". . . that fabled commodity known as real life . . ."
Newsweek article, dated October 26th, 1998, detailing Alanis Morrissette's return to the cruel world of Pop Stardom.
I.
In the end, there are no givens; that is to say
There are too many. Trees and skies and lakefront views are commodities; lives
And deaths are properties, stage managed and real as the dream
Of the lake with the tree growing out of it. Real life flows through your fingers
Like a lover�s hair, smacks of hypocrisy, has all the passion
Of a Las Vegas revue, retains all the meaning
Of the Gideon bible in the top drawer of the bedside stand at the Marriot Hotel in downtown Toronto.
I don�t mean; I do mean; I was mean; I represent the mean.
Sometimes
I learn not to learn.
Stars were figured in unfamiliar skies by sailors
Too terrified to doubt their meaning: stars show the way home.
This pattern is
The Dipper; it points towards Greece. That is Orion
Because I say it is. Stars are what we make them.
II.
I will tell you what I know:
III.
I cannot hear your voice. You tremble too near
What you are. I think into your words, pulling
The threads of thought away from the strings of emotion, I discover
Arteries atrophied from years of constant bleeding, muscles that long
Should have died of starvation. These impossible things, do they exist? Or
Are these your stars, sailor?
I will tell you what I think I know (better):
A dog barks at night out of fear
(Or hunger or loneliness or anger). It is unfair of us to judge which
But we do. We take our fear (or sympathy or annoyance)
To be a genuine emotion, and so it is.
But it�s still not fair.
IV.
About the dream of the lake with the tree growing out of it? I forgot.
But when I was twelve that was God. It�s unfair. Probably
Unfair of God.
V.
Those were not real ulcers. They did not bleed. His hands
Never shook. He did not fall
Onto the pavement in Connecticut, too weak
To reach the door of the club
Where he had to play or else lose his home to the bank; he
Did not laugh when his child was born or cry
The first time he saw Paris. His death was fixed, and even now
He lives, probably somewhere in Paris.
And I haven�t memorized every note of "Parker�s Mood."
VI.
Okay, so I don�t know much. But isn�t that okay? Do I have
To be able to reach around every mental corner, see into every dim-lit
Soul, excise the wisdom teeth of the Universe? Of course I do. My father
Taught me well: my reach exceeds my grasp, often painfully. My nephew
(2) is still unhappy with my tutelage (I don�t speak his language yet). My niece
(3) seems sometimes only to know that everyone is supposed to be fascinated by her. You
Haven�t taught me a damned thing, except that we agree
On a lot of things. Can we agree Bird�s ulcers were real? His sink
Stained red? The dark cold night the perfect backdrop
For a hunger so sharp he could not sate it? Can we agree that, in some measure,
That life was real? Good. I thought you�d see it my way in the end.
A blessing, a curse, an irony? What you make it?
Where we landed? What it hands you? Can we at least agree
That whatever it is, it�s real? Call that a progress
And we can move on.
James MacFarlane Williams