David,
When I read that you planned to do sort of a new set of songs along the lines of Triage I was very excited by that idea. I know that for the most part Triage came from a painful place and is about the tragic course a certain set of industrialists and politicians have set for this country. It also expresses quite a bit about how lost we can become as individuals in this bizarre maelstrom. The record is littered with characters struggling quite painfully with their identity and place in the world. Quite a cathartic experience to make I'm sure but for me, and I'm sure for many others, to listen to as well. The record, in light of current events, seems to continue to grow in its significance. So, I would more than welcome a new set of songs from you in this vein.
Thinking about you writing these songs and my own issues with dealing with what we just witnessed in this past election I was reminded of a short story I read by a lake in upstate New York over the summer. It's by John Cheever and is called "The World of Apples." The story is about a famous American poet who is living out his autumn years in the quiet European countryside. His most famous book of poetry is called, of course, The World of Apples. People still come to find him out in the small village where he lives just to get the book autographed.
One such person who visits him is a young man who invites him to do some site seeing and have a picnic in a park near some woods. The old poet accepts his invitation gladly because he no longer gets around much. While they are having their picnic the poet needs to relieve himself and wanders out into the nearby woods to do so. When he does this he stumbles upon a couple in the woods who are making love. Without getting too much into what goes on in the story from there what happens is the poet can't get this image out of his mind. Due to this fact he finds he develops some sort of block and can no longer write poetry. Instead whenever he sits down to write all he can produce are erotic limericks. Not very good ones either.
This leaves the man in great dismay and he begins to doubt himself. The one prize he never won in his life was the Nobel Prize. Any writer who achieved some success might hope that he still had some good work left in him and our hero in this story is no different. So, he sets about trying to find a cure for his filthy limerick disease.
For some reason I thought of you, probably because I was thinking of myself and how I am having a hard time expressing how I feel right now without fits of fury and, in all honesty, foul language. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I think our anger right now is righteous and justified. Personally, I find if I write about these people and what they are doing to this country...well...at the moment I would say anything I write is far from eloquent.
Ahh...my point is I sort of feel like the poet. We've wandered out into the woods and witnessed this...well in our case, obscene act...and now I at least can't express myself without the residue of having seen this finding its way into my words...and in fact turning them mostly obscene.
Sorry, does that make any sense? Anyway, I want to wish you the best in getting these songs done and say that I really hope to hear them.
Oh yeah, and I'm right there with you and I'll fight, I'll fight, I'll fight...
Peace and good luck,
Reg
