The rain falls and a half-baked fuzz in my head is enough to inspire a morning depression – completely unnecessary. I’ve a musical collection of summer excellence, tucked away, ready for the beams to burst through the thickening cloud, but – since my return from 35 degrees of Croatia – only the grey has been our low-hung ceiling, swamping the British isles in dismal, emotional decay.
Stall your desires for warm. Today there will be no rush of the bright and blue to your face – a clean breeze across startling green grass, smoke rising from the grills of suburbia as sausages spit salted-grease like the sprinklers showering children on the lawn. Instead, savour our dull surroundings and join me on burrowing into the dark and the grim. There’s a new girl on the media-block being covered by every Youtuber with a guitar, the bleak and broken songs that have become the single-best association I’ve had with this year’s deliverance of true detecting. There on the stool sings the girl that made it all worth the while.
Come, sit in the dark with Lera Lynn…
“A bit disappointing to be honest…”
the chorus sang. As each verse of True Detective’s second season rolled out over the screens. All but for perhaps a lack of clarity in a somewhat complicated narrative. Perhaps too many key characters and references to names only mentioned once-before, for an audience half-baked, a bitter taste in their mouths for the show that wasn’t Rust and cheating-Woody out to crack-wise and bust ass again. However, personally, I feel content and excited for a second viewing, where the clairvoyance in the busy plot I’m sure will shine through. But not only that, to once again immerse myself in a series so well cast, so well shot and so well scored.
This was their least favourite season of something that was previously only one-long. And the sad song goes on, not a care in the world.
Lera is the dark in the dark.
Her discography would suggest otherwise but within the confines of the televised sensation: she is the shade in the corner of purgatory. The soundtrack to the end. Despair at the bottom of the last glass you order. And I savour every drop like a poison, bitter sweet.
She is the musical mirror of my feelings. She is the best of music. She is the best of feelings. Her TD débuts unravelled in my bedroom two nights before my girlfriend and I set out into the southern sun. After a fifth or sixth episode we lay in my bed, high on the stink of skunk and sex. With a yawn she announced her due department to sleep. With that I killed the lights and cued all of Lera that we had witnessed in the episodes thus far. In the dark, I lay on my back with music too loud for sleep, a warm body softly breathing at my side, lost in the artist without the show.
Imagination run rampart without the actors. Without the tale to be told. Now we were alone with a music that had already wound fingers around my inner fibres – fingers now beginning to wrench what emotional demons had crawled into the woodwork out from underneath – woe is as intoxicating and intimate as any kiss. Here I found Lera leaning over us, in the pitch black, her lips make movements in tandem with her tongue and her teeth and her throat and her chest and her body. And in the night she seduced us.
In spite of all the summer frivolities
holidays-a-plenty, waterfalls and dancing in the sand, barbecues and walks by the river, friends all around me – the emotional dark, inspired by a sudden press of cloud and unfortunate precession of entertainment choices, closes in. As my house-share strives towards better days in the leave of the last broken-link of our social-chain, the best of us suffers the difficulties in baring those bolt cutters. There’s drama afoot. Stress abundant and a tension so thick it chokes the smiles fading on the windowpane.
The things I’ve recently read and watched have been all but hopeful; the story of an incestuous sociopath’s reign of destruction over their friends and family, the ambiguous and confusing justice-conundrum surrounding the incarceration and eventual execution of America’s first female serial killer, the hollow tale of humanities’ destruction at the hands of mindless giants and how salvation lies in leaving most-of-everyone behind, the demise of a creative’s career that spirals into a simple and lifeless consumable product for the benefit of success, the corruption rife across our history – still muddled into the fabric of societal-today, the impossible lies we tell ourselves about human intelligence and the painful secrets that A.I. allows us to explore… My current opinion of affairs is disheartened and lonely – as I talk with friends who by-on-large agree that we need to “tighten our borders” in the latest of manufactured opinions – strings pulled by devils dancing in the common room.
But this is nothing new.
This is no revelation. Only a trough in a summer-peak of emotions. Does the rain not bring a relative comfort in our infancy on this planet? Does anything that is not luke-warm, soft or friendly not remind us of our squishy insides, the bone and the matter that breaks so easily? A reality that so many run and hide from, behind stories of something bigger than the animals that we are. The long and random sequence of events that lead to the existence of any one of us is enough to inspire a sense of self-worth in at least my being here – I am alive and that is a wonder in itself. We live to decay. Is destruction not a part of being?
Do we not all need to feel sad at the height of our happiness – to remain human? To remain alive?
And in the face of our own self destruction, isn’t it just that, to be human, the only thing worth fighting for?