Oh, the Places I Go Back to

There are two pieces of art that I find myself continually looking back to. The first is a poem I memorized in high school, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by TS Eliot. It comes up often enough in these postings to have its own section, but it doesn't, yet. It's always different and challenging and heartwrenching. Maybe that's just a place my soul lives and feels at home in. But tonight I'll talk about the other.

It's a song by The Weakerthans, a band I became familiar with toward the end of high school. My sister brought them home in CD format after a semester at Ohio University, and I could not get enough. The song, "Left and Leaving" has always been the song I identify with. Relationships are this continual merry-go-round, and the more I'm in and out of them, the more I've figured out what it takes to keep riding.

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.

What is it about tough spots that make us turn to music and poetry, and movies and museums? Why is it that we must get lost in the souls of others to fully realize our own issues?

The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say "I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.

And we all do this. This is not unique to me. Rarely is it that anything is completely unique to someone. And, sure that might make you feel a dime-a-dozen, but it shouldn't. It should make you feel at home in the humanity we're all part of.

All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.

This is always the worst part. Because it's true. You can't hold on to the good parts without remembering the bad. It's in our nature. So, we go through and destroy all of it, because we know if we see one thing, it will all flood back. Hit you in the face. And it will be right at the moment when you think you've finished feeling those feelings. So we do it. We all do it. And eventually. It fades.

I wait in 4/4 time,
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.