First of all, how can it be right that the world will recognize and remember the genius of Warren Zevon from “Werewolves of London” and not from the title track of his greatest album ever?
Once you’ve heard this, check out “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” It’s almost as good as “Excitable Boy.”
Second, I’m tired.
Emotionally. Mentally. It’s a weariness I can’t describe. And so I’ve had the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack on my mind pretty steady lately.
I love O Brother Where Art Thou, by the way. It’s based on Homer’s Odyssey, which is one of my favorite pieces of classical mythology. Of all mythology, I’ve always loved the Greeks. I feel connected with the stories, their settings and characters, on a deep level. Not sure what it is. The newness of them, I suppose. How they’re often a template for even today’s most compelling works of art, literature, and music.
It’s lonely, being an art nerd. I wish it would become cool the way science nerds are riding the social renaissance on the coattails of Dr. Sheldon Cooper. While I’m in no way as smart as him, I am his twin in other ways.
I’m exactly as socially inept as him, just in the opposite direction. Where he fails to empathize I fail to do anything but, and it’s equally as debilitating. I wish there were such a thing as mental Novocaine. I mean, a non-illicit substance that could provide the same anesthetic freedom.
One song from O Brother, in particular, has dug its hooks into my brain the past few days. It’s by The Cox Family.
I’m feeling this way on an almost daily basis. I’m no stranger to existential depression. You don’t escape ten years of liberal arts education with heavy concentration on theoretical psychology, literary writing, and philosophy without becoming a bit of a sad sack now and then.
But the truth is, I came by the melancholy naturally and honestly, and it expressed itself as early as around the age of five, when I remember clearly asking my mother, quite frantically, in fact, how one knows with any degree of certainty WHO she is (like, the big WHO), and I’ve never been quite the same since.
I’ll come out if it. I always do. But the weight I carry between my shoulders these days seems to grow by a few ounces with each passing hour, at times.
It’s getting heavy. But I appear to be, first and foremost, a mental and emotional pack animal of unreal potential for hauling shit around. And so I shall plod on.
I’m a cheerful old broad, after all.