- Cat Power, "Metal Heart"
* * *
At its root, being fucked is the most selfish thing you can do - to yourself, to others, to your time. A premium is placed on your misery, your woe, your sorrow and you come to believe in that misery, woe and sorrow as the sole function of living, the meaning of all the bad dreaming.
Being fucked is a choice, my brothers and sisters, a fucking choice between allowing what is difficult, painful or sorrowful to color all of your thought, or taking what is difficult, painful or sorrowful and using it to create a life unbowed by what is unfair, unjust or burdensome. That's not to say its obverse - all is happiness and joy - but to choose to use what is at hand to build something that had never existed before: you.
Happiness, joy, sorrow, woe happen as they will. It is you who must choose among the meanings. It is you, my fucked in the head friend, who will decide what can or cannot be made of it. You and only you.
* * *
Nothing is easy, but is ease our only measure? I hope not, otherwise I'm more fucked than I knew. No, there has to be a different measure, a different barometer of the meaning of a life, your life. Is goodness a better yardstick? I don't think so. Maybe the only one that matters is the one you choose, but what if you choose the meaning of all the bad dreaming? Then you're fucked. Is that legitimate? You bet. You want to be fucked and stay fucked, have at at. No one will much notice. It is you who will suffer it the most. But here's the thing: it is a waste suffering without cause, suffering at your own hand. You are certainly free to choose it, but that doesn't alter its inherent wastefulness, its uselessness, its calamity.
Don't be so fucking self-important.
There are stories of Ms. Power's drama, meltdowns and insecurities. How we know any of this is true is beyond me, but assume they are, so what? She takes what is there and transforms it into songs, performances and stories about her drama, meltdowns and insecurities. Isn't that the true measure: transformation? We are to be bridges between our desire and our ability; we are, if we are awake, miracles of synthesis taking what is encoded, stored, retrieved and re-fashioning it into a new thing, a never before seen thing: the indivisible you.
* * *
Call me to the one among your moments
that stands against you, ineluctably:
intimate as a dog's imploring glance
but, again, forever, turned away
when you think you've captured it at last.
What seems so far from you is most your own.
We are already free, and we're dismissed
where we thought we soon would be at home.
Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold-
we, at times too young for what is old
and too old for what has never been;
doing justice only where we praise,
because we are the branch, the iron blade,
and sweet danger, ripening from within.
- RM Rilke, Sonnets To Orpheus, XXIII
* * *
What he said.