Dark and Wet and Cold . . . but Smiling . . .

It is so hard to write about moods. About feelings. About hoping things are going to be alright, when we are constantly assaulted by stories of violence and purveyors of fear. I want to go back to some safer place, a safer time. And yet I fear it may not exist. But I keep searching for that dream house, keep driving those dream cars through the night, the cold, dark, wet night. (just click on Dream House or Dream Car in the labels list in the side bar if you're curious about what I'm going on about here . . .)
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But every once in a while one stumbles on a piece of art which just happens to perfectly capture a mood or a train of thought. Had one of those moments the other day. I finally started using an iPod which I'd brought back from the USA well over a year ago, finally figured out a way to make it play in the car. And shortly after putting it on the "shuffle songs" setting to let it play things at random, I stumbled on a piece of music I'd never heard before, and in fact, am not exactly sure how it got there. . . but such is life, and magic. And this is it. Let me know if you've heard this one before ? I have no idea if Greg Brown is widely known or not ? A hidden treasure if not . . . a diamond in the rough if ever there was one . . .
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. . . Cold & Dark & Wet
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I fell in love like a drunk in a pond.
That twisted gal of whom I was fond,
She found a new man on the internet.
Wham I'm spam and it's cold and dark and wet.
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Tell me what is a fella supposed to do
When a car costs what a house used to
And a house is a pile of chipboard, paint, and debt.
I'm at the city limits and it's cold and dark and wet
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Big rig rolling over me in a blizzard -
I'm living on beans and chicken gizzards.
One day I was young, the next day I was old.
Late November, it's wet and dark and cold.
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Jobs, I guess they're like wild geese -
They all went flying overseas.
I'm standing in the rain smoking my last cigarette.
Morning in America is cold and dark and wet.
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Christmas lights are going up,
I could use a little joy juice in my cup.
Life is not a walk across the park,
Not when it's wet and cold and dark.
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And this may be the twisted gal of whom he was fond, she ran off to join a travelling circus in France . . . where I spotted her the other day on the back of a truck. This may be what is known in some places as a painted lady . . .
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"I could use a little joy juice in my cup" . . . what a line ! Traces of old posters make me feel like that every time . . . sort of like saying, ok, the party is over . . .
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"Life is not a walk across the park, not when it's wet and cold and dark" . . .
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At several times over the years I've had a recurring dream of being in a vast space where there were staircases going in various directions, not always making logical sense in a cartesian manner, more like something from one of Escher's etchings . . . These stairs by a cliff . . . where are they going ? Where are they coming from ? Do they have a beginning ? An ending ? Could we climb these stairs forever, as though trying to reach a Floating Bridge of Dreams ?
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If you've been in the Gare d'Orsay Museum in Paris you may recal seeing a rather large painting by Gustave Courbet titled "Burial et Ornans", or l'Enterrement à Ornans". In that painting the backdrop are white cliffs in the distance. The scene intrigued me enough to want to make the trip to Ornans, in eastern France, south of Besançon . . . and this is what it looks like on a cold, foggy morning . . .
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