There were standards. Remember? Songs that everyone loved and recorded. When you think of Cole Porter you think of the song. You think about the way they wrapped around you, how they pulled you in. I think about Satchmo's delivery of the line "your fabuloussssss face". I think about "It's alright with me". That's a fucking song.
There are no writers like that these days. I think there are some close, notably Jenny Lewis. Someone who could have a songbook. I want more of them, More Joni Mitchells and Leonard Cohens. More, I want to be that. I want a songbook with my name. I want to move a few small mountains, I want Liam and Matt to play these things I wrote.
This is all some appendage of late nights and last night's beer. This is just me aching to say something tender and brave and perfect. I try here all the time. I look backward and try to make some meaning out of it. I shake these tiny things in hopes of expanding them and painting them in colors somebody loves.
I hate the hollow sound of all these things I want. I hate the impotence of this post. Of these manifestos and me talking about what I want and never approaching them. I hate the pregnancy of song. The itch when there's things under the surface I want to get out and no words come. I wonder if everyone feels as solidly centered in the universe, as if they could be the finest thing if they could only learn how to get the insides laid out in front of them. I feel something terrible and amazing just out of reach. Something alluding to everything good and bad about us as a species. Something that resolves all of it. Just one tight little bow on the human condition. It doesn't change the world, but it says something about it in some small way. An anecdote about loss that trancscends it and speaks to loss in general and longing in all of us.
I've said it before. I hate this skin. I hate the feeling of containment. I so wish I could articulate this silent thing I know is beautiful if I just had the right words; the right camera; the right lighting.