A song from nearly 50 years ago meshes well with LA in the 21st Century.
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![Ann Barnhardt: This question of homosexuals in art [BUMPED AND UPDATED with commentary from Ann Barnhardt]](https://americandigest.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/aaaagaynotgay.jpg "Ann Barnhardt: This question of homosexuals in art [BUMPED AND UPDATED with commentary from Ann Barnhardt]")
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He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff’s talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush–and that was all.
When all Earth’s seas shall Levitate,
Dark shawled within the skies,
Upon our eyes will Starfish dance
Their waltz of Blind surprise.
The sun will Rise within wine Dark
As Argonauts imbibed,
Whose drunken arms embrace that sleep
Where Phaeton’s horses Stride.
Upon all of Earth’s wind-sanded shores,
As dolphins Learn to soar,
All we once were on the land
Shall be sealed behind the door
Of Ivory and Chastened Gold,
That the Mystery solved complete
Shall never til the seas’ Long fall
Wake mariners from their sleep.
— Van der Leun
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
— The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
Gerard Van der Leun
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Thanks, Gerard.
Is it because I’m housebound with a broken toe? Is it because I grew up listening to EJ in the Seventies? Was it the vacation I took in LA last year (working vacation, mind you)?
Seems to be some dust in here, and getting in my eyes.
Unadorned:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UroApoVbKn0
That song will always live within me. Ironically, it was probably only a couple of years ago that I finally knew what some of the lyrics are.
God bless the internet. That was marvelous. Do people still watch TV?
Regarding the lyric comment, frequently I search for the real words to songs I grew up with.
Lay me down in sheets of linnen.
Never would have figured tjat one out.
Now try Benny and the Jets
Got me all misty, too. Good lord, I know every landmark in that video, and I’ve visited most of them at one time or other. Los. Fucking. Angeles. Hate this goddam place. Except I love it. We love to hate it and we hate to love it. But dammit, I am an Angelino. It is my city, my culture, my America. And yeah, it’s gone down hill, and it ain’t the LA I fell in love with anymore. But I’m a curmudgeonly old bastard now, myself. Still my city.
JWM
That was a piece of work, brother.
And as jwm noted above we are formed by our surroundings and adapt to the where and the what we are immersed in. By doing that we take on the flavor and texture of the meat, we feel the bones, and share the pain of our (OUR) place. As a kid I used to think doing that was peculiar to the Appalachian South since that was my place and my people made sure those origins were known to all within earshot; we were a tribe connected as much to the soil and air as to the family tree and all it’s roots. But it wasn’t just my circle that felt that way, we’re all like that and some of the connections are sweet, some are bitter, some are both.
Rob Ziobro, That’s the line I looked up, because I never could tell what he sang.
Again, you never disappoint. Thank you
A million people, a million stories, all unique.