July 15, 2005
Afterword on The War on Terror
There are bombs everywhere now. By the time you finish your cigarette, or finish your beer, or finish reading this… someone’s brother would have been destroyed by a bomb, somewhere. We are told to be vigilant, hopeful. We are told to utilize virtues that, apparently, the West have a monopoly on—stoicism, comradeship, endurance, faith… it’s all very tiring, especially when the blue-blues are always there, knocking, knocking, trying to find a way in…
I’m listening to “Blackbird" now, from The Beatles White Album. If you do not like this song, or are sick of it, then you do not deserve ears. “Blackbird" doesn’t make anything make more sense, nor does it replace the blue-blues with croissants and light. Rather, it stands as rich, poetic companionship—a feat of breathtaking simplicity, composed by a man blessed. It’s here now, and will never leave us—our greatest achievements can be found and placed on our bedroom shelves. In my room I estimate I have over one thousand years of work—all of the novels, all of the records, all of the time it took to compose each and every one of them… a thousand years, give or take, and holding efforts spanning from Ancient Greece to last week.
The bombs are still there, always will be, and the smoke and the torn limbs and the moribund peace agreements and the high, high, high mountains of political spiel… Well, damn. But in my bedroom I have one thousand years of talking and whispering; one thousand years of graceful tears and laughter; there’s a thousand-years worth of fights and questions and work, work, work—ethical rationalism, psychedelic adventurism, cathartic meanderings, arguments, editing, recording, re-recording, bleeding, touring, leaving, coming, writing, screaming, finishing…
Posted by Martin McKenzie-Murray at July 15, 2005 7:43 PM
one thousand years.
it is something.
i'm glad you made me see it.
Posted by: clancy at August 1, 2006 6:06 PM