While passing out copies of some of my CDs to the local 6:30 AM coffee club and Republican Caucus at the Barrington, Illinois McDonald's, one of the charter club members was kind enough (thoughtful enough, and insightful enough) to present to me a CD of 18 of his favorite Australian songs, asking me in particular for my opinion of song #14, lyrics to which are shown below. Haunting.
You
say, “Well met again, loch keeper,
we're leavin' even deeper than
the time before.”
“Oriental
logs and tea brought down from Singapore.”
As
we wait for my loch to cycle I say “My wife has given me a son!”
“A
son!” you cry, “Is that all that you've done?”
She
wears boganvillia blossoms, you pluck 'em from her hair
and
toss them in the tide. Sweep her in your arms and carry her inside.
Her
sighs catch on your shoulder,
her moonlit eyes grow bold and wiser
through her tears.
And
I say to you, “How could you leave her for a year?”
“So
come with me,” you cry,
“to where the Southern Cross rides high
upon your shoulder.”
“Come
with me,” you cry, “each day you tend this loch, you're one day
older.
“While
your blood grows colder.”
But
that anchor chain's a fetter, and with it you are tethered to the
foam.
And
I would not trade your life for one hour, our own.
Sure
I'm stuck here on the seaway,
while you compensate for leeway through
the trades.
And
you shoot the stars that see the miles you've made.
And
you'll laugh at the hearts you've riven,
But
which of these has given us more love or life:
You
- your tropic mates? Or me - my wife?
“So
come with me,” you cry,
“to where the Southern Cross rides high
upon your shoulder.”
“Come
with me,” you cry, “each day you tend this loch, you're one day
older.
“While
your blood grows colder.”
But
that anchor chain's a fetter, and with it you are tethered to the
foam,
And
I would not trade your life for one hour, our own.
Yes
that anchor chain's a fetter and with it you are tethered to the
foam,
And
I would not trade your life for one hour, our own.
First
of all, Roger, THANK YOU for sharing this wonderful collection of
Aussie tunes (many of which I have heard in the Irish bars of Chicago
and the outlying environs; but, after all, who are the Anglo-Aussies
except for the crminial element of the British Isles who unto whom
was given the “freedom” to develop a new land where only tiny
little beastie peoples lived along with animals unknown to the
European Continent (the Koala, the Kangaroo, and the Krokodile).
Now,
the real reason behind “freeing” this criminal element was
economic. It was cheaper to ship 'em (many in fact were political
prisoners – as in, yuck! The Irish!) to Australia to fend for
themselves than to feed and house 'em on the tit of Albion's Shore.
Somehow or another, the Aussies gained higher status (they were after
all quite a bit further away) than the Irish, always the lowliest of
white peoples (well, in Appalachia the Scots-Irish are pretty lowly
too – in fact, they fared fare less well state side, as history
played out – the ones that live there, in Appalachia, to this day,
mining for coal, workin' for slave wages (if that's all the ambition
they got, that's all the money they deserve, n'est ce quc pas?).
SONG
# 14 – WOW!
This
amazingly textured / layered / story / poem / epic / conversation is
virtually impervious to interpretation unless you can see the lyrics.
Thus, I have taken the liberty, while admitting that my hearing is
not what it once was (I once interpretted the line “I'm a mixed up
shook up girl,” as “I'm a mixed up sugar curl”) of presenting
my best hearing of these wondrous lyrics.
This
was a most rewarding exercise, as I listend and typed, and then
listened and edited, and then listened and punctuated, and then
listened, and tried to get the words and fonts correct. Because what
emerged is one of those best stories as told by the best story
tellers, which I'll exemplify by this line, from the movie CHINATOWN:
“What do you expect? It's Chinatown.” That best story as told by
the best story tellers is the story that is not told, the back story,
which is most assuredly needed to form the most accurate
conclusion(s). And the best story tellers will NOT EVER tell us the
back story, because their greatness comes from what they give us that
is the nothingness of the story (the absence of the back story): WE
have to fill in the blanks, WE have to write our own back story, and
we can only write this story from the lens and photo album of our own
(limited and limiting) life's experiences, and thus, there is a
never-ending mobia strip of back stories, leaving as at the beginning
of THIS story with THE END of THIS story. Which again, is more
easily understood via FILM (e.g., Pulp Fiction, Mullholland
Drive, The Usual Suspects).
Here's
what we know of this song:
It
is told by one man, the loch-keeper, who relates to us the
conversation of a sailor,
clearly a friend, a good friend, a dear friend, even, and perhaps a
friend since childhood; possibly a brother or a cousin; possibly even
a father or a son! Let's keep it simple, and make it a good friend.
A man with whom the loch keeper shares the honesty of his soul. A
man to whom the loch keeper will tell the unvarnished truths as he
knows them; as they are known by him, and who does NOT take offense
at something very much akin to a thoughtless off handed comment.
Good friends get not better than this from good friends: the truth,
warts and all, and the attendant judgments that associate there with.
And yet, there are many truths, and what is true for me, as to my
values, aspirations, dreams, ambitions, hopes, disappointments,
fears, etc, you may hold on to as nearly, as dearly, as I; and yet,
we may be in direct opposition on many, most, or perhaps even ALL of
the most salient points.
And
in this song, there
are diametric opposites of values, dreams, hopes, aspirations.
Coming from two so different points of view, there are entirely
different sets of underlying assumptions. Until we can come to
agreement on an underlying set of assumptions, we cannot have a
meaningful conversation on such matters of values, judgments, etc,
etc, etc. This lack of agreement makes neither of us right, nor
neither one of us wrong. It's only you and me, and we just disagree.
It means we can talk for a long damn time and never move the one by
the other, nor never be moved by the other, the one. And yet, IF, we
are willing to continue the conversation, at SOME point, one (or the
other) may make a point, hit an intersection of time – space –
place that resonates with the experiences of the other. At this
point, change becomes possible, and with change, growth and insight,
and, hopefully, kindness, tenderness, loving, forgiveness, and
compassion.
As
we wait for my loch to cycle I say “My wife has given me a son!”
“A
son!” you cry, “Is that all that you've done?”
“Is
that all that you've done?” Sounding rather callous, sounding
rather crass, rather not too very impressed with a man who prefers
being a loch-keeper, husband, and father, as opposed to joining his
(good and dear) friend fore to sail the seas. ONLY with a very good
friend (certainly, NOT with a stranger) would one be so impervious to
social decorum to ask “Is that all that you've done?” But note,
the loch-keeper does NOT contradict or take offense. He has another
question entirely (that his friend has minimized, probably – but
certainly NOT certainly in jest – his friend having become a
father).
She
wears boganvillia blossoms, you pluck 'em from her hair
and
toss them in the tide. Sweep her in your arms and carry her inside
Her
sighs catch on your shoulder,
her moonlit eyes grow bold
and wiser through her tears.
And
I say to you, “How could you leave her for a year?”
The
loch-keeper tells now of the sailor's wife, and their greeting for
each other, and asks this question: “How could you leave her for a
year?” What kind of a way is this to treat the woman WHO LOVES
YOU? (No matter how little you think of my accomplishment of creating
human life, becoming the father to a son, HOW CAN YOU TREAT THIS
WOMAN WITH SO LITTLE CARING? How can you stand to be away from her
that long. I could not stand this (not even for one hour – as
later we shall see; had the loch-keeper once loved the sailor's woman
and lost her to the sailor?). Our loch-keeper knows a secret: when
you've found a woman who loves you, that you are happy to see, you
should stay with her. Nowhere is it written that you can forever
take her loving for granted, nor even can you take her being alive
and well when you return for granted. LIFE sometimes intervenes; and
you, sailor, won't even know what hit you when she's gone!
“So
come with me,” you cry,
“to
where the Southern Cross rides high upon your shoulder.”
“Come
with me,” you cry, “each day you tend this loch, you're one day
older.
“While
your blood grows colder.”
But
the sailor has found something which uplifts, moves, and sustains
him. And he wants to share this special joy with his friend, that
his friend might know the sailor's joys, while he is still young
enough to do so. This is the sailor's gift, the life he lives, and
he BELIEVES (knows in his guts, understands intimately, just what
this world, this sailor's world would mean to his friend; his friend
whom he has known so long; who as boys, likely, watched the ships
come into the lochs, and watch the ships leave the lochs, and the
dreams they must have had of what the sailor's life would be like.
And this is the GIFT he has to give. The GIFT of the life that he
knows.
But
that anchor chain's a fetter, and with it you are tethered to the
foam.
And
I would not trade your life for one hour of our own.
This
is the crux of the disagreement, where the assumptions depar and
radically sot: to the loch-keeper, “that anchor chain's a fetter,
and with it you are tethered to the foam.” Tethered to the foam,
the sea owns you, and you are its slave; its prisoner. And even if I
could have every experience you have ever had with your sailoring, “I
would not trade your life for one
of our own.”
The
loch-keeper's assumptions and the sailor's assumptions as to the life
well-lived are diametrically opposed. No agreement ever can be
reached on this matter. But, what of us, we who hear this song; we
who read the story; we who have made our choices? Another matter,
entirely. For we can judge, based on the underlying assumptions we
choose to make, as to which life resonates more for us; which is the
more meaningful; which one feeds us more fully; which one makes us
more whole.
The
loch-keeper continues, noting full well the limits and limitations
(apparent, and perhaps even real of his own chosen life, and seeing
full well it is NOT as “exciting” or as immediately and sensually
gratifying, dangerous and exciting and erotic as the life of the
sailor:
Sure
I'm stuck here on the seaway,
while you compensate for leeway through
the trades.
And
you shoot the stars that see the miles you've made.
And
you'll laugh at the hearts you've riven,
But
there is a compensation (and a very worthwhile and worthy one, worth
far more to the loch-keeper than the sailor's excitement, joy,
experiences, and female conquests:
But
which of these has given us more love or life:
You
- your tropic mates? Or me - my wife?
So
it is a question of values, of which (women or woman) has given to
each the more love; the more life? Your tropic mates and their
gardens of variety (to you, sailor), or my wife (to me)? The
loch-keeper has taken quite seriously the Biblical admonition that a
man shall leave his mother and take a wife, and this loch-keeper is
very much a “modern man,” in the Jesus sense: a man who LOVES
women (note how anguished the loch-keeper is at the thought of the
sailor's leaving of the one with the boganvilla blossoms in her hair
for a year). Which is feeding us more, nourishing us more,
sustaining us more: You with your Peter Pan lived life, or me with
my grown up and settled down life with wife (and son)?
But
the sailor's assumptions have not changed for the conversation
(which, surely, these two friends have time and again; it is in the
nature of friends truly loving of one another to have these serious
conversations, that might even destroy the friendship someday –
although, not this friendship; they have had the conversation before;
they will have this conversation again, the next time the sailor
returns; that is, IF the sailor returns, for the sea is a harsh
mistress, and sometimes extracts a very high price from her sailors.
“So
come with me,” you cry,
“to
where the Southern Cross rides high upon your shoulder.”
“Come
with me,” you cry, “each day you tend this loch, you're one day
older.
“While
your blood grows colder.”
My
friend, LISTEN, please, to what I say – come with me, while you
still have the time to enjoy it (it need not be forever; but please,
one time, please, enter into my world!) - before it's too late and
your blood becomes too cold to e're be warm (again)!
Emphatically,
the loch-keeper answers, the same answer as was given before; and the
same answer repeated once again, so compelling is this line of
reasoning, its inherent, underlying, immutable, well-ordered sense of
logic:
But
that anchor chain's a fetter, and with it you are tethered to the
foam,
and
I would not trade your life for one hour, our own.
Yes
that anchor chain's a fetter and with it you are tethered to the
foam,
And
I would not trade your life for one hour, our own.
The
one will never convince the other. Their assumptions are too far
apart, and too dearly held to ever change them. But, what of us? Do
we seek to bea philandering Peter Pan (the sailor)? How many of us
chuck all of that stability and certainty away, frequently in our
40's, trading in the old wife for a newer, more exciting (and
younger) model; buying a Porsche, or a Harley? The sailor's logic
swayed us, or was it merely that we wanted to be swayed, that we
married too soon and find our life less exciting than it once was?
Perhaps we got off track somewhere. And what allegiance does one owe
a wife one no longer finds exciting; a job one finds no longer
spiritually rewarding (if it ever was); a conservative (boring, one
that father might drive) automobile that one would never get a
speeding ticket driving?
But
what of us? Do we KNOW in our hearts the good things we've got? The
wife? The kids? The grand kids? The (well-earned and deserved)
respect of the members of our community? The (well-earned and
deserved) respect of our co-workers? Have all the long we been
following a path that first led us to the only thing we ever needed
to complete us? THE woman of our dreams, who has stuck with us, even
when we perhaps went a little crazy, and drove a little too fast, or
flirted a little too ostentatiously, the woman who gave us all the
rope we ever needed to hang ourselves with, and in so doing, gave us
the freedom to love her; to choose her; to make that commitment, to
have and to hold, 'til death us do part.
Some
will hear the song and perhaps be inspired to leave to sail the seas,
to start over, to be reborn, perhaps even to erase the old slate,
which maybe was fairly impressive, looking at it from the outside,
but was never what some really deigned and dreamed to do, from the
beginning.
Others
will hear the song and smile, sagely, knowing the wisdom of the
loch-keeper is eternal.
And,
in the end, the story teller, the song-writer, the song-singer is the
real hero, because he has given us something very worthwhile to chew
on, mull over, and digest!
