags: General, Music
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My Holiday Theme Song

People say I’m the life of the party
Because I tell a joke or two
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty
Deep inside I’m blue
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears..

Since you left me if you see me with another girl
Seeming like I’m having fun
Although she may be cute
She’s just a substitute
Because you’re the permanent one..
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears..

Outside I’m masquerading
Inside my hope is fading
Just a clown oh yeah
Since you put me down
My smile is my make-up
I wear since my break-up with you.
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears…

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14
November
2011
Tags: General, Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #55 ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

PART 1

A late-winter evening – sometime after midnight. I am scheduled to work at Structure the next morning, but now I sit, wide awake, thrilled and enthralled. A new Madonna album – the Madonna album of all albums, Ray of Light, has been released. The date is March 3, 1998. The opening track ~ ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ fills the room, downstairs neighbors be damned. I lie on the hardwood floor – solitary, isolated, alone – and, for perhaps the first time ever, all right with that. At least, as all right as I’ll ever be ~ and it may never be entirely all right.

It begins with an ambient sonic atmosphere ~ chilly and yet pulsing with life. It ushers in a new era for Madonna, and a new chapter for me. Then, clear as the purest crystal, the plaintive coo of the woman I have followed for all of my cognizant life.

I traded fame for love,
Without a second thought
It all became a silly game
Some things cannot be bought…

On the night at hand I stare up at the ceiling, wondering at the whole, well, wonder of it all. Having graduated from college, having traveled the world, and having ended up right where I began (working retail at a ridiculous salesperson job that I couldn’t help but love), I have no idea where to go or what to do, but at twenty-three years of age that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. That doesn’t ease the restlessness, or the melancholy.

My heart has been broken ~ not in a very real sense, and not in a sense that anyone who’s been through any serious heart-break will honor or understand ~ but in my own way it’s been a painful few years. My best friend Suzie, when asked by her brother if I have a boyfriend, responded, “He’s had a lot of… bad boyfriends.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but not entirely untrue either. Count on Suzie for a telling sound-bite. As magnificently melodramatic as it is, it’s still not quite accurate.

I’d had a lot of men in my life who didn’t treat me well ~ not just lovers, but family and friends ~ but it was mostly because they didn’t want anything to do with me ~ not due to some personal antipathy they felt. If only I could inspire such a depth of feeling.

My heartache stemmed from an absolute apathy that many of the men I fancied ~ romantic and otherwise ~ felt, or profoundly didn’t feel, for me. There’s a very different sort of emotion that evolves from being ignored as opposed to being actively disliked. If there’s a heat to hatred, at least there’s that heat. The cruel chill of indifference is somehow more insidious, more ruinous, in the long run. It slowly decimates the soul, instead of instantly destroying and offering the bitter salvation of strength in re-building. It simply defeats, without a chance of redemption. That apathy would be the ultimate downfall of my life ~ as well as the unlikely savior. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I did not know that then.

Got exactly what I asked for
Wanted it so badly
Running, rushing back for more
I suffered fools so gladly
And now
I find
I’ve changed my mind…

Back then I thought the key to happiness did not lie in my own hand. (I wasn’t quite ready, privately at least, to believe Madonna’s words of wisdom from 1994’s ‘Secret’). Publicly I pretended I was strong, that I could make it on my own, but deep down, in the secret inviolable insecurity of my heart, I had always believed that I needed someone else to validate my existence ~ a partner to make my life whole. Chalk it up to one too many Victorian novels, or Disney’s deluge of brainwashing happily-ever-afters. Whatever the reason, and whatever the politically-incorrect inclinations, I thought I needed a man, and wouldn’t be all right without one.

With no one to guide me, I made my own way, carving out my own set of rules designed to distance and safeguard against heartbreak, but they never worked. I could get the guy for a night or two, but that was it. Maybe they were all just looking for a quick one-off, or maybe there was something wrong with me. I never had the courage to ask. You can tell when you’re not loved ~ especially when you love the person. No matter how much you may desperately wish to see that love returned, in their eyes you can see when it isn’t.

The face of you
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

To hear Madonna questioning her own worth, to listen to her search for love, was emboldening. That the woman I had long admired for steely strength and ultimate control had her own doubts gave me a certain hope, and made me feel less alone, less unsure. She saw me through that bitter end of winter – and the brutal awakening of spring. There would be lonely nights, tear-stained pillows, and solitary walks with nary a concern for safety. I would throw and thrash myself across one-night-stands and men who only wanted their way with me. I hid the pain with drink, smoking clove cigarettes with throat-bleeding abandon. I tried to fill the void with distractions of every sort, vices that were their own slowly-suicidal path to the end, to oblivion. And through it all, the voice of the woman I adored carried me along.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love,
My substitute for love…

PART 2

In the messy sheets of sterile hotel rooms, I find myself looking out at cities strange and fantastical. Bodies of water ~ some rivers, some oceans, some lakes ~ stretch out from day to day. A different place, a different room, a different way of escape. Time passes, as do the men in my life. They shape me, they make me into someone else, then they too move on. The dense solitude of searching for companionship takes its toll, yet I do not feel lonely. Not yet.

I traveled round the world
Looking for a home
I found myself in crowded rooms
Feeling so alone…

There is occasionally kindness here, in the crook of an arm, even after the spurt of quick passion. Sometimes – most times – I don’t want to cuddle, and I don’t mind if they leave without a word. Once in a while I’d like them to stay, and whenever that is they never do. Somehow, I am still so young, still not quite removed from boyhood, even if my heart is worn.

I had so many lovers
Who settled for the thrill
Of basking in my spotlight
I never felt so happy…

In the darkness of these gatherings, the hurried push and pull of trying to find my way into another human being, the desperate clawing at skin, at hope, at connection ~ I search to find salvation. At the hands of cold, hard men, whose sweat and heat are only deception, whose smiles and twinkling eyes are but a mask, I cry out in rage or passion, and they never know the difference. What do they see when it slows, when face-to-face we look into each others’ eyes through the hazy salty film? I do sometimes cry, and never at an opportune moment, but most do not see. It’s better that way.

The face of you
My substitute for love
My substitute for love

Was there tenderness in those days before Andy? There was. It was just fleeting, abstract, and infuriatingly obtuse ~ impossible to rely upon, cagey to the very end. It lent everything such an air of defeat, of pointlessness. The struggle of it all seemed too much, too elusive, and the promise of happiness of, dare I even say it, love ~ proved futile.

When I did find it, for a few months, even a few years, the rapture felt fleeting, and always a bit false. I was never quite myself, lost in a gauzy world of the person I thought they wanted me to be, this soft-focus bundle of nerves and unsteadiness. It would never feel real to me. Even Andy ~ stalwart, safe, steady man he would prove to be, never quite felt real for years. Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe what I wanted did not even exist. Maybe my own whole existence was a fool’s mission. And so I wondered.

Should I wait for you?
My substitute for love
My substitute for love…

PART 3

It is not all sadness or solitary rumination, and there are glamorous moments of decadence and distraction to ease the emptiness. Parties to fill the nights, cocktails that overflow into the morning, and a wardrobe bustling with only the most fashionable accessories. To some it seemed a life of enchantment, a charmed existence where I could be made giddy at the purchase of a Prada bag or the tilt of a couture hat. Trendy sunglasses hid dark eyes, and streamlined suits compensated for slouchy hangovers. Traveling to distant cities and following friends around the world became a mainstay ~ it was easier to call a suitcase a home, to consider my friends a family, and to distract myself with everything that didn’t matter.

There were so many substitutes for love. And, yes, even love ~ if it makes any sense, became a substitute for love. For that pure self-love ~ that ‘greatest love of all’ that I would forever be lacking, and forever making up for in any other way. That sense of self-worth and self-respect was never instilled in me ~ and I would never be good enough. If I could get someone else to love me, maybe that would be the way to self-acceptance. It had to be. There was no choice. All other possibilities had been exhausted.

I recognized then in Madonna, as I do now, an incredible insecurity ~ I share with her that need to be loved and adored unconditionally, with all the conditions we place upon it and none other. It will always be unfair, and we will always be just a little bit unhappy because of it. But we try harder too.

So we search to fill that void in manners both bizarre and inappropriate, over the top and attention-getting. It’s not attention we’re after though – it never was and it never will be. If that were the end to our means we would have been there right after we started, lo those many years of crazy costume antics ages ago. The attention is the aftermath of our destruction, the result of our romantic quests, because in the end that’s what it’s always been about, hasn’t it?

The best part of the song is at hand. It is the key to so much ~ the litany of shared experiences, echoing loneliness ~ the glory of musical abandon and emotional release all at once. Everything hinges on this. It is the summation of a lifetime searching for Love, and the dim, terrifying realization that it may never be enough.

No famous faces, far-off places,
Trinkets I can buy,
No handsome stranger, heady danger
Drug that I can try
No ferris wheel, no heart to steal
No laughter in the dark
No one-night stand, no far-off land
No fire that I can spark…

We speed to the bitter climax, music building all the while, and the guitars crash into oblivion as our desires collide at that tricky triangle of want and hope and need. The nights blur into one night, filled with grays and shadows and whispered kisses of abandoned dreams. An empty pair of underwear lies crumpled by the door. A trail of two socks leads to the bed. A young man bereft of his usual armor of garments thrashes restlessly among the sheets.

The pillow is damp.

The memory is torrid.

The man is alone.

PART 4

It is the song I play whenever I feel lost or upset, and while that may make it a strange choice for my favorite, that’s the way it’s always been. My heart and my head find a necessary solace in the acknowledgement of sadness ~ there is something more meaningful to that than the giddy dance-break of joy. As the woman at hand once proclaimed and questioned, “What’s the point of sitting down and notating your happiness?”

It changes through the years and seasons too, lending itself to multiple meanings, endless readings, shifting into a symbol of universal significance ~ because in the end it’s always about love, no matter how highly singular or specific.

It is there for the first chill of fall, when I meet the first man I will ever live with, and there when I realize it’s over, on a cruel winter’s night, as crystalline snowflakes flutter silently upon the Windy City. It is there in that healing spring of Boston, and every healing spring since then, when the cherry blossoms dangle like little ballerinas, floating overhead in the night wind. And it is there in the subsequent summers, the time of the year in which I met Andy.

Sitting in the parking lot of a supermarket, in the high, dull heat of one of those summers, on an all-too-quick lunch break and wanting nothing more than to drown my boredom, I listen to Madonna’s voice, and the song opens up again ~ as one of deliberate rumination on the distractions of life, and the crutches and self-medicating ways we choose to relieve our pain. For me, there was no greater discomfort than boredom or stagnation.

I wondered if I could live in upstate New York and not get restless, provided there were outlets ~ of Boston, of New York, of London ~ even as they were growing further and further away, if not falling apart altogether. I wondered if I could live with someone who didn’t want to do the things that I wanted to do, whether we could compromise and make it work because he was a good man and I might never find that again ~ but was that really the way to live? I thought of the things we give up for love, for recognition, for the simple act of doing something that mattered ~ and the trade-off suddenly seemed blurry and undefined. The darkening swirl of a world drowning.

I was both touched and repulsed by the inability of him to read my mind, all the while knowing how unfair it was of me. There was a greater tenderness and resonance to the love that I had for him, and at the same time I wondered if I was willing to give it all up for one moment of heartfelt understanding. And what exactly did I lack that he needed? Those doubts were getting more numerous, more challenging. I knew I was at fault too.

Then the love of a life together, of partnership and marriage, and the subtle maneuverings required for both, impresses itself upon my mind – such glad and grateful relief – growing more resonant as the years pass, forging a deeper bond than any flight or fancy could ever create, and I am made happy again, as happy as I may ever be. Does anyone ever really know happiness until it has passed?

The song swells with the heart, and she sings the sadness complete. It is an exquisite sadness. A fiery and quick slash of rage, a burning tear ~ the salty, searing droplet of love, of life ~ and an ache so lasting and raw it throbs under the burden of the ages.

…And now I find I’ve changed my mind…

PART 5

Tonight, I write this as I sit alone in the condo in Boston, where I sat the first time I heard this song over thirteen years ago. I cannot tell you how far I’ve come since 1998 ~ or if I’ve come very far at all ~ the same uneasiness with myself, the same insecurity and doubt, pervades my existence, and I have to wonder if this has all been a substitute for love, every last bit of it. It kills me to question that, but it would kill me more not to say it. That’s where we are, that’s where I am. But in the song, as in most of Madonna’s best music, there is some brief bit of solace, of aural understanding and empathy. She’s been there – she knows, and she continues to go on.

The journey of finding love, especially that ever-elusive self-love (so much more than ego and self-confidence, and so often mistaken as such) is proving a life-long one, and even when the heart is full, I want for more. There are distractions enough in this world, but all the trinkets and fancy bags and new shoes will never fill the void ~ there is no substitute for it.

Some people are born with what I would call a ‘happy gene’. They are, for the most part, kind and good people who do what they’re supposed to do with their lives, and are made happy and content from it. This is not to say they don’t suffer ~ and often suffer much more tragic hardships than the rest of us, but their ‘happy gene’ remains intact ~ they carry on, they don’t let it destroy them. The one thing I was born without, and the one thing I have almost killed myself to create, was this happy gene. But you can’t make it. You can’t will it into being, or learn how to access it. You’re either born with it or you’re not ~ and I, like Madonna I suspect, was not. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel happiness ~ we just feel other things a lot more, even if we never let on.

The early darkness of Daylight Savings Time has descended upon Boston. In the distance, the John Hancock building sparkles high in the sky, while the neighboring hotels blink with the lights and drawn shades of strangers going about their transitory time in the city. The world goes on as it always has. It feels as if the last thirteen years have sped by outside the window while inside I remained unchanged ~ yet in those thirteen years how much has happened, how much life has been spent and mourned and celebrated.

This moment of solitude does not have a neat or happy ending, and the resolution of the song is one of indeterminate proclamation, not unlike this last post on my favorite Madonna song.

The face of you, the faith of love, the way of the heart.

This is what I have learned.

This is where I have been.

This is where I must go.

This is my religion.

Song #55: ‘Drowned World/Substitute for Love’ ~ March 1998

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10
October
2011
Tags: Madonna, Music
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The Madonna Timeline: Song #54 ~ The Power of Good-bye ~ Fall 1998

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Dear ~~~~,

I should have known by the way it started how it would all end. It was fall – no romance of mine that started in the fall has ever lasted. Certainly not one that began at the very time Madonna was releasing ‘The Power of Good-bye’ from her yet-to-be-topped ‘Ray of Light’ album. I can look back with fondness and tenderness at what once hurt me so badly I had to put it from my mind.

We were both so young then. I don’t think we realized how young we were. We thought we knew it all. We had the whole world at our fingertips – and we had each other. That’s what really mattered to me. That’s the only thing that mattered to me.

Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
Freedom comes when you learn to let go,
Creation comes when you learn to say no.

The wind was drifting through an open window, curtains moving slightly in the breeze, and the moon peeking through the blinds. We laid in the dim light, you sitting up slightly, my head on your chest as it rose and fell with your breath.

“This is… perfect,” you whispered.
“What is?” I asked.
“This… night.”

I wanted to see years ahead, but my head, or my heart, could not. Something blocked it. There would always be that fogginess that fall. It would obscure us from seeing one another, and we embraced it because I don’t think we were ready to see each other. I didn’t think I could let you see me, because surely if you saw – if you really and truly saw – you would not stay. So we let the fog linger, creeping into the bedroom in the night, and even in the crisp cool mornings. It was better than way.

You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress you had to burn
Pain is a warning that something’s wrong
I pray to God that it won’t be long…

On my way to work I stop along the sidewalk to pick up some blood-red maple leaves that have fallen in the night. I will dry and preserve them in the pages of a heavy book, then frame them for your birthday in the winter. I already know this. I know, because I will want to remember this fall – our first together, our only beginning. Somehow, you know too, and in our embraces and our nights together, we cling tightly, desperately to each other, to the idea of us, forging a bond in the colder days to come.

There’s nothing left to try
There’s no place left to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…

There was happiness that fall, even as the plaintive notes of this song played in the background. Madonna cried for lost love, while we wept for finding it – two very different points on a very similar trajectory. Cozy nights in the condo, intimate dinners by candlelight, the occasional show, and lots of walking in the fallen leaves. An autumn in Boston is magical, and we wrapped our coats around us merrily, huddling against each other and tumbling along as one slightly awkward but giddy mass of first-love.

Your heart is not open so I must go
The spell has been broken I loved you so
You were my lesson I had to learn
I was your fortress…

Our relationship was based in the night. Days were usually spent at school or work, and even the afternoons were getting darker earlier. Your apartment was always cloaked in dim candlelight – a somewhat claustrophobic corner room, stultified by waxy smoke, buried in the ancient labyrinthine layout of Beacon Hill. I stayed there only once during the day, after you had gone off to class, and in that light I looked around and wondered at your life. In those days, simply being in the space that you occupied was precious to me. I rolled over in bed, curling into your pillow, but it would never be home to me.

I’d walk along Charles Street and imagine you doing the same thing, tucking this tiny corner of Boston into my pocket and keeping it there, next to you. When we would fight, when a gray rainy night threatened to tear us apart, I would return here, lost in the cobblestone of the centuries, eyes skyward and soaking up the tears of clouds, where they mingled with mine, where I crumbled. And then the acts of apology and forgiveness – which I never quite got right, neither giving nor receiving – acts I still find daunting and terrifying in their own way. Somehow the fall cushioned us, with its fallen leaves and gray hazy days. The very fog that kept us in soft-focus, the buffer between us, had also bound us in swirling ropes of safety and, yes, love. It kept us together because it was too dreary to be apart.

There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye…

It would not be enough to sustain, but we would not talk about it then.

Learn to say good-bye…
I yearn to say good-bye…

You had the power to do what I could not do. You had the power to end us. You alone had the power of good-bye. You wielded it kindly, and forcefully – and I will always be grateful for that. I did not have the strength to do it. I did not have it in me to finish us off. But somehow you knew, and somehow you did it.

Thank you for being the brave one. Thank you for setting us free. Thank you for letting us walk away before there was someone to blame.

If no one else understood, I knew that.

There’s nothing left to try
There’s no more places to hide
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye
There’s nothing left to lose
There’s no more heart to bruise
There’s no greater power than the power of good-bye.

Song #54: ‘The Power of Goodbye’ ~ Fall 1998
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