Monday, May 24, 2004
It strange the memories you can attach to certain things that have very little to do with what they actually are. (What? My thoughts are losing cohesiveness at an alarming rate.) For example I give you music. Often a song will remind you of a point in your life just by being what you were listening to at that point. Even if you have no idea what the lyrics are, or if you know they are totally trite, a song can evoke all sorts of feelings for you that are completely unrelated to the song. I was listening to some Peter Gabriel the other day. For me, Peter Gabriel evokes the memory of going to Washington D.C., playing Sonic the Hedgehog on Game Gear, the feeling in my stomach I got when I discovered I was allergic to erythromycin, etc. These are memories of fourth grade. Yup. Just an odd thing.
But then there are other times when the actual content alligns with something in your life. Case in point: the Story of fred Jones. Fred Jones is a character that has shown up in two Ben Folds songs. Well, one Ben Folds song and one Ben Folds Five song. Anyway... the first Fred Jones song is Cigarette:
Fred Jones was worn out
from caring for his often
screaming and crying wife
during the day
but
he couldn't sleep at night for
fear that she
in a stupor from the drugs
that didn't ease the pain
would set the house ablaze
with a cigarette
Then there is Fred Jones, Part II:
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There’s an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He’s cleared all his things and he’s put them in boxes
Things that remind him: ’life has been good’
Twenty-five years
He’s worked at the paper
A man’s here to take him downstairs
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
There was no party, there were no songs
’cause today’s just a day like the day that he started
Noone is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don’t change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn’t look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He’s forgotten but not yet gone
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
As you may have guessed, these make me think of my dad. Around the time the second song came out he had been laid off. Now, these aren't mirror images of the Price household but there are enough similarities that they strike me kinda hard. Sometimes I think about what my dad had to go through and... well... I don't know how to explain it. It can hurt, but at the same time it can be really helpful and calming. I don't know how to explain it. After my mom died I was one of those people who just tried not to think of things that might be depressing. I don't recommend this. At least in my case, facing your pain causes you to grow. A lot of people don't understand this. They think that i want to totally forget and thus act careful around me in what they say. This sucks. It's like not only have you lost someone important in your life, but you are also denied the opportunity to remember that person. Some people think that I'm just trying to get pity like "oh, my life is so much worse than yours", when I'm just trying to do what people do with everything that is weighing on them. I don't konw where I'm going with this. Sometimes I think about what my life might be like if I hadn't lost my parents. Can any of you actually imagine what I would be like interacting with my mom? Sounds weird, doesn't it. Sometimes I think about how all this has shaped me. Am I a better or worse person because of what happened? Anyway. I don't know. I should get to work soon.
Marie, Mea, if this pisses you off like I'm sure it will, I don't know what to tell you. I'm not trying to minimize whatever it is that goes on in your life, I'm just trying to treat my own feelings with the respect they deserve. And by the way, Marie, please stop telling people how much I hate you, and how you hate everything about me, and how I'm an unfeeling bastard that doesn't understand loss, and that your cat was as important to you as my parents were to me. I'm not telling you to stop thinking these things, but please stop ripping into me. I don't need this now. I don't need people telling me how pathetic I am. I am reminded of this everyday when I wake up in another family's house, when I get home after a crappy day and don't have anyone there to try to cheer me up, when I desperately want someone to actually think that I might be someone worth calling or doing something with but it doesn't happen, and on and on and on. Please, stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
But then there are other times when the actual content alligns with something in your life. Case in point: the Story of fred Jones. Fred Jones is a character that has shown up in two Ben Folds songs. Well, one Ben Folds song and one Ben Folds Five song. Anyway... the first Fred Jones song is Cigarette:
Fred Jones was worn out
from caring for his often
screaming and crying wife
during the day
but
he couldn't sleep at night for
fear that she
in a stupor from the drugs
that didn't ease the pain
would set the house ablaze
with a cigarette
Then there is Fred Jones, Part II:
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There’s an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He’s cleared all his things and he’s put them in boxes
Things that remind him: ’life has been good’
Twenty-five years
He’s worked at the paper
A man’s here to take him downstairs
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
There was no party, there were no songs
’cause today’s just a day like the day that he started
Noone is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don’t change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn’t look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He’s forgotten but not yet gone
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
And I’m sorry, mr. jones
It’s time
As you may have guessed, these make me think of my dad. Around the time the second song came out he had been laid off. Now, these aren't mirror images of the Price household but there are enough similarities that they strike me kinda hard. Sometimes I think about what my dad had to go through and... well... I don't know how to explain it. It can hurt, but at the same time it can be really helpful and calming. I don't know how to explain it. After my mom died I was one of those people who just tried not to think of things that might be depressing. I don't recommend this. At least in my case, facing your pain causes you to grow. A lot of people don't understand this. They think that i want to totally forget and thus act careful around me in what they say. This sucks. It's like not only have you lost someone important in your life, but you are also denied the opportunity to remember that person. Some people think that I'm just trying to get pity like "oh, my life is so much worse than yours", when I'm just trying to do what people do with everything that is weighing on them. I don't konw where I'm going with this. Sometimes I think about what my life might be like if I hadn't lost my parents. Can any of you actually imagine what I would be like interacting with my mom? Sounds weird, doesn't it. Sometimes I think about how all this has shaped me. Am I a better or worse person because of what happened? Anyway. I don't know. I should get to work soon.
Marie, Mea, if this pisses you off like I'm sure it will, I don't know what to tell you. I'm not trying to minimize whatever it is that goes on in your life, I'm just trying to treat my own feelings with the respect they deserve. And by the way, Marie, please stop telling people how much I hate you, and how you hate everything about me, and how I'm an unfeeling bastard that doesn't understand loss, and that your cat was as important to you as my parents were to me. I'm not telling you to stop thinking these things, but please stop ripping into me. I don't need this now. I don't need people telling me how pathetic I am. I am reminded of this everyday when I wake up in another family's house, when I get home after a crappy day and don't have anyone there to try to cheer me up, when I desperately want someone to actually think that I might be someone worth calling or doing something with but it doesn't happen, and on and on and on. Please, stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
