Here's Where the Story Ends

people I know, places I go, make me feel tongue-tied
I can see how people look down, they're on the inside
here's where the story ends
people I see, weary of me showing my good side
I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside
here's where the story ends
ooh here's where the story ends

it's that little souvenir of a terrible year
which makes my eyes feel sore
oh I never should have said, the books that you read
were all I loved you for
it's that little souvenir of a terrible year
which makes me wonder why
and it's the memories of your shed that make me turn red
surprise, surprise, surprise

crazy I know, places I go
make me feel so tired
I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside
oh here's where the story ends
ooh here's where the story ends

it's that little souvenir of a terrible year
which makes my eyes feel sore
and who ever would've thought the books that you brought
were all I loved you for
oh the devil in me said, go down to the shed
I know where I belong
but the only thing I ever really wanted to say
was wrong, was wrong, was wrong

it's that little souvenir of a colourful year
which makes me smile inside
so I cynically, cynically say, the world is that way
surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise
here's where the story ends
ooh here's where the story ends

Music & and Lyrics by the Sundays

In an 90’s interview with the Sunday’s Harriet Wheeler and David Gavurin, they described the lyrics on their recording, “Reading, Writing and Arithmetic”, as ripped from a page of a diary rather than being a defining statement of their life as a whole.

I think of this blog in much the same way. Nearly a year ago, I was mired in frustration as I was consumed with my writing or , should I say lack thereof. I bounced from one story line to the next only to end with a bunch of unfinished crap. I began to doubt both my ability as well as my resolve when it came to a literary future.

Then, on a particularly good day in November, I got the bright idea of lowering my expectations a bit. I realized that if I wanted to actually finish something, I should start small. That is, go back to basics of beginning, middle and end all in a page or two. Like a journalist!!...only twisted. From that spark came Mephistophilese, the ranting blogger.

This year has been an eventful one for me. I have done a fair amount of traveling, partying, laughing, and crying. All of which have inspired me in equal measure to express myself… in writing. The last couple of months have been particularly bizarre as I have been consumed with human loss, a potentially fatal car crash, and a trying family battle over an estate that includes a sizable corporation. As my partner and I emerge from this experience, we find ourselves changed but somehow richer for the scrapes received. I find myself as reflective as ever, yet somehow more satisfied to simply live and let live. I realized the other day that aside from a brief periods of nicotine withdrawal, I’m just not that pissed off anymore. I’m happy about that in most ways; however, I fear that my days of delivering irreverent and acerbic blog rants may be numbered.

I find myself thinking in terms of new directions and story lines. One’s that may divert my attention toward a different style and page. I’ve always lived by two sometimes conflicting mantras. The first is simply, “Fuck it!”. Nihilistic?...yes, but it works for me. Secondly, “Change is good”. I wholeheartedly believe that everything should be questioned and everyone should embrace change as a means of moving forward in a positive way.

So, with those two philosophical rallying cries, I’ll be off again. Can’t say for sure if I’ll keep this site up as a continued release of frustration or reinvent it to support other creative avenues. At any rate, I’ve had fun with it and along the way and Ive gotten some nice feedback from people all over the planet. I still haven't heard from Harriet though. Well, fuck it.

And finally, to Harriet Wheeler, David Gavurin and the rest of the Sundays: you are my constant source of inspiration. Surprise, surprise, surprise.

Peace

Harriet Wheeler, Where are you?

We live in a world where pop stars come and go like the meaningless fluff they create. As with the seasons, their presence and art remain as a warm memory to anchor periods in our life, remembered during occasional flights of nostalgia. It’s rare when an artist can create a body of work significant or worthy enough to command our attention for more than a brief period of time. Even rarer is the artist or group that remains on top for twenty or thirty years, constantly recording or touring enough to garner legions of fans from two or more generations. That type of status is reserved for legendary performers that become enshrined in various halls of fame and, often live the tabloid life that we mortals feed on like hungry sheep.

Thank god for all the fabulous artists and the music they’ve created to move us in degrees both small and large. But, to me, it is for neither the one hit wonders nor the bloated legends that I pine for. For all the artists that have come, gone, or remain as super stars, none hold title to as large a portion of my soul as The Sundays do.

It was in the early 90s that I first heard the voice of Harriet Wheeler, the haunting lyrics, and the jangling melodies that defined the Sundays. While their style could be traced to predecessors like the Cocteau Twins or even the Smiths, it was the voice of Harriet Wheeler that was (and remains) unique. Were it not for college radio or some of the rare independent radio stations, many would have never heard the Sundays. While unique, their sound would never attract mass audiences. That was never what they were about. They did however attract a fan base that would be forever changed and even haunted by Harriet’s voice. While their lyrics were sometimes obscure and even panned by some critics as sophomoric, no one could ever forget the style, passion, and guts with which they were delivered. Harriet remains one of a kind. And with such a gifted voice, a legion of dedicated fans, and the world firmly within her grasp, what did she ultimately decide to do? Walk away. She and her husband David Gavurin, co-founders of the group, walked away to raise a family and live a quiet life away from touring and popular music.

What they leave in their wake is a worldwide group of loyal and adoring fans that remain just as true and passionate about their music as the first time it was heard. Just Google “The Sundays” sometime and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Better yet, listen to their music. Their record, Reading, Writing and Arithmetic has never strayed far from my player for the last 17 years. It moves me as much today as it ever did. For their complete discography, check out this site. It’s the most complete I have found.

I’ve never been one to be star struck. I’ve been around the world of music and the artists that create it for most of my life. Harriet remains the exception. I fell in love with her completely. Her voice will remain with me forever. Harriet, wherever you are, I hope you are happy and realize the impact you have made. Your voice is never far from my consciousness or my soul. These are the words I woke up with in my head this morning and inspired me with the "desire" to write this blog:

And did you know desire’s a terrible thing
The worst that I could find
And did you know desire’s a terrible thing
But I rely on mine
Did you know desire’s a terrible thing
It makes the world go blind
But if desire, desire’s a terrible thing
You know that I really don’t mind

And it’s my life
And though I can’t be sure what I want any more
It will come to me later
Well it’s my life.... and it’s my life
And though I can’t be sure if I want any more
It will come to me later... ah, yeah
Exerpted from “Can’t be Sure”
The Sundays