Thursday, 25 January 2007

sad songs sings lou reed

this is from crooked rib 4, its a bit ok

Sad song sings Lou Reed

The saddest days are the days when the sad songs arent enough. You sit paralysed in front of the lines of records, trying to find the right track. You want to hear something that can make you cry with no guilt, but this is too new. This is a feeling that has not yet had a song assigned to it.
You think of when it was simple, and whenever you were down, some teen angst music gave all the answers.
You play the records you hope no one knows you have.
You play the songs youve used in fiction to show the reader that the character is sad.
Nothing works.
The saddest days are when nothing you play or read can make you cry enough.
When you want to sob and weep and scream (do you think theres a heaven where the screams have gone?).
You go back in time. You think if you play Billie or Nat, the sadness in their lives will push the tears forward.
All you want to do is cry.
But you cant.
Something in your gut revolts from the ducts in your eyes, because you know deep down, you know that if you cry, the sadness will be real. And far too much time has been invested in telling yourself that it will be ok. That youre not upset. That this time youre alright.
I look at the thin rows. This one for that break up, this one for that gash, this one for that swallow, this one for that time I walked down the street breathless and the world turned in on itself. This one for when there was always a song.
Ford made Dowell say this is the saddest story. I made Angel say the same thing, and she played Stormy Weather. You write a fiction, and you can always assign a song to the line.
Once I didnt cry for two years.
There werent enough songs. And suddenly there were too many, and I could cry at a sad song played in the right advert. When the Jew revealed his tattoo in the teaching commercial.
There are moments that trigger tears. I know before it comes that it will happen, and try to prevent, but when they sing La Marseillaise in Casablanca; or Tomorrow belongs to me in Cabaret, and I dissolve. Its like my knee moving when you hit the right bone. Its like my heart turning when I remember your mouth on my breasts.
Slip that in there.
The sad days, when it was sad was when you woke up and thought about being alone. I read that somewhere. Maybe I will wake up and that will make me cry.
You think too much about crying though, and suddenly it becomes too abstract. The concentration on it becomes too much, and you forget what it was that was making you sad.
You forget that it is the happy songs that make you cry.

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