Track 7: I am a writer, writer of fictions

Good morning, my little ones. I say morning, though it is in fact mid-afternoon. Having spent the evening frolicking and dancing through the deserted small-town streets with my newfound friend,Vodka Coolers (see my other blog for details on why I’ve temporarily abandoned my best friend, Tequila, in favor of this underage-favorite), I’m off to a bit of a slow, groggy start today.

I had intended to post this song a few days ago, but couldn’t bring myself to stretch out of the fetal position, pause the Song Loop, and actually get anything done. Now that the intoxicating effects of this song have been somewhat diminished through 2 solid days of over-exposure (Note: songs are like alcohol; the first time you hear/consume a powerful song/drink, it slaps you in the face, leaves you speechless and crying and completely changes everything around you. But just like Alcohol Tolerance — that expensive monster that eventually creeps up on you — listening to a song on repeat for 2 days eventually lessens the song’s hold on you, making it, though no less beautiful, at least less paralyzing), I am able to sit up and write this and share that wonderful piece of perfection with you.

The song is The Decemberist‘s “The Engine Driver” from the album Picaresque, which was introduced to me by fellow music-enthusiast TB in a song-sharing conversation inspired by the very blog that you now read, and when you hear the song in a moment, you will see what a monumental gift that is. I will let the song speak for itself now, adding only that within the first 12 hours of discovering it, my iTunes Play Count soared to 115 plays — a record One Song Loop, even surpassing Regina Spektor’s “Samson” (which will likely show up on here in the near future), which, for 2 years, held the record for most plays in the smallest interval of time.

Here is “The Engine Driver”:

THE DECEMBERISTS – THE ENGINE DRIVER

Lyrics:

I’m an engine driver
On a long run, on a long run
Would I were beside her
She’s a long one, such a long one

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

I’m a county lineman
On the high line, on the high line
So will be my grandson
There are powerlines in our bloodlines

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

I’m a money lender
I have fortunes upon fortunes
Take my hand for tender
I am tortured, ever tortured

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
I am a writer, I am all that you have hoped on

And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

(And if you don’t love me let me go)
And if you don’t love me let me go
(And if you don’t love me let me go)
And if you don’t love me let me go.

——————————————————————-

This song is tragic on so many levels. Aside from the somewhat-common (though done very differently) unrequited-love theme, there is something so painfully devastating about the lines “There are powerlines in our bloodlines”; “I have fortunes upon fortunes / Take my hand for tender”; and, my personal favorite, “I am a writer, writer of fictions” — a subtle detachment from love, human understanding, and happiness inherent in those lines. In fact, I would say that if you look into the sound and words of this song, you can find just about every human unhappiness lurking there. But its ability to capture the devastation of the human condition is just so.. well.. beautiful. And the fact that TB, cpottie, K (who, perhaps less paralyzingly affected by it, beat me to the blog-sharing of it) and I could all be so deeply moved by this song, all feel that it speaks to our specific and very different emotional struggles and sadnesses, I think supports that claim.

So, now that I’ve said all I can about this song — the perfection of it really being beyond what my meager vocabulary can express — I leave you alone, to enjoy this song with the lonely, undivided attention it deserves.

Until next time, I remain, tortured, ever tortured,

-W-

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