This sounds like a love song. And... it's about love, but is it a "love song"?
It starts by positing "lover" and "beloved" as opposites. In fact, when the lover "pursues," the beloved does not stand and wait to be caught, let alone turn and run toward the lover. No-- here, the beloved "flees." They are "from countries apart," but they stay apart, "Each one alone in the land of the heart."
They do have some things in common. Both are "forever stripped bare" of pretense. One desires, the other is desired, passively. They are both "there... in the night," we presume, in bed.
The lover, however, is also somehow a "liar," a dealer in false pretense. He is also a "hero" and a "thief"-- he saves the beloved from isolation, yet steals her solitude, for instance. Thus, his efforts and intentions cancel each other out, and ultimately, he "brings no relief." Frustrating! This is true whether she considers him a "brother" or "husband."
While a lover is a "brave cavalier," nevertheless his love "rais[es] hatred and fear" in the beloved. This is for the above reasons, but also while each "crav[es] the touch" of the other, this desire is for something lacking, and a lack is a weakness, a vulnerability.
Finally, "each bears the burden of loving too much." The lover is distraught that his love is unrequited; the beloved is being smothered by all this affection and attention.
But what about a lover who has died, who has crossed the River "Styx"? He "will send/ Flowers from beyond the end." Even though he is gone, she still relishes his memory. He is "her lover for eternity" since he is no longer in control of his leaving her thoughts, once he has left her side. It seems the only good boyfriend is a dead one.
In the play Torch Song Trilogy. Harvey Fierstein opines: "It's easy to love the dead. They make so few mistakes." Also, they ask so little of you.
This song is pretty, like a love song. But it presents love as a battle between predator and prey, with one party forever hungry for more closeness, and the other desperate for less.
Next Song: The Ballad of Miss Amelia
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2017
Monday, December 19, 2016
Horizon
"God is the horizon," said Vaclav Havel, a Czech playwright who became a dissident and was imprisoned, only to become his nation's leader after his release. I only learned that Vega wrote this song about him because she said so when introducing the song in a concert.
I had thought it was about South Africa's Nelson Mandela, but it also could have been about Poland's Lech Walesa India's Gandhi, or Israel's Natan Sharansky, imprisoned by the Soviets (OK, so he hasn't been made head of state in Israel... yet), or even Joseph from the Bible. It's also the story of some women, including Myanmar's Aung San Suu Kyi (she was under house arrest, not jail, but still) and Pakistan's Benazir Bhutto. Even Martin Luther King, Jr. was jailed and then led his country, after a fashion.
The relevant verse comes later in the song, however. It starts simply: "There is a road/ Beyond this one/ ...the path/ We don't yet take." It could be the afterlife, or simply the future.
"I can feel how it longs/ To be entered upon," she continues, "It calls to me with a cry/ And an ache." She feels pulled toward it, compelled to travel its length.
What powers its attraction? "Love pulls us on to that/ Distant horizon so true."
Now we get to the biography: "I knew a man/ He lived in jail... When he was free/ He led his country."
What allows someone to rise from a prison cot to a president's chair? "He dreamed of a line/ That we call the Divine." The line being, as we now know, the horizon itself.
How do these rulers tend to lead their countries? "He taught the way of love/ And he lived in that way, too/ Love pulled him on to that distant horizon so true."
What makes us go forward, onto the next path, and the next after that? What allows us to enter the realm beyond the horizon of this life? Love.
Love of country, of self, of principles and values, of one's fellow humans. Love, even, of love itself.
Next Song: Carson's Blues
I had thought it was about South Africa's Nelson Mandela, but it also could have been about Poland's Lech Walesa India's Gandhi, or Israel's Natan Sharansky, imprisoned by the Soviets (OK, so he hasn't been made head of state in Israel... yet), or even Joseph from the Bible. It's also the story of some women, including Myanmar's Aung San Suu Kyi (she was under house arrest, not jail, but still) and Pakistan's Benazir Bhutto. Even Martin Luther King, Jr. was jailed and then led his country, after a fashion.
The relevant verse comes later in the song, however. It starts simply: "There is a road/ Beyond this one/ ...the path/ We don't yet take." It could be the afterlife, or simply the future.
"I can feel how it longs/ To be entered upon," she continues, "It calls to me with a cry/ And an ache." She feels pulled toward it, compelled to travel its length.
What powers its attraction? "Love pulls us on to that/ Distant horizon so true."
Now we get to the biography: "I knew a man/ He lived in jail... When he was free/ He led his country."
What allows someone to rise from a prison cot to a president's chair? "He dreamed of a line/ That we call the Divine." The line being, as we now know, the horizon itself.
How do these rulers tend to lead their countries? "He taught the way of love/ And he lived in that way, too/ Love pulled him on to that distant horizon so true."
What makes us go forward, onto the next path, and the next after that? What allows us to enter the realm beyond the horizon of this life? Love.
Love of country, of self, of principles and values, of one's fellow humans. Love, even, of love itself.
Next Song: Carson's Blues
Monday, December 5, 2016
Song of the Stoic
While the ancient belief of Stoicism was more complex than that, the word "stoic" today means a person who declines to show emotion.
The speaker here is a "man" whose life's major incident are few. Mostly, he's been "working all [his] days."
Now he's having a post-midlife "accounting": "More years are behind me now/ Than years that are ahead," so it's time to take stock.
First, he wants us to know that at 18, he "faced down" his father who physically abused him-- "18 years of pain." He does not blame his father, but the "demons" of his mental illness. Still, he is covered in "layers of bruises." So the emotion here is dignity, self-assertion.
He left home and "learned to love the road," an emotional response. He learned that some things can be "spoken" and some not. He does physical labor, earning his "coin" with "another/ Knot within [his] back." There are many emotions here.
He married, somehow, which would seem a major life milestone, but we learn of this only because he was tempted to stray. The other woman had a "gifted touch" but yet they "confine [themselves] to friendship/ And [they] stay out of the bed." It seems that he might have divorced his wife to marry her, had she been single. The fact that she would not leave her spouse to be with him must have been painful.
Now, he is "facing" another foe, "the specter of [his] age." He wants to die already: "My soul, it fights my body/ Like a bird will fight its cage," wanting to escape. He sees death as "peace" and "release."
Yet, he will not kill himself-- "I keep myself upon the earth"-- and simply accept his fate, even as he measures not his gains and achievements but only "what [he's] lost."
So that's his life's story-- abuse, then labor and massive disappointment. Has he ever had the chance at happiness? "Winged things, they brush against me/ Never mine to hold."
Instead, he has resigned himself to grinding labor, saying "I keep my eyes upon the ground/ And carry on."
Why? "Ecstasy and pleasure come at much too high a cost." Since all he has known has been pain, he has two choices-- accept pain and try to live with it... or try for happiness knowing that it will either be unattained or lost, and then pile that pain onto the existing one. Not worth it, he decides.
The man is a stoic for this reason, or reasoning. His childhood was painful, his marriage is unfulfilling, his work shows no progress for all his effort. Any idea that hope was a good thing has been beaten out of him, either figuratively or literally.
For a song about a person who avoids emotions, the story leaves the listener with a deep one: sadness.
Next Song: Laying on of Hands/Stoic 2
The speaker here is a "man" whose life's major incident are few. Mostly, he's been "working all [his] days."
Now he's having a post-midlife "accounting": "More years are behind me now/ Than years that are ahead," so it's time to take stock.
First, he wants us to know that at 18, he "faced down" his father who physically abused him-- "18 years of pain." He does not blame his father, but the "demons" of his mental illness. Still, he is covered in "layers of bruises." So the emotion here is dignity, self-assertion.
He left home and "learned to love the road," an emotional response. He learned that some things can be "spoken" and some not. He does physical labor, earning his "coin" with "another/ Knot within [his] back." There are many emotions here.
He married, somehow, which would seem a major life milestone, but we learn of this only because he was tempted to stray. The other woman had a "gifted touch" but yet they "confine [themselves] to friendship/ And [they] stay out of the bed." It seems that he might have divorced his wife to marry her, had she been single. The fact that she would not leave her spouse to be with him must have been painful.
Now, he is "facing" another foe, "the specter of [his] age." He wants to die already: "My soul, it fights my body/ Like a bird will fight its cage," wanting to escape. He sees death as "peace" and "release."
Yet, he will not kill himself-- "I keep myself upon the earth"-- and simply accept his fate, even as he measures not his gains and achievements but only "what [he's] lost."
So that's his life's story-- abuse, then labor and massive disappointment. Has he ever had the chance at happiness? "Winged things, they brush against me/ Never mine to hold."
Instead, he has resigned himself to grinding labor, saying "I keep my eyes upon the ground/ And carry on."
Why? "Ecstasy and pleasure come at much too high a cost." Since all he has known has been pain, he has two choices-- accept pain and try to live with it... or try for happiness knowing that it will either be unattained or lost, and then pile that pain onto the existing one. Not worth it, he decides.
The man is a stoic for this reason, or reasoning. His childhood was painful, his marriage is unfulfilling, his work shows no progress for all his effort. Any idea that hope was a good thing has been beaten out of him, either figuratively or literally.
For a song about a person who avoids emotions, the story leaves the listener with a deep one: sadness.
Next Song: Laying on of Hands/Stoic 2
Monday, November 28, 2016
Silver Bridge
The idea of dying being a "crossing over" into another land or place is a universal one. So is the idea of that other land being across a body of water that has to be rowed across... or perhaps spanned with a bridge.
This song is about watching someone standing on that bridge cross over it. In other words, it's about someone dying.
The song starts with the end of the story, that it is about a "recently departed" individual who went into "that land uncharted."
There is foreshadowing in the "old man" going up to his room by "the stairway he ascended" after a goodnight kiss. The speaker reports him "struggle" all night to live, yet also reaching out to "Saturn," the king of the mythical gods.
The speaker enters the room, not sure what to do and "frozen" with indecision and "wonder." She simply "stared upon his body" in the "silver" moonlight. This moonbeam she images as the "silver bridge" in the title, between here and the hereafter.
Yet, she does nothing, having "witnessed all there was to see." She doesn't "move to him," since he "wasn't [hers] for claiming." Instead, she "withdrew."
Then she realizes he is, in fact, dead, "so much more than sleeping." She stays with him as a "vigil" the rest of the night and morning and even into the "afternoon." (Why she does not alert the authorities-- or the party for which he was "for claiming"-- much sooner is not mentioned, but highly irregular. Most would call as soon as they realized the person had died, or even if they thought he might be dying.)
The experience has had a profound impact on the speaker. She wonders about sleepless nights, and if they represent a form of "standing on that bridge." And, if so, "which way are you facing?" Is it the Land of the Living, or the "land uncharted"?
The lines are thin between sleep, unconsciousness, coma, brain death, death itself, and even animal and plant states like stasis and hibernation. It is understandable that a person with no medical training might not be able to tell the difference, certainly not by simple observation from several feet away.
The speaker seems to understand this and does not berate herself for not getting help sooner. She sincerely thought he was asleep.
But now, it seems, she is having trouble sleeping herself. And more troubled, in that she feels troubled by her inability to sleep... and worried about what that means, and what it portends.
Next Song: Song of the Stoic
This song is about watching someone standing on that bridge cross over it. In other words, it's about someone dying.
The song starts with the end of the story, that it is about a "recently departed" individual who went into "that land uncharted."
There is foreshadowing in the "old man" going up to his room by "the stairway he ascended" after a goodnight kiss. The speaker reports him "struggle" all night to live, yet also reaching out to "Saturn," the king of the mythical gods.
The speaker enters the room, not sure what to do and "frozen" with indecision and "wonder." She simply "stared upon his body" in the "silver" moonlight. This moonbeam she images as the "silver bridge" in the title, between here and the hereafter.
Yet, she does nothing, having "witnessed all there was to see." She doesn't "move to him," since he "wasn't [hers] for claiming." Instead, she "withdrew."
Then she realizes he is, in fact, dead, "so much more than sleeping." She stays with him as a "vigil" the rest of the night and morning and even into the "afternoon." (Why she does not alert the authorities-- or the party for which he was "for claiming"-- much sooner is not mentioned, but highly irregular. Most would call as soon as they realized the person had died, or even if they thought he might be dying.)
The experience has had a profound impact on the speaker. She wonders about sleepless nights, and if they represent a form of "standing on that bridge." And, if so, "which way are you facing?" Is it the Land of the Living, or the "land uncharted"?
The lines are thin between sleep, unconsciousness, coma, brain death, death itself, and even animal and plant states like stasis and hibernation. It is understandable that a person with no medical training might not be able to tell the difference, certainly not by simple observation from several feet away.
The speaker seems to understand this and does not berate herself for not getting help sooner. She sincerely thought he was asleep.
But now, it seems, she is having trouble sleeping herself. And more troubled, in that she feels troubled by her inability to sleep... and worried about what that means, and what it portends.
Next Song: Song of the Stoic
Monday, October 31, 2016
I Never Wear White
"The Man in Black" is, of course, Johnny Cash; he sings a song by that title as well. But it's also Wesley, in The Princess Bride, as The Dread Pirate Roberts. And then there are The Men in Black, alien hunters from the movie of that title. Now, the 2016 TV show Westworld, based on a 1970s movie, has a character named "Man in Black." (Zorro is also a man in black, although not called as such.)
A quick search reveals that "Man in Black" is used for everyone from racing's Dale Earnhardt to characters from TV's Lost and filmdom's For a Few Dollar's More-- and novels from Stephen King back to... Geoffrey Chaucer!
However, "women in black" are far rarer. The novel The Woman in Black is only from 1983, and everything based on it is even more recent. There is also a movement of anti-war protesters who came to be known as The Women in Black.
Well, now we might finally have a musical Woman in Black to compare to Cash.
The song is basically two lists: one of the kinds of people who do wear white, and then another of those who wear black.
"White," it says, is for: virgins, "children in summer," and brides.
"Black," meanwhile, is for: outlaws, dancers, "the poet of the dark," the crone, the bastard, "the schoolgirl in uniform," "the servant in the hall," the gangster, and the widow.
What's wrong with white? Nothing in general, just that it's wrong for her. Again, why? Well, "white is too blinding/ Always reminding/ Of the innocent who fall."
So, black is either for those who already fell, or for those who were never innocent to begin with and started, so to speak, on the floor. "Those," as she puts it, "of my station in life" (see the above list).
Black, furthermore, "is for secrets... it's the shade and the shadow." While white is "blinding" and revealing, black hides, and allows things to be hidden. While white shows things to the eye, black is "the depth into your eye," the pupil, the part that sees. Yes, ironically, it is the blackest part of the eye that lets the light in.
Let's look again at the list of black-wearers. The outlaw and gangster are criminals; of course they need to hide. The poet doesn't need to hide, but prefers to, the better to observe without being observed. The widow wears black out of grief and somberness; she is not supposed to attract men's romantic attention with color. So these prefer black by choice.
The servant is never to be the center of attention, but is meant to serve those who are. The old crone and bastard are, by their nature, outcasts and affronts to decent society, and so shunted into the shadows. The schoolgirl is likewise deemed unimportant by society-- she is both young and female, making her doubly dismiss-able. These are made to wear black so that they fade into the background, even against their will.
Then there is the dancer. She chooses to wear black, yet is in the spotlight! Public as she is, she as a person is less important than her art, her movements. By wearing black, she disappears as an individual, and becomes a mere screen on to which the audience projects its self-image.
"Black is the truth of my situation," the speaker concludes. "All other colors lie." So she either is made to wear black but has embraced it, or has chosen it outright. It allows her to hide.
Musically, the song is one of Vega's hardest-rocking numbers, at least since 99.9oF.
Next song: Portrait of the Knight of Wands
A quick search reveals that "Man in Black" is used for everyone from racing's Dale Earnhardt to characters from TV's Lost and filmdom's For a Few Dollar's More-- and novels from Stephen King back to... Geoffrey Chaucer!
However, "women in black" are far rarer. The novel The Woman in Black is only from 1983, and everything based on it is even more recent. There is also a movement of anti-war protesters who came to be known as The Women in Black.
Well, now we might finally have a musical Woman in Black to compare to Cash.
The song is basically two lists: one of the kinds of people who do wear white, and then another of those who wear black.
"White," it says, is for: virgins, "children in summer," and brides.
"Black," meanwhile, is for: outlaws, dancers, "the poet of the dark," the crone, the bastard, "the schoolgirl in uniform," "the servant in the hall," the gangster, and the widow.
What's wrong with white? Nothing in general, just that it's wrong for her. Again, why? Well, "white is too blinding/ Always reminding/ Of the innocent who fall."
So, black is either for those who already fell, or for those who were never innocent to begin with and started, so to speak, on the floor. "Those," as she puts it, "of my station in life" (see the above list).
Black, furthermore, "is for secrets... it's the shade and the shadow." While white is "blinding" and revealing, black hides, and allows things to be hidden. While white shows things to the eye, black is "the depth into your eye," the pupil, the part that sees. Yes, ironically, it is the blackest part of the eye that lets the light in.
Let's look again at the list of black-wearers. The outlaw and gangster are criminals; of course they need to hide. The poet doesn't need to hide, but prefers to, the better to observe without being observed. The widow wears black out of grief and somberness; she is not supposed to attract men's romantic attention with color. So these prefer black by choice.
The servant is never to be the center of attention, but is meant to serve those who are. The old crone and bastard are, by their nature, outcasts and affronts to decent society, and so shunted into the shadows. The schoolgirl is likewise deemed unimportant by society-- she is both young and female, making her doubly dismiss-able. These are made to wear black so that they fade into the background, even against their will.
Then there is the dancer. She chooses to wear black, yet is in the spotlight! Public as she is, she as a person is less important than her art, her movements. By wearing black, she disappears as an individual, and becomes a mere screen on to which the audience projects its self-image.
"Black is the truth of my situation," the speaker concludes. "All other colors lie." So she either is made to wear black but has embraced it, or has chosen it outright. It allows her to hide.
Musically, the song is one of Vega's hardest-rocking numbers, at least since 99.9oF.
Next song: Portrait of the Knight of Wands
Monday, September 12, 2016
Anniversary
This is one of Vega's loveliest songs. It recalls Billy Joel's "Summer, Highland Falls" in the prettiness of its melody juxtaposed with a mellifluous and erudite verbiage.
It begins with idea of feeling nostalgic in the autumn. The weather chills, and you know the year is ending... so you get a bit sentimental, musing on your "memories," jumping from one to another "unrelated histories," and mourning "unresolving fantasies." Even the wind is "thick with ghosts."
This wind "whips around in circuitries," spinning fallen leaves in miniature tornadoes. The wind "carries words as strangers exchange pleasantries." But does "as" mean "the same way that" or "at the same time that"? Depending on which it is, "do they intrude upon your private reveries" could have its "they" refer to the strangers or to their pleasantry-words themselves. Either way, here you are, lost in memory-- when a stray "Hello, there" jolts you back to reality.
The rest of the song is a series of pieces of advice; it's what Vega might say if asked to give a commencement speech at a graduation: Notice people being brave every day. Notice how people find new ways to be nice to each other. Touch objects that will remind you of these things people did.
Also: Note when important things happen, and then celebrate them them every year on that date. Don't plan, now, to later mourn things that will pass; enjoy them while they are here! Make room in your life to do the kinds of things now that you will want to remember later. And "make the time for all your possibilities."
Every verse ends with "each/every corner/street." As you walk along, you will see things. They can either trigger memories and regrets... or offer opportunities to have new experiences. It's the same corner that you turn, the same street you walk.
What can be different is how you see it. But that, of course, is all the difference.
Next Song: The Man Who Played God
It begins with idea of feeling nostalgic in the autumn. The weather chills, and you know the year is ending... so you get a bit sentimental, musing on your "memories," jumping from one to another "unrelated histories," and mourning "unresolving fantasies." Even the wind is "thick with ghosts."
This wind "whips around in circuitries," spinning fallen leaves in miniature tornadoes. The wind "carries words as strangers exchange pleasantries." But does "as" mean "the same way that" or "at the same time that"? Depending on which it is, "do they intrude upon your private reveries" could have its "they" refer to the strangers or to their pleasantry-words themselves. Either way, here you are, lost in memory-- when a stray "Hello, there" jolts you back to reality.
The rest of the song is a series of pieces of advice; it's what Vega might say if asked to give a commencement speech at a graduation: Notice people being brave every day. Notice how people find new ways to be nice to each other. Touch objects that will remind you of these things people did.
Also: Note when important things happen, and then celebrate them them every year on that date. Don't plan, now, to later mourn things that will pass; enjoy them while they are here! Make room in your life to do the kinds of things now that you will want to remember later. And "make the time for all your possibilities."
Every verse ends with "each/every corner/street." As you walk along, you will see things. They can either trigger memories and regrets... or offer opportunities to have new experiences. It's the same corner that you turn, the same street you walk.
What can be different is how you see it. But that, of course, is all the difference.
Next Song: The Man Who Played God
Monday, June 6, 2016
Harbor Song
An imagined/remembered relationship with an actual person, not unlike "Some Journey" or other of her works.
In this story, the man is "rich," and lives in a home with "golden curtains."' The woman (the speaker herself) is desperate and has "no place to go." She asks for shelter, and he is... ambiguous.
Once he does take her in, she realizes that, wealth aside, her host is no prize. He is a huge drinker and a huge-er smoker, plus he cannot "be true" in the sense of romantic fidelity. In fact, he actively pursues other... pursuits.
"But still I feel the wind in from the harbor," she says, and longs for him. Wind is aimless and boundless. A harbor is a place of shelter for ships, but temporary shelter by design and designation. This harbor wind recalls her unstable life before.
So the thought of returning to her meandering life is frightening, and she longs for the stability her rich boor of a host provides, which she confuses with an attraction with the man himself... who is, ironically, a free spirit who is often absent from his palatial manse, leaving her behind.
She imagines him lying in state, next. She is not standing beside his casket, as a wife would, but as just another figure "in line" to pay her respects. She still finds him "handsome" and calls him "dear." But even physical attraction, "longing" and "dear" fall short of "love."
It's possible that the funeral is a memory, not a dream like the rich-man scenario. We learn this from the last verse, in which the woman travels-- with direction and purpose, not aimless, fearful wandering-- she comes upon "harbors." There, she smells the "salt" of the sea and the "bay rum" (a concoction used in men's grooming, made from actual rum)...
...and also smells his "ghost." Which implies he really did live, and then really did die.
The last line is telling. In her dream of him being wealthy and her hopeless, he pursued business and pleasure-- leaving from the harbor without her-- while she stayed home, "longing" for him.
But in her memory, he is "beside" her, walking along the harbor shore of various lands. Which implies she has memories of accompanying each other to different ports of call. Travelling together... probably more, since she recalls his scent so clearly.
It is interesting that she did spend time with him, remembers him as an equal, and misses him... but fantasizes about missing him in an entirely different context... with he being powerful and emotionally, financially, and physically distant.
Maybe if he were already distant while he was alive, he would be easier to live without, now.
Next Song: Machine Ballerina
In this story, the man is "rich," and lives in a home with "golden curtains."' The woman (the speaker herself) is desperate and has "no place to go." She asks for shelter, and he is... ambiguous.
Once he does take her in, she realizes that, wealth aside, her host is no prize. He is a huge drinker and a huge-er smoker, plus he cannot "be true" in the sense of romantic fidelity. In fact, he actively pursues other... pursuits.
"But still I feel the wind in from the harbor," she says, and longs for him. Wind is aimless and boundless. A harbor is a place of shelter for ships, but temporary shelter by design and designation. This harbor wind recalls her unstable life before.
So the thought of returning to her meandering life is frightening, and she longs for the stability her rich boor of a host provides, which she confuses with an attraction with the man himself... who is, ironically, a free spirit who is often absent from his palatial manse, leaving her behind.
She imagines him lying in state, next. She is not standing beside his casket, as a wife would, but as just another figure "in line" to pay her respects. She still finds him "handsome" and calls him "dear." But even physical attraction, "longing" and "dear" fall short of "love."
It's possible that the funeral is a memory, not a dream like the rich-man scenario. We learn this from the last verse, in which the woman travels-- with direction and purpose, not aimless, fearful wandering-- she comes upon "harbors." There, she smells the "salt" of the sea and the "bay rum" (a concoction used in men's grooming, made from actual rum)...
...and also smells his "ghost." Which implies he really did live, and then really did die.
The last line is telling. In her dream of him being wealthy and her hopeless, he pursued business and pleasure-- leaving from the harbor without her-- while she stayed home, "longing" for him.
But in her memory, he is "beside" her, walking along the harbor shore of various lands. Which implies she has memories of accompanying each other to different ports of call. Travelling together... probably more, since she recalls his scent so clearly.
It is interesting that she did spend time with him, remembers him as an equal, and misses him... but fantasizes about missing him in an entirely different context... with he being powerful and emotionally, financially, and physically distant.
Maybe if he were already distant while he was alive, he would be easier to live without, now.
Next Song: Machine Ballerina
Monday, May 9, 2016
Songs in Red and Gray
The song seems to be from the point of view of a mistress. This is only slowly revealed as the song unwinds.
It starts with an encounter between the mistress and her lover's daughter. She sees a "reproach" on her face, and she wonder "how she could know" that this woman, the speaker, was her father's mistress: "Although I had met her just then/ I feel that she peeled back my guilty disguise." Of course, maybe the girl didn't know at all, and the whole idea is just that-- a thought sparked by a guilty conscience.
After all, the affair happened "so much more than a long time ago." How long? At least "19 years." More to the point-- "before (the daughter) was born."
Maybe it's something in the way she looks. Maybe, when it came to mistresses, her father had a "type." After all, the mistresses says, "I am sure I was only but one of a number" of such women and the daughter may have somehow seen others.
The mistress must have known the wife, too, at least to see her, since she recognizes the daughter by her mother's features and gaze: "Her mother, I see, lives within her still/ She looked at me with her eyes." This implies that the wife, the girl's mother, is now dead.
The encounter gives the mistress a flashback to "one night." She remembers details of his house-- "gray" vase holding a "red" rose. A white piece of coral, a "brass candlestick" and another red item, his velvet coat. She has no idea why she flashes on these images.
If the coat is his, does that mean the red items symbolize him, and the gray ones her? If so, then he is the vibrant rose and she the inert vase that "holds" him. This could be an image of restraint, but a vase is more an image of support.
Later, that makes him the "red leaf" that looks to her, the "hard gray stone." A red leaf is one in autumn-- once alive, now dead. The stone, of course, was never alive at all.
Does it matter that we, the listener, don't fully comprehend the symbolism? No, she says "to each other, they know what they mean." Said more grammatically straightforward, this also implies "They know what they mean to each other." A stone, for all its impassivity, is also solid and dependable, while a leaf, though organic, is transitory and easily tossed away by a breeze.
She wonders if he ever told his wife about her, or "was I the name you could never pronounce?" She wonders if she even "figure at all" in any discussions or fights.
There is a mention of the "young" daughter's "pencil marks on the wall." This could mean that the child, like many mischievous others, wrote on the walls. It could also refer to the pencil marks parents make on walls or door-frames to chart their child's growth.
So she asks if her shadow, when she was over for a tryst, fell on these markings. The symbolism is powerful-- the heartwarming evidence of a blossoming child being eclipsed by the tawdriness of the mistress' very presence.
Half of her feels mortified that she could have had such a poisonous effect. But the other half? Frustrated and disappointed that all the impact she had on this man's life was as much as a shadow's, since she was probably only one of many who "darkened his door."
The husband-- make that the widower-- and mistress are not getting back together. One of them "broke the thread" and now it is too "late for repairs." But... is it? The song ends with the idea that this couple's future is "yet to come" and "unforeseen."
I can't see them getting back together. What if the daughter sees them together? Being glared at when the mistress can't even be sure she was identified was terrifying enough.
Seeing her father and this woman together-- and confirming her suspicions? The "reproachful" glare that this sight would trigger from the daughter would turn anyone to "stone."
Next Song: Last Year's Troubles
It starts with an encounter between the mistress and her lover's daughter. She sees a "reproach" on her face, and she wonder "how she could know" that this woman, the speaker, was her father's mistress: "Although I had met her just then/ I feel that she peeled back my guilty disguise." Of course, maybe the girl didn't know at all, and the whole idea is just that-- a thought sparked by a guilty conscience.
After all, the affair happened "so much more than a long time ago." How long? At least "19 years." More to the point-- "before (the daughter) was born."
Maybe it's something in the way she looks. Maybe, when it came to mistresses, her father had a "type." After all, the mistresses says, "I am sure I was only but one of a number" of such women and the daughter may have somehow seen others.
The mistress must have known the wife, too, at least to see her, since she recognizes the daughter by her mother's features and gaze: "Her mother, I see, lives within her still/ She looked at me with her eyes." This implies that the wife, the girl's mother, is now dead.
The encounter gives the mistress a flashback to "one night." She remembers details of his house-- "gray" vase holding a "red" rose. A white piece of coral, a "brass candlestick" and another red item, his velvet coat. She has no idea why she flashes on these images.
If the coat is his, does that mean the red items symbolize him, and the gray ones her? If so, then he is the vibrant rose and she the inert vase that "holds" him. This could be an image of restraint, but a vase is more an image of support.
Later, that makes him the "red leaf" that looks to her, the "hard gray stone." A red leaf is one in autumn-- once alive, now dead. The stone, of course, was never alive at all.
Does it matter that we, the listener, don't fully comprehend the symbolism? No, she says "to each other, they know what they mean." Said more grammatically straightforward, this also implies "They know what they mean to each other." A stone, for all its impassivity, is also solid and dependable, while a leaf, though organic, is transitory and easily tossed away by a breeze.
She wonders if he ever told his wife about her, or "was I the name you could never pronounce?" She wonders if she even "figure at all" in any discussions or fights.
There is a mention of the "young" daughter's "pencil marks on the wall." This could mean that the child, like many mischievous others, wrote on the walls. It could also refer to the pencil marks parents make on walls or door-frames to chart their child's growth.
So she asks if her shadow, when she was over for a tryst, fell on these markings. The symbolism is powerful-- the heartwarming evidence of a blossoming child being eclipsed by the tawdriness of the mistress' very presence.
Half of her feels mortified that she could have had such a poisonous effect. But the other half? Frustrated and disappointed that all the impact she had on this man's life was as much as a shadow's, since she was probably only one of many who "darkened his door."
The husband-- make that the widower-- and mistress are not getting back together. One of them "broke the thread" and now it is too "late for repairs." But... is it? The song ends with the idea that this couple's future is "yet to come" and "unforeseen."
I can't see them getting back together. What if the daughter sees them together? Being glared at when the mistress can't even be sure she was identified was terrifying enough.
Seeing her father and this woman together-- and confirming her suspicions? The "reproachful" glare that this sight would trigger from the daughter would turn anyone to "stone."
Next Song: Last Year's Troubles
Monday, February 22, 2016
Tombstone
There is a lot of ambiguity in this song. Then again, the subject is death, and most people are ambiguous on that topic.
It begins by the speaker saying she like tombstones because they endure. Then she says "If it stands or if it crumbles/ Only time will tell." So... does it endure or might it erode? Unless she means, by saying that a tombstone "weathers well" that it gains character as it ages.
She continues that she wants her name carved "deep" into the stone, to make sure that if and when the stone does erode, the name will remain. So she expects visitors. Yet, she does not wish to greet them: "You must let me sleep."
She does say that the guests must comport themselves: "There'll be no dancing on my gravestone." Usually, this expression means "to celebrate a death," usually of one's enemies. But she says this as if she means there might be genuinely happy dance parties at her grave-site, and doesn't want those, either.
Then comes a line which does not seem to directly relate to death: "I don't need to see the gates of famous men." But when would someone want to do that? We want to see the men, not their gates (aside from on the actual website "Driveways of the Rich and Famous"). We really only tour their mansions once they are... oh. Hmm.
"But I do try to see the kingdom every now and then." This line sounds like something a royal personage would say, if forced to leave the palace. Unless it means "The Kingdom" as in "of Heaven." But how does one "visit" Heaven? At church? At a graveyard?
Oh, she's about to tell us: "If you ask me where it is..." Yes? "It's on a humble map." Well, an earthly king would brook no such map of his kingdom, so this must mean she is referring to Heaven. Further, "to enter in the doorway, show your handicap." Yes, before one enters the Pearly Gates, one must be prepared to confess one's shortcomings and sins.
This song sounds like it comes from a person reconciled with her mortality, but not ready to actualize it. "Time is burning... it burns away," she muses. She doesn't say she wants to fan the flames and hasten its burning, just that she is aware that it is, in fact, doing so.
She'd like to be remembered, but if that's not to be-- oh, well. She doesn't care if she meets anyone famous in Heaven as much as she simply would like to go there and see it for herself. And she is prepared to wait her turn, then come clean as she steps up.
An almost logical approach to what, for most, in a highly emotional subject.
Next Song: My Favorite Plum
It begins by the speaker saying she like tombstones because they endure. Then she says "If it stands or if it crumbles/ Only time will tell." So... does it endure or might it erode? Unless she means, by saying that a tombstone "weathers well" that it gains character as it ages.
She continues that she wants her name carved "deep" into the stone, to make sure that if and when the stone does erode, the name will remain. So she expects visitors. Yet, she does not wish to greet them: "You must let me sleep."
She does say that the guests must comport themselves: "There'll be no dancing on my gravestone." Usually, this expression means "to celebrate a death," usually of one's enemies. But she says this as if she means there might be genuinely happy dance parties at her grave-site, and doesn't want those, either.
Then comes a line which does not seem to directly relate to death: "I don't need to see the gates of famous men." But when would someone want to do that? We want to see the men, not their gates (aside from on the actual website "Driveways of the Rich and Famous"). We really only tour their mansions once they are... oh. Hmm.
"But I do try to see the kingdom every now and then." This line sounds like something a royal personage would say, if forced to leave the palace. Unless it means "The Kingdom" as in "of Heaven." But how does one "visit" Heaven? At church? At a graveyard?
Oh, she's about to tell us: "If you ask me where it is..." Yes? "It's on a humble map." Well, an earthly king would brook no such map of his kingdom, so this must mean she is referring to Heaven. Further, "to enter in the doorway, show your handicap." Yes, before one enters the Pearly Gates, one must be prepared to confess one's shortcomings and sins.
This song sounds like it comes from a person reconciled with her mortality, but not ready to actualize it. "Time is burning... it burns away," she muses. She doesn't say she wants to fan the flames and hasten its burning, just that she is aware that it is, in fact, doing so.
She'd like to be remembered, but if that's not to be-- oh, well. She doesn't care if she meets anyone famous in Heaven as much as she simply would like to go there and see it for herself. And she is prepared to wait her turn, then come clean as she steps up.
An almost logical approach to what, for most, in a highly emotional subject.
Next Song: My Favorite Plum
Monday, January 18, 2016
Thin Man
Who is the "Thin Man"?
In the novels and movies, he's a slick playboy who still dabbles in his former line, detective work, with his wife (their names are Nick & Nora; later those names were used for another cinematic couple). To Bob Dylan in "Ballad of the Thin Man," his name is Mr. Jones, and the imagery seems to indicate that he has stumbled into an orgy, possibly a homosexual one... which is in turn possibly a metaphor for the straight-laced average American trying to make sense of the sexual liberation of the 1960s.
Neither seem to be this Thin Man, however. My feeling is that this one is Death himself, or at least Mortality.
"He is not my friend, but he is with me," and yes, we are all mortal. In what sense, though, is he "with" our speaker? He is compared to a "shadow" connected to a "foot," as seen in Peter Pan. So, a constant companion.
She especially feels his presence in scary situations, like "step[ing] from the sidewalk" into traffic, or "walking down... darkened halls."
While death is inevitable, we cannot know the exact time of its arrival. Similarly, this Thin Man has "a date for" her, "to arrive at some point/ I don't know when it will be."
She feels her life threatened by oncoming cars or an unseen assailant lingering in corridors... that's understandable. But then, other times, "I can feel his eyes when I don't expect him." Which is more unnerving.
For instance, "In the back seat of the taxi down Vestry Street." This is a real street in Manhattan, not far from the Little West 12th mentioned in Vega's earlier song, "Language." A "vestry" is also part of a church, namely, the closet for the clergy's vestments (i.e., ritual garb). While a vestry is not where a funeral takes place, a church in general certainly is.
Now we realize something more sinister going on. The Thin Man isn't just "with" her... he wants her to be with him. "His arm is around my waist, and he pulls me to him," less seducing her than assaulting her. But also, yes, seducing her: "He whispers things into my ear that sound so sweet."
Such as? "He promises a peace I never knew." Oh, dear...
Feeling seduced by Death is pretty much contemplating suicide. Death has long been seen as "peaceful." Hamlet spoke at length of death being a relief from a life of turmoil and pain. Dylan Thomas calls it "that good night." Keats speaks of being "half in love with easeful Death."
Yet, the speaker resists: "I cannot give in. No, I must refuse him." Oh, good. She has come to her senses.
On the other hand... "Could I really be the one to resist that kiss so true?" As in, the "kiss of Death." She's still tempted, and wonders if she can hold out.
Hamlet spends many lines discoursing on how miserable life is, and that it would be so much easier to just be done with it all. Here, Vega doesn't do that... she just talks about how death would be peaceful, and how this is seductive.
As of this writing, Vega is very much alive. So even if the Thin Man is still "with" her, she's let him know that she's, well, just not that into him.
Next Song: No Cheap Thrill
In the novels and movies, he's a slick playboy who still dabbles in his former line, detective work, with his wife (their names are Nick & Nora; later those names were used for another cinematic couple). To Bob Dylan in "Ballad of the Thin Man," his name is Mr. Jones, and the imagery seems to indicate that he has stumbled into an orgy, possibly a homosexual one... which is in turn possibly a metaphor for the straight-laced average American trying to make sense of the sexual liberation of the 1960s.
Neither seem to be this Thin Man, however. My feeling is that this one is Death himself, or at least Mortality.
"He is not my friend, but he is with me," and yes, we are all mortal. In what sense, though, is he "with" our speaker? He is compared to a "shadow" connected to a "foot," as seen in Peter Pan. So, a constant companion.
She especially feels his presence in scary situations, like "step[ing] from the sidewalk" into traffic, or "walking down... darkened halls."
While death is inevitable, we cannot know the exact time of its arrival. Similarly, this Thin Man has "a date for" her, "to arrive at some point/ I don't know when it will be."
She feels her life threatened by oncoming cars or an unseen assailant lingering in corridors... that's understandable. But then, other times, "I can feel his eyes when I don't expect him." Which is more unnerving.
For instance, "In the back seat of the taxi down Vestry Street." This is a real street in Manhattan, not far from the Little West 12th mentioned in Vega's earlier song, "Language." A "vestry" is also part of a church, namely, the closet for the clergy's vestments (i.e., ritual garb). While a vestry is not where a funeral takes place, a church in general certainly is.
Now we realize something more sinister going on. The Thin Man isn't just "with" her... he wants her to be with him. "His arm is around my waist, and he pulls me to him," less seducing her than assaulting her. But also, yes, seducing her: "He whispers things into my ear that sound so sweet."
Such as? "He promises a peace I never knew." Oh, dear...
Feeling seduced by Death is pretty much contemplating suicide. Death has long been seen as "peaceful." Hamlet spoke at length of death being a relief from a life of turmoil and pain. Dylan Thomas calls it "that good night." Keats speaks of being "half in love with easeful Death."
Yet, the speaker resists: "I cannot give in. No, I must refuse him." Oh, good. She has come to her senses.
On the other hand... "Could I really be the one to resist that kiss so true?" As in, the "kiss of Death." She's still tempted, and wonders if she can hold out.
Hamlet spends many lines discoursing on how miserable life is, and that it would be so much easier to just be done with it all. Here, Vega doesn't do that... she just talks about how death would be peaceful, and how this is seductive.
As of this writing, Vega is very much alive. So even if the Thin Man is still "with" her, she's let him know that she's, well, just not that into him.
Next Song: No Cheap Thrill
Monday, December 7, 2015
Woman on the Tier (I'll See You Through)
This song is from the soundtrack to the 1995 movie Dead Man Walking. It is not in the film, however; the soundtrack's subtitle is "Music from and inspired by the motion picture." The director, Tim Robbins, submitted songs from many top songwriters, and while he could not use them all in the film, he felt obliged to release them somehow (also, much of the music in the actual soundtrack is gospel songs and Armenian folksongs... and while they are beautiful, it can be fairly said they had limited commercial appeal versus the work of Vega, Springsteen, Tom Waits, Patti Smith, Eddie Vedder, and country's Johnny Cash, Lyle Lovett, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Steve Earle).
The film's story is a true one about a Death Row inmate and the nun who tried to save him, or at least his soul, and visited him regularly in prison. (As always, Hollywood put its own spin on the story.)
It is not surprising that Vega was chosen to contribute to the soundtrack, given the industrial sound of her 99.9 Fahrenheit Degrees album and her history of writing songs about mental illness.
The song's title implies that the song is about a woman, and it is-- but most of the imagery is about the prison she visits. It begins by setting the scene of a building that resembles a "tin can," since it is full of metal bars and doors, and frustratingly ventilation-free: "Too hot. No air," even with a "loud fan" stirring up the stifling atmosphere. She is waiting on the "tier," as the title explains, this being one level or story of the prison's architecture.
The song continues with the procedure she follows: "Wait here... They've gone to get your man," the prisoner she is there to see. Then "Through Gate 3 with a picture ID." She hears "the click" of a lock, then "see(s) his face through bar and guard."
She introduces herself to the prisoner by acknowledging the strangeness of their meeting: "You're new to me; I'm new to you." Then, she makes a promise. Although she sees "his fate" as inevitable, she still says "I'll see you through."
Although... she actually says: "I'll see you/ You through," as if stuttering. But "I'll see you" is also a promise for repeated visits, and the emphasis on "you" could imply "I see through you," as in: "Yeah, I see 'these men are hard,' but I know there is a soul in there somewhere."
While the room and building are "too hot," she finds her reception by the prisoner chilly: "Ice within." Is there any clemency forthcoming? No, the powers that be are as firm as the walls of the prison: "it's all cement in the government."
Now the prisoner is being moved to the pre-execution chamber, the "plywood booth where the prisoner's sent." The prisoner sees the "red... letters" on the door of the actual execution chamber. His reaction is to "feel unreal," even as reality is very much all around, even to his "rattling chains."
Lastly, the focus moves back to the woman. She "hear(s) the clock," and knows time has run out, and that the electric switch or poison needle or other form of execution method is about to be used.
It is not uncommon in moments like this for the brain to seek distraction, but all she finds is a blank "green" wall. (As to why it is green, please see the earlier blogpost on Vega's song "Institution Green.") She also noticed that, instead of "bars," there is a "screen" to view the execution through.
She closes with the same words with which she began: "You're new to me; I'm new to you./ I see your fate. I'll see you/ You through." She has kept her promise, and stayed with him until his end.
Lyrically, the song is notable for its use of internal rhyme, which gives the sensation of small rooms and narrow hallways. Starting with no context reflects the disorientation of the nun entering the prison. Also, the imagery does the job, mostly, without Vega telling the listener in so many words how to feel, while trying to have the nun maintain some humanity in all the brutality and bureaucracy of the prison world.
Next Song: Birth-Day (Love Made Real)
The film's story is a true one about a Death Row inmate and the nun who tried to save him, or at least his soul, and visited him regularly in prison. (As always, Hollywood put its own spin on the story.)
It is not surprising that Vega was chosen to contribute to the soundtrack, given the industrial sound of her 99.9 Fahrenheit Degrees album and her history of writing songs about mental illness.
The song's title implies that the song is about a woman, and it is-- but most of the imagery is about the prison she visits. It begins by setting the scene of a building that resembles a "tin can," since it is full of metal bars and doors, and frustratingly ventilation-free: "Too hot. No air," even with a "loud fan" stirring up the stifling atmosphere. She is waiting on the "tier," as the title explains, this being one level or story of the prison's architecture.
The song continues with the procedure she follows: "Wait here... They've gone to get your man," the prisoner she is there to see. Then "Through Gate 3 with a picture ID." She hears "the click" of a lock, then "see(s) his face through bar and guard."
She introduces herself to the prisoner by acknowledging the strangeness of their meeting: "You're new to me; I'm new to you." Then, she makes a promise. Although she sees "his fate" as inevitable, she still says "I'll see you through."
Although... she actually says: "I'll see you/ You through," as if stuttering. But "I'll see you" is also a promise for repeated visits, and the emphasis on "you" could imply "I see through you," as in: "Yeah, I see 'these men are hard,' but I know there is a soul in there somewhere."
While the room and building are "too hot," she finds her reception by the prisoner chilly: "Ice within." Is there any clemency forthcoming? No, the powers that be are as firm as the walls of the prison: "it's all cement in the government."
Now the prisoner is being moved to the pre-execution chamber, the "plywood booth where the prisoner's sent." The prisoner sees the "red... letters" on the door of the actual execution chamber. His reaction is to "feel unreal," even as reality is very much all around, even to his "rattling chains."
Lastly, the focus moves back to the woman. She "hear(s) the clock," and knows time has run out, and that the electric switch or poison needle or other form of execution method is about to be used.
It is not uncommon in moments like this for the brain to seek distraction, but all she finds is a blank "green" wall. (As to why it is green, please see the earlier blogpost on Vega's song "Institution Green.") She also noticed that, instead of "bars," there is a "screen" to view the execution through.
She closes with the same words with which she began: "You're new to me; I'm new to you./ I see your fate. I'll see you/ You through." She has kept her promise, and stayed with him until his end.
Lyrically, the song is notable for its use of internal rhyme, which gives the sensation of small rooms and narrow hallways. Starting with no context reflects the disorientation of the nun entering the prison. Also, the imagery does the job, mostly, without Vega telling the listener in so many words how to feel, while trying to have the nun maintain some humanity in all the brutality and bureaucracy of the prison world.
Next Song: Birth-Day (Love Made Real)
Monday, September 7, 2015
Pilgrimage
This song is about entropy-- or, as it applies to human life-- mortality. So why is the title about a spiritual journey to a holy place?
Let's start with a simpler question: What does the first line of the song mean? "This line is burning..." What line?
She means the line of the song, the line of music, the words she is singing themselves. The words and notes live on the ear for a fraction of a second apiece before dispersing into scattered waves.
Similarly, once a moment in time has passed, it may as well be ash. Its potential has been burned up like a spent matchstick, a used wick, or a piece of kindling. She begins this thought by mentioning the days of the week, and the words "months" and "year."
The next thought concludes logically: "This life is burning." Time started before we were born and will continue after we die. We are here for a few moments, relatively speaking (if the Earth's history were one year, all of human existence would take place in the last hour of December 31). So if time is being burned up, so is our lifetime.
But she holds out a note of hope. Yes, "every death is an end," but for all this "stopping," there is also "starting," or new birth. This is a "march over millions of years," and each generation takes its steps in turn.
All of this progress is pointing where, though? Here is all this "travel." Where is the destination, the "arrival"? The progression is, she says, "toward a source." So... Heaven? It would explain the title-- all of life is a pilgrimage back to the Heaven (which certainly counts as a holy place) from whence we came.
Then the speaker gets both more specific and more enigmatic about her destination: "I'm coming to you." To whom? God? A passed-on relative waiting in Heaven? (If so, this song might link to the previous one. That song was about a suicide attempt; perhaps the person tried to kill themselves to reunite with someone waiting in Heaven, and this song is from her perspective.)
The idea of "burning" and "turning to ash" is now applies to the land. The soil erodes, the continents rise and sink, and the whole Earth itself has a time limit due to the Sun's inevitable collapse.
The speaker closes with a parting gift: "Take this/ Mute mouth/ Broken tongue." The deceased is bequeathing her very silence as an inheritance. Why is silence a gift?
Death, which the speaker says she has been marching toward for years, has arrived. And now the "dark," painful-- perhaps physically so but certainly emotionally so-- life, has hope... the hope of an end.
"Now," that the pilgrimage has ended, the Promised Land of relief and release has been attained: "Now this dark life is shot through with light."
Many who have had near-death experiences speak of seeing a great light. But even without such a vision, the idea of life ending may not seem frightening to some. For those with "dark" lives, an end to such a life just means an end to the darkness, and so, light.
There is a movement now to take the idea of euthanasia a step further. Rather than it only being used to speed an inevitable death and avoid a protracted and agonizing decline, some would like a medically assisted suicide to be available to those with chronic pain, both of the physical and mental varieties. There are fates worse than death, a life of suffering may be one.
The speaker here has made grand claims about the entropy of the universe to rationalize her desire-- we're all dying all the time anyway, so what's the big deal? But really, she just wants to die so that the pain of missing her lost loved one can end.
There is a old comedy line: "If you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?" But the question is not funny, or rhetorical, to the speaker here. She would reply, "Give me a minute, I'm working on it."
Is the person making a pilgrimage to Heaven, or to the embrace of a lost loved one? For the speaker, those places are the same.
Next Song: Rock in this Pocket
Let's start with a simpler question: What does the first line of the song mean? "This line is burning..." What line?
She means the line of the song, the line of music, the words she is singing themselves. The words and notes live on the ear for a fraction of a second apiece before dispersing into scattered waves.
Similarly, once a moment in time has passed, it may as well be ash. Its potential has been burned up like a spent matchstick, a used wick, or a piece of kindling. She begins this thought by mentioning the days of the week, and the words "months" and "year."
The next thought concludes logically: "This life is burning." Time started before we were born and will continue after we die. We are here for a few moments, relatively speaking (if the Earth's history were one year, all of human existence would take place in the last hour of December 31). So if time is being burned up, so is our lifetime.
But she holds out a note of hope. Yes, "every death is an end," but for all this "stopping," there is also "starting," or new birth. This is a "march over millions of years," and each generation takes its steps in turn.
All of this progress is pointing where, though? Here is all this "travel." Where is the destination, the "arrival"? The progression is, she says, "toward a source." So... Heaven? It would explain the title-- all of life is a pilgrimage back to the Heaven (which certainly counts as a holy place) from whence we came.
Then the speaker gets both more specific and more enigmatic about her destination: "I'm coming to you." To whom? God? A passed-on relative waiting in Heaven? (If so, this song might link to the previous one. That song was about a suicide attempt; perhaps the person tried to kill themselves to reunite with someone waiting in Heaven, and this song is from her perspective.)
The idea of "burning" and "turning to ash" is now applies to the land. The soil erodes, the continents rise and sink, and the whole Earth itself has a time limit due to the Sun's inevitable collapse.
The speaker closes with a parting gift: "Take this/ Mute mouth/ Broken tongue." The deceased is bequeathing her very silence as an inheritance. Why is silence a gift?
Death, which the speaker says she has been marching toward for years, has arrived. And now the "dark," painful-- perhaps physically so but certainly emotionally so-- life, has hope... the hope of an end.
"Now," that the pilgrimage has ended, the Promised Land of relief and release has been attained: "Now this dark life is shot through with light."
Many who have had near-death experiences speak of seeing a great light. But even without such a vision, the idea of life ending may not seem frightening to some. For those with "dark" lives, an end to such a life just means an end to the darkness, and so, light.
There is a movement now to take the idea of euthanasia a step further. Rather than it only being used to speed an inevitable death and avoid a protracted and agonizing decline, some would like a medically assisted suicide to be available to those with chronic pain, both of the physical and mental varieties. There are fates worse than death, a life of suffering may be one.
The speaker here has made grand claims about the entropy of the universe to rationalize her desire-- we're all dying all the time anyway, so what's the big deal? But really, she just wants to die so that the pain of missing her lost loved one can end.
There is a old comedy line: "If you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?" But the question is not funny, or rhetorical, to the speaker here. She would reply, "Give me a minute, I'm working on it."
Is the person making a pilgrimage to Heaven, or to the embrace of a lost loved one? For the speaker, those places are the same.
Next Song: Rock in this Pocket
Monday, August 31, 2015
Fifty-fifty Chance
The song is about a patient and the person visiting her (the speaker).
It starts with someone "lying in bed" in a hospital's cardiac ward. The doctor is explaining to the visitor that the patient has a "50-50" chance of survival.
The visitor, possibly the patient's adult child, sees "a pan on the floor/ Filled with something black." Her response is universal: "I need to know/ I'm afraid to ask" what it is.
The visitor then pledges her support to the patient, who is unresponsive. She could be sleeping or under sedation, but given the information we learn later, likely not in a coma.
"I hug you/ I hum to you... I touch you," says the visitor to the patient. "I tell you/ I love you./ Sing to you/ Bring to you/ Anything."
The visitor notes that that the patient, who should be calm since she is resting, has an accelerated heartbeat. Also, she is shivering: "Her body trembles with the effort to last."
The doctor seems satisfied, however, that the patient is over the worst of it. In fact, after one more night in the hospital, "She's going home/ Tomorrow at ten," meaning 10:00 a.m.
Then comes the chilling last lines: "The question is/ Will she try it again?"
And now we know why the patient was there: attempted suicide. The black material in the pan may have been whatever poison was pumped out of the patient's system.
In reality, a patient with only a "50-50 chance" of survival would not likely be sent home the next day, so the last verse could take place a week or two after the others.
There are two contrasts set up in this song. One is between a mind that wants to die being housed in a body that wants to live. The other is a person who wants to die when there is someone in her life who loves her so much.
If she is in the cardiac ward, this may be a clue as to why the patient attempted suicide in the first place. She may have a congenital or painful heart condition, and would rather die at her own hand than be the victim of a heart attack.
It is bad enough to take a patient home who may have a relapse of a disease or a recurrence of a cancer. It is something else entirely to know that a person might decide to try and take her own life again-- how could you possibly be vigilant enough? You have to sleep sometime...
There should be some staff person at the hospital, a social worker or psychiatrist, who can offer help and suggestions, and possibly even prescribe therapy, anti-depressants... something. Heck, the daughter might need some support, for herself.
To send a woman home with her suicidal mother, possibly the day after the attempt itself, with only a 50% chance of survival, and no psychological support? This does not sound like a doctor or hospital I would ever want to wind up with.
Next Song: Pilgrimage
It starts with someone "lying in bed" in a hospital's cardiac ward. The doctor is explaining to the visitor that the patient has a "50-50" chance of survival.
The visitor, possibly the patient's adult child, sees "a pan on the floor/ Filled with something black." Her response is universal: "I need to know/ I'm afraid to ask" what it is.
The visitor then pledges her support to the patient, who is unresponsive. She could be sleeping or under sedation, but given the information we learn later, likely not in a coma.
"I hug you/ I hum to you... I touch you," says the visitor to the patient. "I tell you/ I love you./ Sing to you/ Bring to you/ Anything."
The visitor notes that that the patient, who should be calm since she is resting, has an accelerated heartbeat. Also, she is shivering: "Her body trembles with the effort to last."
The doctor seems satisfied, however, that the patient is over the worst of it. In fact, after one more night in the hospital, "She's going home/ Tomorrow at ten," meaning 10:00 a.m.
Then comes the chilling last lines: "The question is/ Will she try it again?"
And now we know why the patient was there: attempted suicide. The black material in the pan may have been whatever poison was pumped out of the patient's system.
In reality, a patient with only a "50-50 chance" of survival would not likely be sent home the next day, so the last verse could take place a week or two after the others.
There are two contrasts set up in this song. One is between a mind that wants to die being housed in a body that wants to live. The other is a person who wants to die when there is someone in her life who loves her so much.
If she is in the cardiac ward, this may be a clue as to why the patient attempted suicide in the first place. She may have a congenital or painful heart condition, and would rather die at her own hand than be the victim of a heart attack.
It is bad enough to take a patient home who may have a relapse of a disease or a recurrence of a cancer. It is something else entirely to know that a person might decide to try and take her own life again-- how could you possibly be vigilant enough? You have to sleep sometime...
There should be some staff person at the hospital, a social worker or psychiatrist, who can offer help and suggestions, and possibly even prescribe therapy, anti-depressants... something. Heck, the daughter might need some support, for herself.
To send a woman home with her suicidal mother, possibly the day after the attempt itself, with only a 50% chance of survival, and no psychological support? This does not sound like a doctor or hospital I would ever want to wind up with.
Next Song: Pilgrimage
Monday, June 29, 2015
Tired of Sleeping
This seems to be a song about illness, told from the point of view of the ailing one.
If the idea of "sleeping" is literal, then this person has intense lethargy, such as with chronic fatigue syndrome, or is perhaps in an actual coma. If it is metaphoric, it can be seen as a state of severe depression, in the psychological, clinical sense.
In either case, the person is aware that she is sick and longs for her wakeful energy to return: "I'm tired of sleeping."
Why? She is not having nightmares, at least not insufferable ones: "The dreams are not so bad." Rather, she feels guilty as her lack of productivity, as if she is aware that others are doing everything for her she is usually capable of doing herself: "There's so much to do."
One of the people, perhaps the main person, caring for her is her mother. It is bad enough to have some paid nurse or orderly checking up on you. But to have your own mother continue to have to mother you as adult is heartbreaking.
Next, she becomes aware of an "old man." She realizes that he is trying to communicate with her. However, she "just can't hear what he's saying," either because he is speaking too quietly, or-- since she feels she just can't hear him-- that the fault is her illness'.
Who is he? Her doctor? A priest? We meet him again later for more clues.
First, we switch from an old man to "kids." They are "playing in pennies," that is, gambling with pennies as the stakes. They seem to have plenty to play with, as they are "up to their knees in money."
But they are also up to their knees in "dirt," perhaps the speaker's opinion of what money is worth. "All your money won't another minute buy," sings the rock group Kansas in "Dust in the Wind." So someone near death might see this quest for money as useful as a quest for dirt.
Now, where is this dirt? At the "churchyard steps." This brings religion into the mix. Combined with the pennies, these images together recall the imagery of moneychangers outside the Temple. And we all know how Jesus felt about that.
Further, the kids are at the "steps" of the church, or more at the steps of the "yard" before the "church." Near enough physically to see it. But while gambling, spiritually distant indeed. For the sake of pennies, they forgo the desire to enter the church and find true "riches."
Now, we return to the man. He "ripped out his lining." We are not sure yet why he would do so, but at this point we assume that she means the lining of a coat or suit jacket.
No. He somehow ripped out the lining of his "body"! Yes, "He tore out a piece of his body." Dare we ask which piece? He wanted to show "us"-- the speaker and her mother-- his "clean quilted heart."
This is quite graphic. And also quite impossible. Aside from the anatomical issues, hearts are made of muscle and are not "quilted." We are left to believe this is an hallucination or dream image.
But of what? The most common image of a person holding his own heart is Jesus, with his hands holding the Sacred Heart.
On the other hand... Jesus was not "old." He was only 33 at the time of his death. So this could be a conflation of Jesus and the Father...?
If the old man is a doctor, perhaps she sees him open his lab coat and show her the donor heart she is to receive, but in her illness-addled state, she sees the images she describes.
What is clear is that the image is a subconscious-based one, a dream image or hallucination. Her condition is medical, so it makes sense that her subconscious is showing her anatomical imagery.
The last image is of a "bird" that has been snared. It is "on" a string, but has not landed to perch there, as if on a branch or telephone wire. Rather, it is "hanging" from it. Further, she cannot leave the string, as she would of course be able to if she has simply lighted there. No, she is "twisting," "dancing," and "fighting" to be loose. She knows that "her small life" depends on her breaking free.
This is an apt metaphor for someone in a coma or other such state. The person-- the consciousness that is a person, the self-- is confined in the uncooperative body, like a trapped animal.
She wants to hear what the old man is saying. She wants to do things for herself, and have her mother stop tending her. She is spending all her psychic energy to re-enter the world of interaction and communication, but she is emotionally exhausted. She just wants to be well already!
The lyrics offer no resolution, and leave us with the frustrated invalid. But the music, which repeats the chorus several times, ends with an upward modulation. The entire time, the song has been sung in a low register. The final time, the melody line is noticeably higher, with a shade of echo.
This may be the singer's way of indicating that the soul has left the body and it, at least, is free.
IMPACT:
The song is the first on the album Days of Open Hand. Which won a Grammy. For Best Album Package.
Well, better than nothing.
Next Song: Men in a War
If the idea of "sleeping" is literal, then this person has intense lethargy, such as with chronic fatigue syndrome, or is perhaps in an actual coma. If it is metaphoric, it can be seen as a state of severe depression, in the psychological, clinical sense.
In either case, the person is aware that she is sick and longs for her wakeful energy to return: "I'm tired of sleeping."
Why? She is not having nightmares, at least not insufferable ones: "The dreams are not so bad." Rather, she feels guilty as her lack of productivity, as if she is aware that others are doing everything for her she is usually capable of doing herself: "There's so much to do."
One of the people, perhaps the main person, caring for her is her mother. It is bad enough to have some paid nurse or orderly checking up on you. But to have your own mother continue to have to mother you as adult is heartbreaking.
Next, she becomes aware of an "old man." She realizes that he is trying to communicate with her. However, she "just can't hear what he's saying," either because he is speaking too quietly, or-- since she feels she just can't hear him-- that the fault is her illness'.
Who is he? Her doctor? A priest? We meet him again later for more clues.
First, we switch from an old man to "kids." They are "playing in pennies," that is, gambling with pennies as the stakes. They seem to have plenty to play with, as they are "up to their knees in money."
But they are also up to their knees in "dirt," perhaps the speaker's opinion of what money is worth. "All your money won't another minute buy," sings the rock group Kansas in "Dust in the Wind." So someone near death might see this quest for money as useful as a quest for dirt.
Now, where is this dirt? At the "churchyard steps." This brings religion into the mix. Combined with the pennies, these images together recall the imagery of moneychangers outside the Temple. And we all know how Jesus felt about that.
Further, the kids are at the "steps" of the church, or more at the steps of the "yard" before the "church." Near enough physically to see it. But while gambling, spiritually distant indeed. For the sake of pennies, they forgo the desire to enter the church and find true "riches."
Now, we return to the man. He "ripped out his lining." We are not sure yet why he would do so, but at this point we assume that she means the lining of a coat or suit jacket.
No. He somehow ripped out the lining of his "body"! Yes, "He tore out a piece of his body." Dare we ask which piece? He wanted to show "us"-- the speaker and her mother-- his "clean quilted heart."
This is quite graphic. And also quite impossible. Aside from the anatomical issues, hearts are made of muscle and are not "quilted." We are left to believe this is an hallucination or dream image.
But of what? The most common image of a person holding his own heart is Jesus, with his hands holding the Sacred Heart.
On the other hand... Jesus was not "old." He was only 33 at the time of his death. So this could be a conflation of Jesus and the Father...?
If the old man is a doctor, perhaps she sees him open his lab coat and show her the donor heart she is to receive, but in her illness-addled state, she sees the images she describes.
What is clear is that the image is a subconscious-based one, a dream image or hallucination. Her condition is medical, so it makes sense that her subconscious is showing her anatomical imagery.
The last image is of a "bird" that has been snared. It is "on" a string, but has not landed to perch there, as if on a branch or telephone wire. Rather, it is "hanging" from it. Further, she cannot leave the string, as she would of course be able to if she has simply lighted there. No, she is "twisting," "dancing," and "fighting" to be loose. She knows that "her small life" depends on her breaking free.
This is an apt metaphor for someone in a coma or other such state. The person-- the consciousness that is a person, the self-- is confined in the uncooperative body, like a trapped animal.
She wants to hear what the old man is saying. She wants to do things for herself, and have her mother stop tending her. She is spending all her psychic energy to re-enter the world of interaction and communication, but she is emotionally exhausted. She just wants to be well already!
The lyrics offer no resolution, and leave us with the frustrated invalid. But the music, which repeats the chorus several times, ends with an upward modulation. The entire time, the song has been sung in a low register. The final time, the melody line is noticeably higher, with a shade of echo.
This may be the singer's way of indicating that the soul has left the body and it, at least, is free.
IMPACT:
The song is the first on the album Days of Open Hand. Which won a Grammy. For Best Album Package.
Well, better than nothing.
Next Song: Men in a War
Monday, June 22, 2015
Wooden Horse
Here, Suzanne Vega treats the mystery of Caspar Hauser. This person appeared one day in 1800s Germany. He, then a teen (possibly 16), made several claims: that he had been held in captivity all his life until then, that his father was a now-deceased cavalryman, and, later, that people were trying to kill him. Over the course of his short life, many kindly people took Hauser in, some of whom later denounced him as a congenital liar; it may have been that he was simply a person with mental issues that included a loose grasp of the truth.
He has been the subject of endless speculation, including that he was of noble blood; this claim has since been weakened by DNA evidence. Whole books have been written on the case of Caspar (or Kaspar, or Gaspard, depending on the language of the author), and much "information" is available online.
Vega's haunting song starts with a line that explains, from Hauser's point of view that he "came out of the darkness" of solitary confinement. He brought one artifact of that time in his life-- one of his toys, a "small, white wooden horse."
Then he makes a claim about this toy: "What was wood became alive." It entirely possible that a person kept in confinement, not even able to see his jailer, would impute life to an inanimate object, if only to keep from deeper insanity. We witnessed this phenomenon in the film Castaway, in which a man (played by Tom Hanks) maintains his sanity on an otherwise uninhabited island by befriending a volleyball on which he draws a face (The brand of the ball is Wilson, and thus he names it; it has been noted that Hank's wife is one Rita Wilson).
"In the night, the walls disappeared/ In the day they returned," Hauser continues, describing the idea that, while dreaming, his thoughts were unconfined. But when he awoke, he was again limited by his reality.
On the day he first became known to the public, he did so by handing a note to a soldier, telling him, "I want to be a cavalryman like my father." This seems to be all he was able to say, at first, aside from "horse." The song repeats that part of Hauser's story.
Barely audibly, Vega sings "And I fell under/ A moving piece of Sun/ Freedom." This may be the reaction of someone who has only recently become aware of the seeming movement of the Sun across the sky after lifelong imprisonment.
There are monuments in Germany to Hauser, one at his grave and one at the spot at which he was stabbed. A library's worth of books, as well as films and other songs, have treated the subject of this mysterious man and his enigmatic existence.
Vega's conclusion seems to be that, from a few shabby threads, one can weave an identity, a life, and a legacy. This may also be due to the human penchant for seeing patterns where there are none-- we abhor a vacuum as much as Nature itself, and fill it with ourselves.
Next Song: Tired of Sleeping
He has been the subject of endless speculation, including that he was of noble blood; this claim has since been weakened by DNA evidence. Whole books have been written on the case of Caspar (or Kaspar, or Gaspard, depending on the language of the author), and much "information" is available online.
Vega's haunting song starts with a line that explains, from Hauser's point of view that he "came out of the darkness" of solitary confinement. He brought one artifact of that time in his life-- one of his toys, a "small, white wooden horse."
Then he makes a claim about this toy: "What was wood became alive." It entirely possible that a person kept in confinement, not even able to see his jailer, would impute life to an inanimate object, if only to keep from deeper insanity. We witnessed this phenomenon in the film Castaway, in which a man (played by Tom Hanks) maintains his sanity on an otherwise uninhabited island by befriending a volleyball on which he draws a face (The brand of the ball is Wilson, and thus he names it; it has been noted that Hank's wife is one Rita Wilson).
"In the night, the walls disappeared/ In the day they returned," Hauser continues, describing the idea that, while dreaming, his thoughts were unconfined. But when he awoke, he was again limited by his reality.
On the day he first became known to the public, he did so by handing a note to a soldier, telling him, "I want to be a cavalryman like my father." This seems to be all he was able to say, at first, aside from "horse." The song repeats that part of Hauser's story.
Barely audibly, Vega sings "And I fell under/ A moving piece of Sun/ Freedom." This may be the reaction of someone who has only recently become aware of the seeming movement of the Sun across the sky after lifelong imprisonment.
Taken into various people's homes, he was occasionally left alone. In several cases, he emerged with unexplained wounds. He began to feel, as the song relates, "afraid [he] may be killed." Since someone was bothering to harm him, he concluded "I know I have a power" that his attacker wanted to extinguish.
As it happened, ive years after he emerged, Hauser was dead, killed by a stab wound. Doctors could only conclude that it may have been self-inflicted. As little is known of Hauser's death as of his childhood and life.
The song, like Hauser's story, and the stories he told about himself, lacks rhyme. And-- given that so many aspects of his life are either unknown, fabricated (by Hauser himself as well as by his supporters and detractors), or the subject of Hauser's being brainwashed by his early jailers-- there is not much reason, either.
There are monuments in Germany to Hauser, one at his grave and one at the spot at which he was stabbed. A library's worth of books, as well as films and other songs, have treated the subject of this mysterious man and his enigmatic existence.
Vega's conclusion seems to be that, from a few shabby threads, one can weave an identity, a life, and a legacy. This may also be due to the human penchant for seeing patterns where there are none-- we abhor a vacuum as much as Nature itself, and fill it with ourselves.
Next Song: Tired of Sleeping
Monday, May 11, 2015
In the Eye
This is a very short song. It only has two verses and a chorus,
which repeat in their entirety. The chorus itself is only 12 words long, and
there are only 42 individual words in the song altogether.
All of the words are simple and direct and known to elementary
school children. In fact, only a few of those words are more than one syllable
long: “alive,” “everything,” “inside,” “into,” “memory,” and “myself.”
Yet, as a statement, it is quite powerful
in its defiance and strength.
The song doesn't seem to need much
interpretation. It doesn't use the word "haunt," but that is
the threat it describes. "If you were to kill me... I would burn
myself into your memory... I would make you wear me like a scar."
“If you were to kill me,” the speaker implies, “I would haunt you
for the rest of your life. The fact that I was able to meet my death while
still meeting your gaze would let you know that although you have destroyed my
body, you never conquered my spirit, and I continue to defy you even after my
physical death.”
An idea that repeats is that of “in.” There are the lines “In the
eye,” “into your memory,” “live inside of you,” and even “run through.” The
idea is that the speaker would be indelibly embedded into her killer in some
sense.
So now killing her is a bad idea for another. Aside from being a
crime and a sin, it would not even really result in her death! She would be
physically dead, sure, but her memory and spirit would be alive inside her
killer! So what’s the point?
Next Song: Night Vision
Monday, May 4, 2015
Ironbound/ Fancy Poultry
This song uses what is called a "motif," an image that recurs several times. The motif is the idea of things, people, and places being "ironbound."
There is an overhead structure, probably the trestle from an elevated commuter train: "Beams and bridges... the rails run 'round." Its beams-- along with the random wires overhead in any city-- don't so much block the sunlight as bisect into "little triangles."
The trestle is supported by iron beams, regularly spaced. This colonnade makes the "section" beneath it feel "ironbound." Other areas shown to be bounded by iron fencing are the "schoolyard" and the "market." The iron is old, with much visible "rust." This has been going on a long, long time.
And, ultimately, the "border" between the residents and any other possible life is, likewise, "ironbound." This area's many fenced in subsections are revealed as the characters move through them.
The only action is of a woman dropping her child off at school, then going to the market. By watching her, we learn something about her life and circumstances.
She lives near a marketplace where live chickens are displayed and butchered onsite for sale. We see "the blood and feathers near her feet," and later hear the cries of the chicken sellers.
The woman is of indistinct ethnicity-- we are told that her skin is of a "light and sweet coffee color"-- but perhaps she is Portuguese like others in her neighborhood.
We "watch" her walk her son up to the gate of the school. Both are "bound up in iron and wire and fate." The iron beams and metal wires that surround them serve as a metaphor for a prison of a sort, a place and situation that cannot be escaped.
She has some hope for the children, however. Aside from the chickens and the people, the only living thing there is some scraggly, hardy vegetation. She knows the children "will grow like weeds on a fence... they come up through the cracks." She tells us that they "try to make sense" of their situation.
But she stops short of saying they will be able to do anything about it.
"She touches him goodbye," but does not embrace or kiss her son. Perhaps he is too old to be comfortable with such displays in front of his classmates. Or perhaps the very coldness and restrictiveness of their environment has chilled such usual parental warmth.
Leaving the schoolyard, "she stops at the stall," presumably the one selling chickens. She "fingers the ring," probably a wedding ring. Where is her husband, the boy's father? Did he leave for work earlier? Is he home, unemployed? Did he divorce her, simply fly, or even die?
She "feels a longing," but, it seems, not for him. She longs to be, simply, "away from the ironbound border." What seems to trigger the longing, after all, is not the ring. It's the opening of her purse. Why would the routine act of finding money for groceries in her wallet call forth this emotional reaction? Does she miss the man less than the financial stability he provided?
Does she struggle with the idea of selling or pawning the ring, as if doing so would be an admission of the finality of the man's departure? That he left or died and is never coming back? If it's all she has left of him, we can well imagine her dilemma.
The song closes with the cry of the chicken vendor. But it is clear that this sub-song (it has its own title) is also meant to symbolize the treatment of women. It even calls to mind the specter of female trafficking and prostitution.
What is being sold? "Breasts and thighs," the visible parts of a woman most often sexualized. Also, "hearts" are for sale-- emotional commitment can be had for a price. "Backs," the part associate with work (as in "back-breaking labor") are cheap; for not much, you can have a woman cook and clean for you. She could be a maid, a wife, does it matter?
And "wings"? They are "nearly fee." Chicken wings do not have much meat, and so would be sold cheaply. But metaphorically, a woman's "wings"-- her senses of independence and freedom-- are only "nearly" free. Not free... enough. Still, ultimately, ironbound.
Next Song: In the Eye
There is an overhead structure, probably the trestle from an elevated commuter train: "Beams and bridges... the rails run 'round." Its beams-- along with the random wires overhead in any city-- don't so much block the sunlight as bisect into "little triangles."
The trestle is supported by iron beams, regularly spaced. This colonnade makes the "section" beneath it feel "ironbound." Other areas shown to be bounded by iron fencing are the "schoolyard" and the "market." The iron is old, with much visible "rust." This has been going on a long, long time.
And, ultimately, the "border" between the residents and any other possible life is, likewise, "ironbound." This area's many fenced in subsections are revealed as the characters move through them.
The only action is of a woman dropping her child off at school, then going to the market. By watching her, we learn something about her life and circumstances.
She lives near a marketplace where live chickens are displayed and butchered onsite for sale. We see "the blood and feathers near her feet," and later hear the cries of the chicken sellers.
The woman is of indistinct ethnicity-- we are told that her skin is of a "light and sweet coffee color"-- but perhaps she is Portuguese like others in her neighborhood.
We "watch" her walk her son up to the gate of the school. Both are "bound up in iron and wire and fate." The iron beams and metal wires that surround them serve as a metaphor for a prison of a sort, a place and situation that cannot be escaped.
She has some hope for the children, however. Aside from the chickens and the people, the only living thing there is some scraggly, hardy vegetation. She knows the children "will grow like weeds on a fence... they come up through the cracks." She tells us that they "try to make sense" of their situation.
But she stops short of saying they will be able to do anything about it.
"She touches him goodbye," but does not embrace or kiss her son. Perhaps he is too old to be comfortable with such displays in front of his classmates. Or perhaps the very coldness and restrictiveness of their environment has chilled such usual parental warmth.
Leaving the schoolyard, "she stops at the stall," presumably the one selling chickens. She "fingers the ring," probably a wedding ring. Where is her husband, the boy's father? Did he leave for work earlier? Is he home, unemployed? Did he divorce her, simply fly, or even die?
She "feels a longing," but, it seems, not for him. She longs to be, simply, "away from the ironbound border." What seems to trigger the longing, after all, is not the ring. It's the opening of her purse. Why would the routine act of finding money for groceries in her wallet call forth this emotional reaction? Does she miss the man less than the financial stability he provided?
Does she struggle with the idea of selling or pawning the ring, as if doing so would be an admission of the finality of the man's departure? That he left or died and is never coming back? If it's all she has left of him, we can well imagine her dilemma.
The song closes with the cry of the chicken vendor. But it is clear that this sub-song (it has its own title) is also meant to symbolize the treatment of women. It even calls to mind the specter of female trafficking and prostitution.
What is being sold? "Breasts and thighs," the visible parts of a woman most often sexualized. Also, "hearts" are for sale-- emotional commitment can be had for a price. "Backs," the part associate with work (as in "back-breaking labor") are cheap; for not much, you can have a woman cook and clean for you. She could be a maid, a wife, does it matter?
And "wings"? They are "nearly fee." Chicken wings do not have much meat, and so would be sold cheaply. But metaphorically, a woman's "wings"-- her senses of independence and freedom-- are only "nearly" free. Not free... enough. Still, ultimately, ironbound.
Next Song: In the Eye
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