My Year With Proust - Day 337

   At last I had the pleasure of seeing Swann come into this room, which was extremely large, so large that he did not at first catch sight of me.  A pleasure mingled with sadness, a sadness which the other guests did not, perhaps, feel, their feeling consisting rather in that sort of fascination which is exercised by the strange and unexpected signs of an approaching death, a death that a man already has, in the popular saying, written on his face.  And it was with an almost offensive amazement, in which there were elements of tactless curiosity, of cruelty, of relieved and at the same time anxious self-scrutiny (a blend of suave mari magno and memento quia pulvis, Robert would have said), that all eyes were fastened on that fact the cheeks of which had been so eaten away, so whittled down, by illness, like a waning moon, that except at a certain angle, the angle doubtless from which Swann looked at himself, they stopped short like a flimsy piece of scenery to which only an optical illusion can add the appearance of depth.  Whether because of the absence of those cheeks, no longer there to modify it, or because arteriosclerosis, which is also a form of intoxication, had reddened it as would drunkenness, or deformed it as would morphine, Swann's punchinello nose, absorbed for long years into an agreeable face, seemed now enormous, tumid, crimson, the nos of an old Hebrew rather than of a dilettante Valois. Perhaps, too, in these last days, the physical type that characterises his race was becoming more pronounced in him, at the same time as a sense of moral solidarity with the rest of the Jews, a solidarity which Swann seemed to have forgotten throughout his life, and which, one after another, his mortal illness, the Dreyfus case and the anti-semitic propaganda had reawakened.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 715

Proust finally gets to spend some time with Swann, and is shocked and saddened by his appearance as the cancer eats away at his long-time friend.  The two Latin quotes, suave mari magno (essentially, it is pleasant to watch in a great sea - it's the beginning of a longer passage, essentially about the difference between those who have a philosophical foundation and thus understanding and those who don't) and memento quia pulvia (remember, you are dust - again, the beginning of a longer passage, repeated in the Catholic liturgy, reminding followers that they would return to dust) emphasize that moment of realization when you come face to face with death.  This, of course, usually explains why we don't go to see dying friends - not because of our concern for their pain, but rather the reminder of our own mortality.

My Year With Proust - Day 336

   "I say, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bid you good-night," she said to him as she rose with an air of melancholy resignation, and as though it were a bitter grief to her.  Beneath the magic spell of her blue eyes her gently musical voice made one think of the poetical lament of a fairy. "Basin wants me to go and talk to Marie for a while."

   In reality, she was fed up with listening to Froberville, who went on envying her her visit to Montfort-l'Amaury, when she knew quite well that he had never heard of the windows before in his life, and besides would not for anything in the world have missed going to the Saint-Euverte party.  "Good-bye, I've barely said a word to you, but it's always like that at parties - we never really see each other, we never say that things we should like to; in fact it's the same everywhere in this life.  Let's hope that when we are dead things will be better arranged. At any rate we shan't always be having to put on low-cut dresses.  And yet one never knows.  We may perhaps have to display our bones and worms on great occasions.  Why not?  Just look at old mother Rampillon - do you see any great difference between her and a skeleton in an open dress?  It's true that she has every right to look like that, for she must be at least a hundred.  She was already one those sacred monsters before whom I refused to bow the knee when I made my first appearance in society.  I thought she had been dead for years; which for that matter would be the only possible explanation for the spectacle she presents.  It's more impressive and liturgical; quite Campo Santo!"

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 710

And Mme de Guermantes redeems herself with a brilliant analogy wrapped in a wistful and funny rejoinder: "I've barely said a word to you, but it's always like that at parties - we never really see each other, we never say that things we should like to; in fact it's the same everywhere in this life.  Let's hope that when we are dead things will be better arranged. At any rate we shan't always be having to put on low-cut dresses."  One gets the sense that the Mme de Guermantes of the world always redeem themselves, not simply because of their wealth and station but also because of their inherent grace and cunning and beauty.  Proust paints a lovely picture, "Beneath the magic spell of her blue eyes her gently musical voice made one think of the poetical lament of a fairy."

My Year With Proust - Day 335

   I was longing to know exactly what had happened between the Prince and Swann, and to catch the latter if he had not already gone home.  "I don't mind telling you," the Duchess answered me when I spoke to her of this desire, "that I for my part am not over-anxious to see him, because it appears, from what I was told just now at Mme de Saint-Euverte's, that he wants me to make the acquaintance of his wife and daughter before he dies.  God knows I['m terribly distressed that he should be ill, but in the first place I hope it isn't as serious as all that.  And besides, it isn't a valid reason, because other wise it would be really too easy.  A write with no talent would only have to say: 'Vote for me at the Academy because my wife is dying and I wish to give her this last happiness.' There would be no more entertaining if one was obliged to make friends with all the dying.  My coachman might come to me with: 'My daughter is seriously ill, get me an invitation to the Princesse de Parme's.' I adore Charles, and I should hate having to refuse him, and so I prefer to avoid the risk of his asking me.  I hope with all my heart that he isn't dying, as he says, but really, if it has to happen, it wouldn't be the moment for me to make the acquaintance of those two creatures who have deprived me of the most agreeable of my friends for the last fifteen years, and whom he would leave on my hands without my even being able to make of their society to see him, since he would be dead!"

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 705-706

In one funny line -"There would be no more entertaining if one was obliged to make friends with all the dying." - Proust lets us know how much Mme de Guermantes will miss Swann when he dies.  In the process he provides a scathing rebuke of the Duchess and of her class.  She can't get past the fact that Swann's marriage cost her fifteen "of the most agreeable of my friends."  It also, oddly, reminds me of one of my peculiarities - my stated refusal to tell anyone in advance that I'll be retiring or that I'm dying.  Beyond my well-documented fear to being seen as weak, I'd also hate to ever have a visit to me be required.  I know we're supposed to spend time with colleagues and friends and family members before those big moments, but I'll end up being one of those guys who leaves a stack of stamped envelopes to be mailed on the event of my death.  I will have the last word, which will be pithy yet degenerate (to quote Woody Allen in Manhattan).

My Year With Proust - Day 334

It is true that M. de Guermantes had not displayed so profound and pained an astonishment when he learned that Saint-Loup was a Dreyfusard.  But, for one thing, he regarded his nephew as a young man gone astray, from whom nothing would be surprising until he began to mend his ways, whereas Swann was what M. de Guermantes called a "level-headed man, a man occupying a position in the front rank."  Moreoever, and above all, a considerable period of time had elapsed during which, if, from the historical point of view, events had to some extent seemed to justify the Dreyfusard thesis, and anti-Dreyfusard opposition had greatly increased in violence, and from being purely political had become social.  It was now a question of militarism, of patriotism, and the waves of anger that had been stirred up in society had had time to gather the force which they never have at the beginning of a storm.  "Don't you see," M. de Guermantes went on, "even from the point of view of his beloved Jews, since hs is absolutely determined to stand by them, Swann has made a bloomer of incalculable significance.  He has proved that they're all secretly united and are somehow forced to give their support to anyone of their own race, even if they don't know him personally.  It's a public menace.  We've obviously been too easy-going, and the mistake Swann is making will create all the more stir since he was respected, not to say received, and was almost the only Jew that anyone knew. People will say: Ab uno disce ownes." (Satisfaction at having hit at the right moment upon so apt a quotation alone brightened with a proud smile the melancholy countenance of the betrayed nobleman).

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 704-705

Once again, Proust has sometime valuable to tell us, as much as we would like the sentiment to have disappeared into the mists of time.  Even if no one quotes Virgil anymore (ab uno disce ownes - "from one, learn all") you could replace the Jews with the Muslims and witness a similar discussion today.  Proust reports that, "opposition had greatly increased in violence, and from being purely political had become social.  It was now a question of militarism, of patriotism, and the waves of anger that had been stirred up in society had had time to gather the force which they never have at the beginning of a storm."  No one ever thinks their own country can devolve into Fascism until it does, and history is replete with examples of democratic dreams lost.  Ab uno disce ownes.

My Year With Proust - Day 333

   Mme de Guermantes felt that she ought to reply to so direct a challenge on a point of fact which would enable her unobtrusively to confirm the tribute which she felt had come to an end.  In a shy and simple tone, and with an air all that more studied in that it sought to appear "heartfelt," she said with a meek reserve: "It's true, Basin is quite right."

   "But still, that wasn't quite the same thing as this.  After all, love is love, although in my opinion, it ought to confine itself within certain limits.  I could excuse a young fellow, a snotty-nosed youth, for letting himself be carried away by utopian ideas. But Swann, a man of intelligence, of proved refinement, a fine judge of pictures, an intimate friend of the Duc de Chartres, of Gilbert himself."

   The tone in which M. de Guermantes said this was, incidentally, quite inoffensive, without a trace of the vulgarity which he too often showed.  He spoke with a slightly indignant melancholy, but his whole manner exuded that gentle gravity which constitutes the broad and unctuous charm of certain portraits by Rembrandt, that of the Burgomaster Six, for example.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 704

The M. de Guermantes, a man of some reprobacy, sadly, and with some inherent dignity, declares, "After all, love is love, although in my opinion, it ought to confine itself within certain limits."  But, if love is love, does it possess any limits?  At the risk of this breaking out into a Shakespearean sonnet, I would propose no. As I've proposed in the past, it doesn't seem at all strange that you're still in love with an ex-love - and if you're no longer in love with her then you probably weren't in love with her in the first place.

Ah, let's bring in Shakespeare anyway.  I think the New Year can stand one more recital of his 116th Sonnet.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, thought rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor any man ever lov'd.

My Year With Proust - Day 332

"Ah, I'm glad you reminded me of him," exclaimed M. de Guermantes, "I was forgetting that he had asked me to dine with him on Monday.  But whether he's a Dreyfusard or not is entirely immaterial to me, since he's a foreigner.  I don't give two straws for his opinion.  With a Frenchman it's another matter.  It's true that Swann is a Jew.  But, until to-day - forgive me, Froberville - I have always been foolish enough to believe that a Jew can be a Frenchman, I mean an honourable Jew, a man of the world.  Now, Swann was that in every sense of the word.  Well, now he forces me to admit that I was mistaken, since he has taken the side of this Dreyfus (who, guilty or not, never moved in his world, whom he wouldn't ever have met) against a society that had adopted him, had treated him as one of his own.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 703

As we start a new year I wish this were a passage from Proust that seemed terribly old-fashioned, one which could not possibly teach us anything about the world today.  Sadly, the sentiment seems terribly present as we rush headlong into the uncertainty of the racist and misogynist Trump era.  M. de Guermantes draws a clear distinction between a Jew and a Frenchman.  Half a century later one of the accusations thrown around when Kennedy ran for president was the the question of whether he, as a Catholic, could run the country without being under the thumb of the Pope.  And now a half-century later we have the alt-right, and sadly a broader base than simply the alt-right, suggesting that Muslims can not be true Americans.  At the mosque we received this letter recently, which, underneath an American flag, lays out this claim.  In previous posts I've described this period as the high point, but also the last rant of the angry white man.  This election didn't change the "browning of America," as it is sometimes called, and our students today are more tolerant and worldly than the previous generations, but it's obviously more complicated.  Does any nation have a more complicated and shameful history in regards to race - and a wider divergence between its aspirational goals and its convenient reality - than the US?  Having grown up in southern Indiana I've known enough racists to last a lifetime, and judging from so many of their posts on Facebook they haven't changed much.  America will be "great" again not by building walls and blaming others, but by being that nation which, even when it failed, strove for equality and inclusion and respect for diversity.

Happily this hateful message inspired over five hundred letters of support from other around Vermont, representing a myriad of different faiths.  While I often, and appropriately mock this silly state, I do love Vermont; it's one of the bastions of tolerant thought left in this increasingly angry, intolerant country.

Despite all the uncertainty and the dark cloud hanging over us, let's hope for a Happy New Year, and let's all make a concerted effort to treat each other better this year.

Discography - Week 37

And now it's New Year's Eve.  I've proposed before that folks who teach for a living have a different biological clock than the rest of humanity because our year doesn't begin and end at the same time, so the New Year is more of an interruption than the beginning and end of anything.  That said, it's still an elegiac time of year and it's difficult to not get reflective.  As always, the other members of the Discography group were much more creative than some rusted historians, and this is a wonderfully inspired week - and a great way to ring out a wretched year.

Or, as Mike Kelly expressed aesthetically during a particularly inane and endless faculty meeting:

It shows that friends can redeem anything, and I am blessed to count you all as my friends.

Gary Beatrice

Beck, Debra

Sometimes I get inspired and send G a whole bunch of songs in a short period of time. I did that not too long ago and as a result you got Yeah Yeah Yeahs on Christmas Eve and they aren't the slightest bit related. I've intentionally sent Beck's Debra on the last day of 2016 as a nod to dearly departed Prince.

One of the many things that make Beck so brilliant is his ability to take so many different influences in so many genres and mash them into a unique sound. Debra is one of the few songs in which he doesn't do that. I hear Debra as a straight Prince tribute / send up, from the funky and sensual organ to the falsetto vocals, to the funny and naughty lyrics. Who but Prince would begin a song

            I met you at JC Penny. I think your name tag said "Jenny".

Or better yet

            Cause when our eyes did meet, girl you could tell I was packing heat. Ain't no use in wasting time getting to know each other.

But best of all is the chorus punch line, one that only Prince could pull off:

            I want to get with you
            And your sister
            I think her name's Debra.

I hope you all have a wonderful 2017.

Dave Wallace

Joe Jackson, I'm The Man

As we prepare for the inauguration of our new president, I will be devoting my song posts this month to cynicism, disillusionment, and apocalyptic doom, all of which match my current mood.  I start off with Joe Jackson's furious ode to modern-day snake-oil salesmen, which seems an appropriate description for Donald Trump.  

Right now

I think I'm gonna plan a new trend

Because the line on the graph's getting low

And we can't have that

And you think you're immune

But I can sell you anything

Of course, the song is insanely propulsive, with the band repeatedly threatening to spin out of control, but somehow holding it together until the end.  The baseline throughout is just tremendous.

Kelly Thomas

Tom Waits, A Sight for Sore Eyes  

No one wallows quite like Mr. Waits. I admit, I'm a contender, but he's still the best. Because this is my least favorite time of year, New Year's Eve is a welcome relief: it means the holidays are officially over at the stroke of midnight.

In 1988, I was in love with an anarchist political science professor 14 years my senior, and moved to Montpelier with him. We lived in a tiny apartment on State Street and commuted to Burlington together in his El Camino wagon to teach at Trinity College. He owned 37 guns and we spent many a winter evening loading shotgun shells together, which taught me the true meaning of "shooting your wad." Loving Frank meant I didn't see him over the holidays, as he was away in Maine, hunting moose. He hunted all seasons: bow, rifle, muzzle-loader, which he considered his "high holy days." We always had venison. And PBR, before it was hipster beer. Ours was a tempestuous affair and when we'd quarrel I took refuge by filling up the big claw-foot tub and playing my Best of Tom Waits tape on the boombox. Alone on New Year's Eve 1988, I made myself a nice dinner, opened a bottle of champagne, phoned everyone I loved, then took a bath with Mr. Waits.

Frank and I parted ways shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall, went on to find our true loves, and stay in touch, however infrequently. He emailed me a couple of weeks ago that he finally finished his book, an ecological interpretation of the Constitution:  America's Environmental Legacies: Shaping Policy through Institutions and Culture.  It only took him 29 years, but god love him, he persisted.       

Listening to this song again, with its references to baseball greats I had little clue about as I pruned up in that big tub, I’m struck by the eloquence of the bar chat phrases, so spot on and evocative of dives where I plopped my ample Irish arse on a bar stool next to my friends, laughing, confessing, bullshitting, flirting, crying or debating. Having recently lost two of those folks, its boozy longing fits in a deeper way than it did in 88. "The old gang ain't around everyone has left town." I'll be toasting those palookas tonight. I hope they died with the radio on. 

Nate Bell

Attempting to shake off the rust after a hiatus of festive stress...Apropos as the theme of the first selection for week 37 is rust...in a fashion.

500 Miles to Memphis, 1947

This week I had the occasion to drive through Portsmouth, Ohio, and the now unfortunately named named Ironton. I drive by many neat, tidy, inexpensive houses, many maintained with what what I imagine might be fanatic devotion.  Around the homes...wasteland.  In a very literal sense, land, wasted, and land laid to waste.  The crumbling skeletons of industry jut from the shoreline like the bones of a long dead Beast, now as out of place, archaic but massive, a monument to nothing else but the beast's own demise, and just as relevant now as mastodon bones to those living there. 

" Oh river town what's left intact?
That way of life is now long gone
Along the river there lies a town in ruin
What was once good has gone away
You made steel for near thirty years along the banks of the Ohio
But they don't want you
They don't need you anymore
Gonna shut you down
All that's left is the old and they're dying

It was a good living...but that was a long time...ago"

I like this song, it's simple and mournful.  I truly appreciate the way that the song doesn't aggrandize the past of the river towns, and don't make any attempt--by the singer or the implication--that there is a dream of return, or hopes for old glories.  The song simply states a fact, and bleeds out the sadness of a region plainly, clearly, with the pain, anger, and finally, the acceptance of the death.  It is a dirge to the death of a livelihood and a region, no flowery phrases or false flattery, just music in place of tears.

Which leads me to the next entry.  At the New Year, some may dwell on hopes denied or chances lost.  Others put a rhinestone gloss on the future, where everything is bright, shiny, and ultimately false.  I like the previous entry in that it mourns the past without completely gilding it, or completely submerging the sense of self and worth in the loss.

This next song, though I can't claim to completely interpret it correctly, is about a girl who dwells on her past, and engages in all the self destructive behaviors one does when thinking about what one has lost:

500 Miles to Memphis, Broken,Busted, Bloody

In my interpretation, the song is sung by a person who has been similarly been beaten down, has a few things wrong at the moment, yet still sees some hope and potential.  In less precise phrasing, he is still up for a relationship, just as soon as she gets her head out her ass and stops brooding about her old boyfriend:

"Sitting in a mustang she does a line of cocaine
Not thinking about the future, just thinking about the past
The letter says invited and we would be delighted to throw back a few with you
Tonight it's on
Baby's gone
Well she's been spending all her time just thinking about the love she lost many years ago
But she aught to know that she can pass the next eight bars
and find nothing but booze and pain and heartache on the way

Got a broken car with a busted wheel, got a bloody hand that won't heal
That's my best excuse

Well I didn't say I'm past that point of caring about you anymore
But something's got to give
If you're going to live up to the good times that you promised me
I know that I'm not going to be around for very long
I get tired of sitting on this barstool thinking about you"

This New Year's, even though I am one of the junior members, I think it's safe to say each of us might have a broken car, a busted wheel, or a bloody hand that won't heal.  But we carry on, and convince those around us to live up to the good times promised.  And, noted Musicologists, I believe most of us do a fine job of work living up to the good times, and squeezing the fun out of life, maybe because of our scars rather than in spite of them.  Happy New Years, and Cheers.

Miranda Tavares

Flogging Molly, Whistles the Wind

Well, it's the end of the year, and we're all looking back before we look forward. This song has so many layers it can mean anything you want (pretty sure it's about David King's virtual exile from Ireland after he had some issues with his VISA, but he was nice enough to put things in soft focus so that it could still strike a chord with some of us less worldly, more...well, boring folk). I love the lyrics, and there are particular lines that jump out at me depending on my mood, but what I really love is the music. 

Flogging Molly generally rocks a little (or a lot) harder than this, which I usually prefer, but this song is just beautiful. I can't even begin to pick out how many and what types of instruments are involved in weaving this tapestry (hey, I do humor and sarcasm; when it comes to describing beauty, I'm forced to rely on cliches). I fully admit that my utter lack of musical talent extends to being unable to recognize basic instruments (I can pick out the drums! And the vocals!), but, in this case, I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one struggling. All of the melodies in this song meld so seamlessly into each other that the finished product feels solid, almost three dimensional. I do know that I hear an accordion, and, no disrespect to Weird Al or Tim Brennan, but I would never have expected to describe accordion music as beautiful. So, fist bump for that. 

The song stops short of haunting, and I like that, too. It feels more accessible that way, more like a sturdy friend's arm around your shoulder than a hazy spectre's finger beckoning you from afar. It doesn't feel depressing, either, despite the lyrics. The richness of the music keeps the whole from sounding lonely and abandoned. Whether you take the lyrics as mourning the loss of your love, or your country, or yourself (it is the end of the year, after all; are you who you want to be?) you are assured that you are not the only one feeling these things. You have a veritable symphony letting you know that we've all been there. 

Dave Kelley

"Baby, baby drove up in a Cadillac

I said, "Jesus Christ!  Where'd you get that Cadillac?"

She said "balls to you daddy"

She ain't never coming back."

The Clash, Brand New Cadillac

By the time The Clash released "London Calling", they had moved far beyond their early days as a pure punk band incorporating many other forms of music like ska, reggae, and even jazz.  They also brought a level of musical and lyrical sophistication that would have seemed out of place on their early pure punk releases.  To my mind and ear, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones were, for a period of time, one of the greatest musical collaborations we have seen.  My selection this week is a cover song that has no deep meaning or social commentary of any sort.  Basically his girl, or by now ex-girl, rolls up in a brand new caddy and tells him to fuck off.

I picked this song for the sole reason that I fucking love it.  The guitar intro reminds me of a cross between Dick Dale surf guitar and the theme song for the sixties Batman TV show.  The guitar solo is a classic Chuck Berry riff.  If you are playing air guitar to this song I believe a Chuck Berry duck walk is mandatory.  This is the song that the John Travolta and Uma Thurman characters would have danced to in Pulp Fiction after they got sloppy drunk.  Music does many great things.  One of the things that Rock and Roll can do is shoot a bolt of adrenaline into our weary bloodstream.  (Think the needle jabbed into Uma's chest.)  I do not do five hour energy drinks, but love me some three minute energy music.  If I had any musical talent and played in a cover band, this tune would get played every damn night.  As Bruce says at many of his shows, there are no guarantees about eternal life, but we are alive RIGHT NOW!  This song makes me feel alive.  Not bad for a three minute, three chord song.   

Kathy Seiler

Discography - New Year's Eve

It's been a bumpy week filled with all sorts of things I didn't want, or expect. This week has also been one of introspection and physical and mental "cleaning out" that always seems to follow Christmas for me.  On weeks like this I often listen to the blues and music with meaningful lyrics. On my better weeks I listen to gangster rap and drop it low while cooking (just ask Phil, and one of those posts will happen in the future). This wasn't one of those weeks! In this post, I give you another Jill Scott song A Long Walk  - one of my favorite pieces of poetry by her. I love the picture it paints, the expression of the joy of the company of another person, both in speech and in silence. It''s a really hard song to sing, but you will find me belting it out. running out of air when it plays. Enjoy.

Phillip Seiler

It seems like a good year for contemplation and reflection and what better way to experience that then through music. There was a tremendous amount of great music this last year (and has there ever been a year with two exceptional albums from artists in the year of their death like this one?) But the album that most infected me this year was Darlingside's "Birds Say". Darlingside is an all string band from the Boston area with layered, harmonic vocals. The album is beautiful and my favorite track is the finale, "Good For You" but that is not the song I am writing about today. 

Instead, I am reminded, as I search around youtube, that a great song can be made even better by a great video.

Darlingside, God of Loss

I love this song. It has a beautiful, simple message and the vocals are perfect as is the tempo. But the video takes it to an entirely different level. Perfect in its simplicity. Perfect in its story. Great art transcends. Just watch and enjoy...or weep as I did.

Mike Kelly

Death Cab for Cutie, The New Year 

Unless you're a Trump supporting Cubs fan who hates listening to cool music, it's pretty clear that 2016 has been a fairly shitty year.  Fuck 2016 has become a cliche even before 2016 is over with and I'm not going to pile on with this post.  

Instead, I'm going to talk more generally about how overrated New Years is in both theory and in practice as well as how this song's argument is that the arbitrary demarcations marking the passage of epochal time doesn't change the way people roll through the world in any meaningful way.  Most things (for better or for worse) are consistent.  

Let's quickly reset what we all know about New Years:  It's amateur hour where people who don't typically get after it are plied with over-priced drinks that took 20 minutes to get and proceed to squeal and hug while secretly wishing they were back in bed without all the trappings of fanciness. "Let's pretend we are wealthy for just this once ... as 30 dialogues bleed into one"  Ben Gibbard sings.  

However, what he's really pointing out is that the same problems, desires and wishes that were there a day ago are still shaping our minds and hearts and the fact that something all of a sudden seems different because you need a new calendar is a mirage.  In fact, he mourns that passage of time and actually wants to go back to "the old days- where I could travel just by folding a map" and where "there could be no distance that could hold us back."   

As someone who has never strayed too far from school, this time of year has always been more like halftime than the end of something so this song has always served as an appropriate long game.  So instead of turning this up real loud and celebrating something supposedly new, we should celebrate the journey.   Happy New Year, I guess.

Gary Scudder

Jackson Browne, These Days

I went through a huge Jackson Browne phase in late high school and and in college, although it didn't make it past Running on Empty, which ended up being a prophetic title for an album and a career.  Still, I liked his early albums quite a bit, and I downloaded a couple of them recently (I had his first five in album format, but they disappeared over the years) and some of the songs still resonated quite nicely.  These Days has always been my favorite Browne song, and it even provided the name for a comic strip that I drew for my college newspaper.  A friend of mine once joked that my dream is that when I die everyone on the planet will each owe me $10.  I won't want the money, but it's essential that over the years I would have done more for them than they did for me.  I suspect that this observation is very true.  Now, why is this the case?  Doubtless part of it is vanity, which speaks to a certain weakness of character, although there's obviously more to it than that.  The excellent Dave Kelley has often opined that none of us ever survive our childhood, and, as with most things, he's correct.  Somehow my parents, later strengthened by Marcus Aurelius and even later by religious precepts, convinced me that you always have to give more than you receive, which I think is a logical and fairly noble way for anyone to lead their lives, and it would almost instantly solve all the problems the world faces.  Now, do I pull this off?  Clearly, I don't, and it remains sadly aspirational.  The other side of this is that my parents, and mainly my father, inculcated in me the belief that it is a sign of weakness to ever ask for help, which has left me pretty crazy.  When my marriage was breaking up I ended up sleeping on the floor of my office for five months because I could not tell anyone that I needed help.  All of this spins back to the Jackson Browne song because it is a reflection on the times that we've failed others, and that's something that really tears at me, especially at this time of the year.  It seems to me that despite the best of intentions I've failed so many people, some of them spectacularly.  So, if I have a New Year's resolution it would be to work harder towards that $10.