"The Song Is You" by Arthur Phillips

I was looking for an entertaining read from a modern writer, something with some hype around it, and maybe a love story from a man's point of view. This one fit the profile, and was about inrequited love; even better.

Though it involved a middle-aged man and the mutual attraction with an Irish vocalist/songwriter on the brink of making it big, I think it was really about a man and his love for music. The way it takes just the right song at the right moment to bring out the strongest flavors of life. The way songs of our past can be a more potent memoir than photographs or diaries could ever be. The way "shuffle" on an iPod can be a direct line of communication with the fates.

It was good, not great. I found myself frequently being hit over the head with Phillips's wit, kind of like I felt with Wilde. I liked how well he showed us the passion and perfection-seeking of the audiophile. It also explored the pursuit of art under commercial influences. Our hunger for acceptance and praise, the need for accolades, but not at any price.

What the Cicadas Showed Me

photo by Dave Allen Photography.

Listen to those Cicadas wailing away. There’s something distinctly electronic in their song, something strung out taut like a piano string wound too tight, something otherworldly. It is as though the circuitry of the planet is rewiring itself in preparation for the change of winter, only there is a cross-circuit somewhere nearby, a blip in the grid and the cicadas sound the alarm.

You become aware, through certain words, certain thoughts tuned to just the right frequency, that there is a thin curtain concealing mysteries from you and everyone else. Once in a great while, you catch a mere glimpse of what lies behind, but just enough to know that it is there. Despite the split second exposure of this secret, you know with absolute certainty of its substance, its fact, its truth, but how can you be so confident? Maybe within the brain there is a buried sensitivity, a sensory gland that you have done everything in your power to turn off, but at certain times, something triggers it. Like the sound of cicadas. Synapses fire up, microscopic lightning bolts light up the darkness of your subconscious: “Oh yeah. That’s right. I remember now.”

Then it’s gone. A soothing voice like that of a loving parent leaning over the bars of your crib says, “Ssssshhhh. It’s only cicadas. It’s late summer, and fall is coming. That’s all. You’ve heard them thirty seven times now, remember? Go to sleep. Fall back to sleep now…”

But the curtain stirs restlessly now, and what lies behind peeks out with increased frequency. You wait with impatient excitement for the curtain to be drawn and the show to begin.

Dream With Eyes Awake

photo by Teodoratan.

There was this guy once who could begin to dream while he was still awake. He would stare at a certain spot in the room with unfocused eyes, begin breathing deep and regular, and then wait for the curtain to fall. Or rise, depending on which side you’re standing on. Once his thoughts took the form of images that began moving on their own, it was all he could do to hold back his excitement and maintain the balance of dream and wakefulness, like cupping his hand around a sputtering flame to shed just enough light on his subconscious.

What did he dream about in those moments between hemispheres? He dreamt of the cars he had stolen in his youth, submerged at the bottom of a lake after the wild rides across town had come to an end. He dreamt of beachfront mansions flooded by the tide, hallways filling with sand, water crashing at the base of a staircase, escape routes cut off, the foundation sliding into the sea. He dreamt of fishing in pools of water so clear that he could see the shadows of fish curling among the rocks, the glint of green scales. The line tugged as he caught a big one, but as he dragged it to shore he saw that the fish had long been dead.

All the while he dreamt, his eyes were open, scanning back and forth, up and down, fingertips twitching until, without reason, his eyes stopped their rhythmic movement and drew their focus back to the room at hand. He would start to laugh, or look sad, or still afraid as the dream wavered like drapes in an open window, dissolve away like cotton candy on the tongue.

Look What The Tide Brought In

photo by Gayle_T.

The bum washed up on shore on a beautiful May morning, seaweed chained to his legs, a bottle of bourbon half drunk in his pocket, no message inside. Was his death a message to the town? The bay was a killer, and she was just getting warmed up for summer, waiting to claim unwary swimmers, fisherman that stayed out in the storms, the occasional suicide from a Bay Bridge leap. The bum was her calling card that the drowning season was just getting in gear.

The bum smelled badly. The woman who had discovered the body, taking her dog for an early morning jog, held her shirt-sleeve up to her nose and mouth when she brought over the police for introductions. Unwashed, sweaty, oily, and that was back when he was alive. The police recognized him, remembered his slight lisp, bags under his eyes, the way he wiped his nose nervously on a sleeve when children would point him out to their mothers. The bay had bathed him, but that didn’t help the smell. Instead of the stink of life it was the stink of death, the simple fact of how quickly we become so much meat the moment the spirit leaves the body.

They photographed, bagged and tagged him while the sun glinted off the water, and a cool breeze blew leeward. Seagulls dipped and weaved over the waves. Teenagers clambered into sailboats for a morning lesson, ropes clanging against the rigging like bells.