Nearly perfect songs, vol. 1

I am grateful for many modern conveniences. Indoor plumbing. Education and economic opportunity for women. Electricity. Among them, I count the opportunity to listen to so many amazing musicians as a tremendous blessing. In addition to the genius of the ages--the Bachs and Handels and Chopins--modern technology has introduced me to many a songwriter I never would have known in another time and place. So I thought I'd start a series of blog posts highlighting some of the songs that delight my ear and my spirit. Tonight, a few from a long-time favorite of mine, the inimitable Ray LaMontagne.

LaMontagne is a poet--his songs work musically, but his lyrics often could stand alone. They are rich in imagery, lush with emotion. A favorite of mine, Winter Birds:



"a many-petaled kiss I place upon her brow"
"it's green to gold, and gold to brown, the leaves will fall to feed the ground"
"the kettle sings its tortured songs"

Exquisite. He juxtaposes beauty and suffering, life and decay.

Oh, and he does all right with that guitar, too.

Here's another, Empty:



"she lifts her skirt up to her knees, walks through the garden rows in her bare feet laughing." Geez, where do I sign up to be that girl? Such a lovely, peaceful image, followed up by "Never learned to count my blessings, I choose instead to dwell in my disasters."

"If through my cracked and dusty dime store lips I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?" is followed by this tender line--"lay your blouse across the chair, let fall the flowers from your hair and kiss me with that country mouth so plain. Outside the rain is tapping on the leaves. To me it sounds like they're applauding us, the quiet love we've made."

This song demonstrates something central, I think, to both LaMontagne's music and my own life. Joy and pain are inseperable in this sphere. You love and you hurt. You will lose what is most precious, after all, even if only temporarily. "I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit you kind of bore me...It's the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me." Joy and pain, life and loss, growth and decay. You hear it in his voice, in the melancholy wail of the pedal steel, even in the most upbeat of his songs.

Trouble, or at least the memory of it, stalks the shadows, but never overcomes. I never get tired of Ray LaMontagne

Things you maybe don't want to have up on your screen during a grad school team meeting...

So, this morning, I was doing a little online shopping for bras. Brassieres. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You get the picture. So I found what I needed, put them in my shopping cart, then promptly got distracted and didn't finish the order. Tonight, I put the laptop on hibernate and hustled on down to the Lee Library to meet with my grad school team. When I got there, I turned on the laptop, and promptly realized that there were three lovely white bras modeled by three lovely headless torsos prominently displayed on my screen. Ack! Minimize! Quick, minimize!

I don't think anyone noticed. Phew. But that brings up two important questions about bra shopping. A. Which is creepier? Cropping the bra model's head out of the picture? or not cropping the model's head out of the picture? I wonder if bra models recognize their own body in the headless pictures. Could you pick your own boobs out of a bra ad lineup? And B. Why is it that the more expensive a bra is, the less satisfied I am with it? Maybe the uber-expensive ones are also uber-awesome, but I will never know because I refuse to pay $100 for a bra. But anytime I've paid more than about 15 bucks for one, I've been massively dissappointed.

Being a woman is complicated.

Speaking of Shakespeare...

A Sonnet for a Wednesday, when things get a little disheartening.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
and look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate.

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Out, damned spot?

I got my November issue of Real Simple in the mail tonight. As I was perusing the pages, I noticed in the beauty section an article about minimizing discoloration in your skin--freckles, age spots, that sort of thing. There was a sidebar highlighting products with the title "Out, out darn spot." Hmmm, I thought. Really, a Macbeth reference? In an article about freckles? I wonder if anyone at Real Simple has ever seen or read Macbeth?

Fleeting thought--moved on to the home section, where they were advising how to clean spills from furniture, carpet, etc. And, what do you know! Right there in bold letters on the last page, suspended under a scoop of chocolate ice cream with a precariously melty drop escaping the spoon: OUT DAMN SPOT.

I have several objections. A, it's "damned", damn it. Not darn, not damn. DAMNED. Get it right, or don't do it at all. B, twice in less than six pages? No one noticed and nixed that? Weird. And C, and really, most importantly, did they just compare skin discoloration and stains on your couch to the guilty ravings of a heartless, delusional, suicidal madwoman who ruined multiple lives with her unbridled ambition?

Then I remembered that this is the magazine that thinks a $1200 acrylic coat makes life more "simple." And I thought Martha Stewart was a total nutjob. Ha, ha, ha. Still, I like the pretty pictures.