milo E minderbinder's little corner

You Can Only Move South Down the Coast

I guess it's only natural right? A specific day on any given year is quite unique. And since we tend to measure occurances and stages in our lives by years, there's always a few of those days that offer up memories, celebrations, nostalgia, or sometimes sadness. Is this a good thing? Read on.

Background - I've been trying to conjour up a readable blog entry the past two days - one of which was my 3rd wedding anniversary, yesterday was my birthday - I thought that significant days would be an appropriate entry. Also, I'm not exactly sure why I had bloggers block during this 2 day period, but I'm sure it means something on some psycho-analytic level. Onto the entry ...

I was listening to one of my all-time favorite songs on Tuesday called Mrs. Potter's Lullaby by the Counting Crows. I had of course heard songs off "This Desert Life" before, but I didn't own the album, and if I had heard Mrs. Potter before it breezed by me as background music. But the song itself was introduced to me by Jo on our second date.

We were hanging out in her living room on a Sunday evening. It was right about the time when a beautiful, fall New York day fades west over New Jersey, picks up some smog from Newark, and lights up the sky to an amazing mix of red, orange, and light blue. We were just sitting there talking about those things that budding couples talk about, knowing that we were getting ourselves into some new, exciting, unknown world, and the song came on the CD player.

"Ohhhhhh," she let on, "this is such an amazing song."

"What is it?"

"I never know the names of songs, but I think its Mrs. Potter. Anyway, you have to listen to the lyrics."

"Ok."

So as a pleasant interruption to a pleasant conversation, we just sat there and listened. We didn't feel the need or desire to talk at that moment. We were just both enjoying Mr. Duritz's introspective, musical narrative in C, on what appears to be about his lamentation of life when it was simple, and the heartache and lonliness of living the "fast life" of a famous musician. There was the occasional nod of the head and side comment of "nice line" or something - complete silence makes me a little uncomfortable - but for the most part, I just sat there, soaking in the lyrics and feeling like I wanted to burst with fear and excitement!

There's lots of great one liners from this song, but I'm not going to break down the entire song (although that would be fun at some point). So, for those who don't know or have forgotten, the song starts with:

"Well I woke up in mid-afternoon cause that's when it all hurts the most. I dream I never know anyone at the party, and I'm always the host. If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts. You can never escape, you can only move south down the coast."

I thought, wow, it does suck to wake up late in the afternoon when you're depressed. I've certainly felt like a stranger in a gathering of people I know. But the end of that first bar about escaping ... that's what I want to talk about (as if you can't already tell from the title and boldface font) . It's not like it is even the best line of the song, but finding simple truths in musical form can be extremely therapuetic.

This past week has been, as my readers know, a tough one for me, and I've thought about this line quite a bit during this period. It always seems when there is something going badly in my life - whether it be with a job, relationship, etc. - I always think about leaving. Taking a long trip or maybe just quitting everything and leaving for good. No goodbyes, no job, and no regrets. Its a little childish and silly I know, but isn't it fun to think about hopping on a plane to Paris, crashing with a friend for two months, learning intensive French, getting a 1 bedroom flat above a sidewalk cafe, and spending weekend mornings at that cafe smoking cigarettes and sipping espresso?

"Le café est excellent aujourd'hui Pierre."

"Merci mon ami Jason. Merci!"

But the reasonable side of me usually kicks in - actually, I guess it ALWAYS kicks in - and I never go. Unless I have a plan and a job, I'm way too chicken to go through with it! But even if I did, would it all be good in the end? Mr. Duritz apparently does not think so, as he points out with, "You can only move south down the coast."

Sure it'd be wonderful to start a new life in Paris, but we all know that our ghosts and problems would eventually cross the Atlantic as well. Maybe they'd get there quickly on a plane, or maybe they'd take a slow boat all the way across and arrive months or years later. But they would find us. They always do. And when they did arrive, we'd already be thinking about our next "escape." Mr. Duritz indirectly touches on this too, by later telling us that, "the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings." Simple truths man. Simple truths.

So, significant dates right? Wasn't that what this rambling was supposed to be about? Ok, ok. I think there was a point to all this. The point is that this week - of all weeks - was mine and Jo's 3rd wedding anniversary. And more importantly, it always will be. Whether I'm living in Paris above that cafe, in NYC or Hoboken slaving away in an office, or sailing somewhere off the coast of Morroco smoking on a hookah, the significance of that day will always follow me. I may be 50 years old, married again with kids, not thinking about the "old days," but she'll always find me on September 7th. She'll find me on January 17th, September 23rd, and May 15th too. Those darn signifcant dates.

Before Mr. Duritz tells us that "the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings," I believe he reveals to his listeners what memories may make him sad more than others. He prefaces this line with "There's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing."

I guess I now have my "Maria" too Adam. And she'll always find me ... somewhere. Even if I'm gone - south down the coast.

posted by miLo @ 4:19 PM