Today has been a dark day. Much sloth. I thought that would make me feel better, but movement and outside air helps a lot more. Tonight, after the dark day, I finally did my laundry. I then hurried home and straightened my room up. Now, the desk is free of clutter. The bed is made so perfectly and the shoes are lined up with such order and the lighting is so correct and the clothes so organized and put away nicely that my room is truly a thing of beauty once again. It must be like that for true happiness. I have to be able to walk the floors at night without worrying about stepping on any scattered objects.
Now that I am no longer tired all the time, no longer too weak to move about and put things away, I really see my obsessive compulsive tendencies coming to life in mundane forms. Also, I see new and frightening possibilities, new ways for a raging anxiety to function within a healthy, alert mind.
That brings us nicely to the real reason I started this post. I thought I might take a crack at explaining the inspiration and the meanings of some our songs for the readers here. At the laundromat, I was running through Everyone's a Neutron Bomb in my head. The gay shock jock Daddy Jack played it during our interview today. He provided a playfully mocking accompaniment to the ending phrases, pitching his voice low, poking fun at the exaggerated poignancy of the outro. It just got me thinking. I thought about the meaning of the song tonight and Jackie's sing along.
The basic concept of the song, well, it reminds of the end of this short story I wrote, Sick Man.
The party finally had disbanded. I'd had keg beer, received a few presents. Stephanie drank moderately, but I went into the spins. I left early, took off my shoes and pants and shirt and climbed into bed. The room was dark and cold, comfortable. I stretched out over the entire mattress. Stephanie wasn't there. Ten minutes later the door opened, light shot in. I heard the laughter of the last few guests and the clinking of bottles being thrown away. I kept silent. I heard her feet padding across the carpet. I listened to her undress and go into the bathroom and turn on the light. The water ran, then stopped. She crawled into the bed. Her arm slipped under the covers, around my chest. I sighed and mumbled inaudibly like I was asleep. It had been a wonderful night.
She settled in close, breathed around my ear. "Marshall?" Her head rose up in the dark. "I love you."
I stayed silent, still as stone.
"You're awake," she said. "I know it." She rolled over but our feet still touched. That was the last time we ever discussed that and three months later she let me go in hot, parked car. I went wild and stomped and threw things, but with a calculated intensity and sadness and all inside I breathed easier and felt at ease. I was finally free.
Now I know that I am a sick man. I know it can never be taken from me. It is rooted too deeply. Something went terribly wrong the first time I experienced a crowd, the first time I really felt my guts move and became aware of myself. It's all a malfunction from those first seconds. Only I sense what happens. My guts shift incorrectly, but I shit fine. My feet strike the ground like hammers but I appear to move so easily against the wind. I am sick and it is my own trouble. When a new one comes, the worms disappear to the soil. But they will return. They always have; they always return to a sick man.
Josephine represents the compulsive anxiety that prevents me from getting close to anyone I love. I like the end of the song. When I switch to the lower register, I show more virility and masculine power. The tone of voice is almost cocky, so deep and cocksure. The end is a clean break. Most of the song consists of promises and questions couched in nice, catchy melodies. It's like I give a damn.
In the final verse of the song, I am a cocky, heartbreaking man. But what I do destroys me worse than anything. It's sure and unsure. I don't know. In reality I am sick. In fantasy I am dangerous like a bomb, ready to explode.
