Sunday, September 21, 2008

Anchorage

I think I probably started included Michelle Shocked's "Anchorage" on every mix tape I made for anybody shortly after I first moved to Halifax. It's a very "Amelia song," as my dear friend and ex-boyfriend Sean would say. He really would say this, rolling his eyes, because by the time I met him, this song's inclusion on the countless mix tapes I made for other people was already a cliche. But aside from that, it is an "Amelia song" because I am sentimental like that about old friends, and I am also in love with faraway, cold places like Alaska. Or at least with the idea of them.

In Sean's basement apartment on Woodbine avenue, we began a tradition of playing DJ for one another, drinking Lakers or cheap red wine, sharing our favourites with one another and eventually compiling them on mixes for our friends, usually yet unknown to one party, and as we, at this beginning stage of our relationship, were fairly unknown to one another too, we learned about each other through the way we related to our friends and how and why we would make the selections that were made.

There are a few old friends that I think about when I listen to "Anchorage," mostly people who have both settled into family life, and who are also far removed from being involved in any kind of artistic or musical community the way that I am. It's a lifestyle difference that is clearly articulated here in the way this song contrasts Anchorage, Alaska with New York City. I feel a real fondness for these old friends, but I also feel the miles in between us and like it's impossible to ever recover what we had in high school or in our first few years of "adulthood."

Last year, my old friends Kim and Anne, with whom I was reunited through facebook (of course) concocted a crazy scheme, wherein Anne and I would, over the Christmas holidays, make the five hour drive from southern Ontario to visit Kim in Sudbury where she now owns a home with her police officer partner and her children, and where the three of us - a lifetime ago it often seems - attended university immediately following high school. I hadn't seen either of them in close to a decade, but our facebook correspondences were excited and optimistic, and I guess I am generally of the opinion that people don't really change that much, and that the often inexplicable reasons we all have for liking who we like are usually enduring.

Kim and I never had any illusions about the unlikeliness of our friendship. We both really hated living in residence, and we hid in our tiny shared dorm room together, but that confined space and the people who surrounded us were all that really seemed to bind us. She dragged me out to Ralph's Sports Bar where I was forced to put up with godawful dance music and the succession of bland, jockey guys who took a shine to her. I dragged her to the Townehouse Tavern where she was forced to listen to punk bands and drink disgusting northern draught in a smokey room full of weirdos. Anne, who lived a few floors below us, was kind of in the middle. Which is not to say that she was easy. On the contrary, Anne is one of the most sensitive people I have ever met, and I bet she sucked up all kinds of things and situations she probably didn't want to be a part of. Looking back, I don't know how I wasn't constantly and openly amazed by how much alike we were in our temperaments.

The last time I saw Anne, prior to our reunion this past December, I was visiting my friend Andrea - also a friend from Sudbury, who I had met my second year there - in their mutual home town of Guelph, Ontario. It was weird, because I was definitely there to see (and I stayed with) Andrea, but I made a point of meeting up with Anne one evening. When I'd visited Guelph in the past it had been to see Anne. This time there was an awkward tension between us. I really felt that we had "grown apart" and it made me feel sad and uncomfortable. If I honestly analyze these kinds of situations I know that it is probably more about me than about the other person. There was an over-riding sense of shame. I could see that Anne was happily back in school, in a serious relationship (with the man she would eventually marry), and was acting, well, like the adult that she was. Me: I still felt and acted like a kid. I was a university drop-out, still getting wasted all the time, living rent-free at my mom's, working at Chapters, and making plans to travel across Canada. I was openly self-righteous, insisting that I was being authentically myself. But I was lazy and selfish and aimless and incredibly worried about how apparent all of that might be to other people.

And because aside from being nearly, finally, finished an undergraduate degree, I didn't actually feel that my life or lifestyle had changed all that much in the interim, I was nervous about our 2007 reunion.

It was good. I think Anne and I approached one another with an appropriate amount of reserve, but we talked about quite a lot of weighty stuff during the ten hours total that we spent in her car together. I won't get into details, because a lot of it was pretty personal. There was reminiscing of course, and at the same time it was like we were taking stock of and comparing the people we were to the people we are. I was really impressed with Anne's self-awareness, and it was absolutely heartening to see how comfortable she eventually became - or, at least, so it seemed - with herself.

Kim was exactly as I'd remembered her and completely easy to be with. But I don't see any of myself in her.

I think one of the best things about "Anchorage" is Leroy. He's exactly the kind of guy you want your dear friend to end up with.

I think Anne and I were really glad to see one another, and glad to get back to our own lives, and that we will be glad to see one another again.


Anchorage - Michelle Shocked
I took time out to write to my old friend
I walked across that burning bridge
Mailed my letter off to Dallas
But her reply came from Anchorage, Alaska
She said:"Hey girl, it's about time you wrote
It's been over two years you know, my old friend
Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams
And the all-night rock and rollin'...
We was wild then
Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny
Texas always seemed so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage
Hey Girl, I think the last time I saw you
Was on me and Leroy's wedding day
What was the name of that love song they played?
I forgot how it goes
I don't recall how it goes
Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage
Leroy got a better job so we moved
Kevin lost a tooth now he's started school
I got a brand new eight month old baby girl
I sound like a housewife
I think I'm a housewife
Hey Girl, what's it like to be in New York?
New York City - imagine that!
Tell me, what's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker?
Leroy says "Send a picture"
Leroy says "Hello"
Leroy says "Oh, keep on rocking, girl"
"yeah, keep on rocking"
Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny
Texas always seemed so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage

Friday, September 5, 2008

Icarus

I first came across this song several years ago. It was included on a compilation CD called "British Folk Troubadours" that Sean received as a promo when he was managing Sam the Record Man on Barrington street, and which he thoughtfully passed on to me. This version was recorded by Martin Simpson, but the song was written by a woman called Ann Lister, who I know nothing at all about. (I'd love to know something about her!) I played it for everyone I could, and their responses were always along the lines of, "Yeah, it's nice." I could not for the life of me understand why it wasn't blowing their minds. It is like how I was always stunned to learn that I could still register for classes called things like "Critical Theory" and "Feminism and Composition" at such a late date. Doesn't everyone dig this stuff? I never really think I'm that weird until I find out that I am.

The only other version I've heard was performed by Garnet Rogers when he played at Ginger's probably about a year ago. After the show I enthused about how thrilling it was to have heard him play that song live, explaining how no one I knew seemed to know anything about it, and how it was one of my favourite songs in the world. Then I told him how I also loved it that he played a Greg Brown cover, and I didn't say a word about his own stuff which was, you know, alright, but nothing to write home about. Garnet Rogers has a reputation for being kind of a jerk, but he was absolutely kind and forthcoming when I spoke to him after the show, despite my dis-by-omission.

It's kind of funny that a song about the purest, truest kind of love that one can have for another human being is one that reminds me so much of my own singularity and isolation. A carrier of heavy wings is way more than anyone should ever expect.

Oh, and when I said that thing about love songs a couple of entries ago, I forgot to say that almost all my favourite songs are love songs.


Icarus - Ann Lister (Martin Simpson, Garnet Rogers)
I never wanted to fly high
I was too fond of walking
And when you said you'd touch the sky
I thought it was your way of talking
And then you said you'd build some wings
And find out how it could be done
But I was doubtful of everything
I never thought you'd reach the sun
You were so clever with your hands
I'd watch you for hours
With the glue and the rubber bands
Feathers and lace and flowers
And the finished wings they glowed so bright
Like some bird of glory
I began to envy you your flight
Like some old hero's story
You tried to get me to go with you
You tried always to dare me
But I looked at the sky so blue
I thought the height would scare me
But I carried your wings for you
Up the path to the cliff face
Kissed you goodbye and watched your eyes
Already bright with sunlight
Oh it was grand at the start
To watch you soaring higher
There was a pain deep in my heart
The wings seemed tipped with fire
Like a seagull or a lark
Rising up forever
Like some ember or some spark
Rising from earth to heaven
Then I believed you'd touch the sun
I believed all you told me
Do a thing no man has ever done
You'd touch the stars to please me
But then I saw the white wings fail
Then I saw the feathers falter
Watched you drop like a bowl of gold
Into the wide green water
Now some are born to fly high
And some are born to follow
Some are born to touch the sky
While some walk in the hollow
And as I watched your body fall
I knew that really you had won
For your grave was not the earth
But the reflection of the sun

Monday, September 1, 2008

The Swimming Song


Yesterday afternoon, as Jonathan returned to the apartment we shared for the last sixteen months, to pick up a couple of remaining items and to drop off his keys, I jokingly remarked, "So I guess we can go back to being friends now that we aren't roommates anymore," after offering him my new phone number. He laughed.

It wasn't really that bad, living with Jonathan. It's been way, way worse with other roommates, but we certainly let sharing space issues interfere with what was once a pretty fun and very honest and close friendship.

The end of summer, three summers ago, "The Swimming Song" was our soundtrack, whether we were driving through the Annapolis Valley or getting merrily stoned and drunk in someones apartment, raising our voices like a choir to hear it. And boy, did we hear it! Jonathan would repeat the song as many as ten times in a row, I am sure, fiddling with the MP3 player attached to his stereo as we sat outside in his beat-up car smoking cigarettes there to avoid the rain. I liked his car, I liked smoking there. I liked the imposed physical intimacy that such a small space offered.

Most of that summer revolved around the Granite Brewery. It is where we met one another, and where we met Jen, who for much of that summer completed our hedonistic trio. We consumed so much alcohol, the three of us, and we stayed up so late. We thought we were the best of friends but we were really just as immediate as Loudon Wainwright's song, which is not to belittle that time. It is something to talk so closely, to be so abandoned and in the moment. And it was nice to feel like we were in a kind of a club, the three of us. I know that I felt free, and I know that it was because of these late nights and this feeling of belonging and this speedy, motorized vehicle that brought us to the beach on sunny days. I would go so far as to say that it was the comfort and confidence that Jonathan and Jen unknowingly afforded me that allowed me to be receptive to other people, too. I belonged in that pub on Barrington street. I could walk into the building by myself and be recognized and welcomed and known. Katie, and Lisa, and Joe, and many other dear friendships came of this. I cried and laughed and danced with these people, and I was every single version of my messy, uninhibited, insecure, honest, sad self that warm and receptive hearts and several pints of Peculiar can unleash.

Time will tell, it always does, what is forever and what was for then, but it was all real, whatever kind of spin I'm inclined to put on it.

I am so glad that Jonathan laughed.



The Swimming Song - Loudon Wainwright III


This summer I went swimming,

This summer I might have drowned

But I held my breath and I kicked my feet

And I moved my arms around,

I moved my arms around.

This summer I swam in the ocean,

And I swam in a swimming pool,

Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes,

I'm a self-destructive fool,

a self-destructive fool.

This summer I swam in a public place

And a reservoir, to boot,

At the latter I was informal,

At the former I wore my suit,

I wore my swimming suit.

This summer I did the backstroke

And you know that's not all

I did the breast stroke and the butterfly

And the old Australian crawl,

the old Australian crawl.

This summer I did swan dives

And jackknifes for you all

And once when you weren't looking

I did a cannonball,

I did a cannonball.