thom york for president
i stumbled across this little tidbit i wrote almost two years ago, when i first went back to counseling after teaching, and i thought i wanted to share it on here. warning: i really loved the f word back then. (i still do, but it's uh, less, mmmm...bitter. yeah, that's it.) But i also thought it was an apt revelation of the last couple of years._________
"I almost doubled over in solid revelation from one so long silent. On the corner of Madison and 8th, with the absent sun finally appearing on the striking skyline of Seattle, I heard god or what I think is god. It’s not hard for me to hear him in music anyway, but after a particularly enlightening counseling session specifically dealing with my lack of love towards god, he fucking shows up. It is just so like him.
I did everything I could for 15 years to make sure he wouldn’t leave me, wouldn’t be disappointed in me. I prayed passionately, I cried with others when they were in pain, I read and memorized my bible, I went to church three times a week, I refrained from premarital sex, I dressed modestly, I never got drunk. All of those things worked for a while, but once his voice started to slip, I got desperate. I dug in even further; I led worship, I went on a hardcore mission’s trip, I scribbled frantically in my journal…yet still he faded. I start to get mad and think, ah finally…he just wanted me to be authentic. But soon, even the yelling at him didn’t bring him when I need him. So I gave up. That’s it, that’s the end. If he fucking wants me, he better come find me. And he does—for a while, for a precious small season. Then I get married. I decide that no mater what, I cannot control my relationship with god, so I must let him do his thing. He does, and proceeds to be so silent that I actually question his existence. And yes, finally…that is a good thing, that’s what he wanted all along, me to live in faith even in doubt. And then, radio silent, otre ves.
And then this…he gives me this. Occasionally, he will give me a small tidbit to keep going, a nurturing touch here, a warm fuzzy there. I haven’t felt that in four years now. And then, the bastard…he shows up.
He shows up on the fucking corner of fucking 8th and Madison. It’s not a special part of town. It’s not quite yet alternative Capitol Hill and its two blocks from the downtown shopping district. It’s a blah, non significant way to get from lesbians to Louis Vuitton-from one insignificant place to another.
I walk down the steps of First Presbyterian Church where my session is held, digging into my purse for my gloves. The sun is out, I am feeling hopeful for once, and yet it’s still bitterly cold, just like me. I put on my ipod to help the walk more enjoyable, and Thom York begins his reprieve. At first, I am stopping to really listen to the lyrics, “Flies are buzzing round my head…Vultures circling the dead.” I am just thinking how little I credit Radiohead’s lyrical ability, being usually so taken by the emotive quality of the music instead. And then…something changes. As I step onto the black pavement to cross to 8th, I curl inward. “You can try the best you can, you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough; you can try the best you can, you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough.”
No passer-by would have noticed. There was no outward physical manifestation of epiphany. But, in my stomach, where my emotional shit lives, I felt it. It was a ping, a twinge, a release. I refused to cry because it only shows how damn desperate I am for anything from him….but my stomach doesn’t refuse. It tells me that I am just like everyone else, desperate and alone…and loved. Fucking loved! Can you believe that shit? I scream inside for him to just leave me alone….to just let me leave my faith behind. Stop trying to make me believe that being human is anything other than tragic and pointless…a stepping stone, a cruel joke.
But he fucking persists. The repetition only makes it more real, “you can try the best you can…you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough.” “You are not a fuck up simply because you can’t make yourself want me. Just leave it alone and let yourself be. It’s not your fault I am silent…. “I’d really like to help you, man.”
I walk on down Madison…back to work, back to life, back to silence.
But for one minute, I heard him. "
I did everything I could for 15 years to make sure he wouldn’t leave me, wouldn’t be disappointed in me. I prayed passionately, I cried with others when they were in pain, I read and memorized my bible, I went to church three times a week, I refrained from premarital sex, I dressed modestly, I never got drunk. All of those things worked for a while, but once his voice started to slip, I got desperate. I dug in even further; I led worship, I went on a hardcore mission’s trip, I scribbled frantically in my journal…yet still he faded. I start to get mad and think, ah finally…he just wanted me to be authentic. But soon, even the yelling at him didn’t bring him when I need him. So I gave up. That’s it, that’s the end. If he fucking wants me, he better come find me. And he does—for a while, for a precious small season. Then I get married. I decide that no mater what, I cannot control my relationship with god, so I must let him do his thing. He does, and proceeds to be so silent that I actually question his existence. And yes, finally…that is a good thing, that’s what he wanted all along, me to live in faith even in doubt. And then, radio silent, otre ves.
And then this…he gives me this. Occasionally, he will give me a small tidbit to keep going, a nurturing touch here, a warm fuzzy there. I haven’t felt that in four years now. And then, the bastard…he shows up.
He shows up on the fucking corner of fucking 8th and Madison. It’s not a special part of town. It’s not quite yet alternative Capitol Hill and its two blocks from the downtown shopping district. It’s a blah, non significant way to get from lesbians to Louis Vuitton-from one insignificant place to another.
I walk down the steps of First Presbyterian Church where my session is held, digging into my purse for my gloves. The sun is out, I am feeling hopeful for once, and yet it’s still bitterly cold, just like me. I put on my ipod to help the walk more enjoyable, and Thom York begins his reprieve. At first, I am stopping to really listen to the lyrics, “Flies are buzzing round my head…Vultures circling the dead.” I am just thinking how little I credit Radiohead’s lyrical ability, being usually so taken by the emotive quality of the music instead. And then…something changes. As I step onto the black pavement to cross to 8th, I curl inward. “You can try the best you can, you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough; you can try the best you can, you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough.”
No passer-by would have noticed. There was no outward physical manifestation of epiphany. But, in my stomach, where my emotional shit lives, I felt it. It was a ping, a twinge, a release. I refused to cry because it only shows how damn desperate I am for anything from him….but my stomach doesn’t refuse. It tells me that I am just like everyone else, desperate and alone…and loved. Fucking loved! Can you believe that shit? I scream inside for him to just leave me alone….to just let me leave my faith behind. Stop trying to make me believe that being human is anything other than tragic and pointless…a stepping stone, a cruel joke.
But he fucking persists. The repetition only makes it more real, “you can try the best you can…you can try the best you can….the best you can is good enough.” “You are not a fuck up simply because you can’t make yourself want me. Just leave it alone and let yourself be. It’s not your fault I am silent…. “I’d really like to help you, man.”
I walk on down Madison…back to work, back to life, back to silence.
But for one minute, I heard him. "
____________
so there you have it. i have struggled with the mighty other that is so long silent...or was. these days, i cant seem to make him leave me alone. the cursed relationship - the terrible frightful beauty of being human. i was hard in those years, and now i am all cushy around the edges.
pensively yours,
crm
p.s. in other frustrations, i drove home the other day and saw my father in my face. i am seeing his resemblance more and more, and it's angering me to NO END. i have been able to place my father in some safe rooms of myself, but lately - the doors have been a'swinging wide open, flooding the other selves with so much rage and anger. it has birthed an idea for a book, actually, but before that happens - it has birthed new, hot tears.
thanks a lot, healing. you are just never satisfied, are you?
thanks a lot, healing. you are just never satisfied, are you?
the book. i want to compile essays written by daughters to their absent or abusive fathers - vulnerable, raw, and painful. this book will be the cultural revelation of a fatherless zeitgeist.
i think the book sounds like nothing i would ever want to read, but something so healing to write.
i think the book sounds like nothing i would ever want to read, but something so healing to write.
4 comments:
don't know if you want comments from pretty-much-strangers but I love this post. I love it when people write Things That Are True and Real, especially when I can relate to them. What you wrote reminded me of Anne Lamott's books.
Anyway, thanks.
E. Louise -
Did I just meet you via email or was that someone else?
Regardless, I welcome comments from all!! I am delighted you found some resonance in my words - and I also loved Anne Lamott - from what I read.
Yes, that was me - the Accidental Emailer. And now quite possibly your blog stalker.
well i will stalk yours if you stalk mine! welcome!
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