A song for a spring night, and memories of the seasonal turn in Boston, when the weather finally shifts and one can walk late into the evening. I thought for sure that I had already written a post for this beautiful song by my favorite group James, from my favorite album of theirs, ‘Laid’, in which such gems as ‘Out to Get You‘ and ‘P.S.‘ reside, making it one of the most transforming albums of my youth. Music hits hardest when one is young, and it won’t ever be the same later on. This song actually cuts a little deeper the older I get, the more I see family dynamics from a clearer perspective.
Since your mother cast her spell
Every kiss has left a bruise
You’ve been raiding too much meaning from existence
Now your head is used and sore
And the forecast is for more
Memories falling, like falling rain
Falling rain
I cannot find the original post, if there was ever one written. My memory is shot – I have to google my full name and whatever topic I’m trying to recall, then piece together what crops up – I don’t even remember some of my own words anymore. Fitting for a late-night look-back at childhood damage – maybe some things are better forgotten. They are certainly better when let go and released, however the fuck we’re supposed to effectively do that. Still figuring those intricacies out, still feeling my way into and then out of the muck.
Every view they hold on you is
A piano, out of tune
You’re an angel
You’re a demon
You’re just human
Now your world has turned to trash
Broken windows on the past
Take that child, and teach him senseless
Damage the dream, damage the dream
I feel nothing, I feel nothing at all
I feel nothing at all
Once upon a time a young man I adored, before I revealed my infatuation and scared him off, spent half the night on the phone with me – one of those early conversations that feels like the opening of a lifetime of happiness, electric with spring rain in the air, warm enough to leave the bedroom window open, and trying to find a comfortable phone cradle position in the hushed reverence of this early talk, scared to break the spell, not wanting it to end. He hinted at childhood terrors and read me a poem he’d written that had won an award. A hauntingly beautiful work, it made me instantly fall in love with him just a little bit upon hearing it. I knew enough not to mention that so early, even if I knew nothing else and would frighten him away anyway. I remember wishing we’d been friends as children, wishing we could have had just one person of safety and security in those tender years, wishing we could have been there for each other.
In this gloomy, haunted place
All the feelings are of shame
All the windows have been broken by the children
So the wind screams up the stairs
Slams the doors, and rattles chairs
I wish we weren’t conceived in violence
Damage the dream, damage the dream
I had wanted this to be a hopeful spring post, a reminiscence of Boston evenings beneath cherry blooms, the sweet perfume of flowering crabapples and Korean spice viburnum on the night wind. It took me down a different lane, through a different portal, the way music will bring you back to the places it chooses, whether you want to return there or not.
I remember the room.
I remember the little bit of light, the way it turned everything gray.
I remember the silence after we hung up. Remembered fragments of his poem.
I remember the happiness of hope.
The return of spring.
The magic is broken
The house is in ruins
Your memory’s one-sided
The side that you’re choosing feels nothing
Feels nothing at all
We feel nothing at all
