I feel that,
more so than any other artist,
she has written from her heart.
And it sounds a lot like
all things felt and thought,
sung back to me, deeply; richly
The way a thousand different
inspirational tidbits show up,
all at once in her lyrics,
isn't odd at all.
Cryptic and symbolic,
a soulful stage presence,
she has great range and pitch,
Everything is authentic
everything is thumping bass
and nothing hurts
the way I do?
No perhaps not.
You search for traces
not in open spaces
but in habits and holes
My wide open net
cast out onto the world
seeks not but finds
Some anonymous words;
more poems with no rhyme,
and dead pictures like a stitch in time
Watching that clip,
seeing a soft-spoken Gordon Ramsey
and Christine being hard on herself,
I didn't know it at first
but I realise now, why I felt the way I did.
When he described her apple pie to her;
when he broke it down with description,
encouragement and praise,
it was overwhelmingly touching.
Not because of her disability.
Not because she did as well as her peers.
Not because she overcame it with skill and talent.
But because she resembles all of us.
The self-doubts, the high expectations,
the self-admonishing, distrust in our abilities.
She has considerable excuse
for not believing in herself.
But we of sight
often choose to blind ourselves.
We rely on others to validate us
with compliments and reassurances
while wondering why someone else
can't see the beauty we see in them
Acceptance and love for ourselves,
as this scenario has proven,
is apparently not a matter of sight
but a matter of belief
but I'm deathly afraid I will lose him.
You dont feel the fall
Hope when the water rises
You built a wall
Hope that you fall in love
The only way you can know
You gave it all you had
And I hope that you don't suffer
But take the pain
Hope that you spend your days
And they all add up
Hope if everybody runs
You choose to stay
the moon gives no reply
Her face, half-hidden from mine,
reflects and does not provide
With a constant change,
glimpses are never quite the same
And yet, here I am,
seeking her out once again
She might not speak,
she might not explain
But without fail, I know,
there she will remain.
We see the contradictions of the social world in which Nate lives—a world in which women are outspoken and independent, and yet, confusingly, seem to wilt at the slightest sign of disinterest from a man; a world where men can delay commitment infinitely if they prefer, while women begin to feel constrained by time. Or, as Nate puts it, surveying with chagrin the gradual change in the women of his acquaintance, now that they’re in their thirties:
When he was twenty-five, everywhere he turned he saw a woman who already had, or else didn’t want, a boyfriend. Some were taking breaks from men to give women or celibacy a try. Others were busy applying to grad school, or planning yearlong trips to Indian ashrams, or touring the country with their all-girl rock bands.… But in his thirties everything was different. The world seemed populated, to an alarming degree, by women whose careers, whether soaring or sputtering along, no longer preoccupied them. No matter what they claimed, they seemed, in practice, to care about little except relationships.
The pleasures of this novel—its lucidity and wry humor—are mixed with the sting of recognizing the essential unfairness of the sexual mores of our moment: after years of liberated fun, many women begin to feel terribly lonely when realize they want a commitment; men, who seem to have all the power to choose, are also stuck with an unasked-for power to inflict hurt.
read the review or the book (Adelle Waldman’s “The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.”)