15. The Man Who Can't Be Moved - (The Script)

"I'm not broke / I'm just a broken-hearted man."

The world would be a heckuvalot easier if everybody who ever fell in love decided to follow The Script's example. I mean, if nothing else -- it'd certainly be a whole lot simpler to find people when you needed them.

Their angle?

Pledge your undying love for the girl of your dreams. Head back to the very corner where you first met, then plop right down in that very spot, grab a sleeping bag, and wait for her to come back. How long do you wait?

Umm, well... forever, if need be.



Maroon 5's Adam Levine: Ok, that is SO not fair -- I totally came up with that idea first! You remember "I don't mind spendin' every day / out on your corner in the pourin' rain," don't you?!

Silly Adam.

Waiting forever on a girl who might never come back around is hardly a new concept. Take, for example, the story of The Script's fellow Irishman:


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939): Asked the same woman to marry him more than two dozen times.

When it came to the fire-haired vixen known as Maud Gonne, it's no secret that Yeats had it bad... REALLY BAD. Willy's heartbreak is the stuff of legend -- but dozens of rejected marriage proposals (and quite literally just shy of a HUNDRED separate poems imploring the poor gal to give him a chance) seems to pale in comparison to the steadfast example set by this guy, Yeats' psuedo-neighbor to the south of just one hundred or so years earlier:


Robert Burns (1759-1796): Scottish balladeer, 18th Century Ladies' Man

Adam Levine's gestures are noble, Yeats' perserverance is legendary, and The Script's efforts are admirable, but none of these lovestruck composers have anything on the original Man Who Can't Be Moved. Just how committed to true love was our boy Bobby Burns, you ask?

A Red Red Rose (1794)"O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile."

Are you getting all of that down?

This dude is willing to put his heart on the line until "a[ll] the seas gang dry," and "the rocks melt wi[th] the sun." We're not just talking about standing outside in the pouring rain or camping out on some broad's corner here, folks -- that's some serious Book of Revelation-level commitment, right there. In short, he's actually willing to wait it out until the End Times, if need be.

So if you ever find yourself pining up and down for a lost love or a romance that never quite seems to turn out the way you'd planned -- at least it's good to know that you're hardly alone in your plight. If you're standing in the pouring rain? Keep standing. If you're waiting on a corner? Keep waiting. And if there's still water left in the seas? Hang in there -- because you've still got a long way to go.

Or, in the immortal words of Winston Churchill:


"If you're going through hell, keep going."

14. Lightning Crashes - (Live)

"I can feel it coming back again..."

WARNING: Today's blog entry is gonna' get kinda serious in a hurry. How serious, you ask? Well, we're talking about a song by a band called "Live," and a poem called "Child Burial" -- so one might even say that today's discussion is actually a matter of (wait for it...) life and death.



Hey, nothing like a well-placed wisecrack to keep things light before we get into all of that heavy stuff, no?

Alright, here goes:

"Lightning Crashes" ended up being the biggest radio hit of Live's career. It recounts a particularly poignant birth narrative, waxes philosophical about how life sometimes seems to move in fast-forward, and establishes a brilliant counterpoint between the sadness of watching as "an old mother dies" while at the same time celebrating the "glory" of newborn child opening its eyes at precisely the same instant.

Like I said -- it's some pretty heavy stuff.

Fun fact: "Lightning Crashes" was also one of the first songs that lead singer Ed Kowalczyk ever composed -- and he did so waaaay back when he was just a humble twenty-something living at home in his parents' house in York, Pennsylvania.

Not so fun fact: Kowalczyk and the band would later dedicate the song to Barbara Lewis, a friend of the group who was killed by a drunk driver shortly before her 20th birthday.

Not-quite-sure-if-it's-a-fun-fact-or-not: Barbara Lewis was a registered organ donor. And her death actually made it possible for a number of other individuals to receive a second chance at life. Including? A life-saving liver donation that ended up going to a ten-month old child.

Moral of the story?


"It's the circle of life."

In death, there is unavoidable sadness. But death is also an intrinsic part of the human condition. Just as that which is new must be born, so to must that which is old eventually die. True, many of these changes can be heartbreaking along the way. But sometimes (as in Barbara Lewis' case), one person's death triggers a chain reaction of events so that others might live. And in this regard, the circle continues as it always has. Or, as Kowalczyk sings:

"I can feel it coming back again / like a rollin' thunder chasin' the wind."

Hey, that's actually kind of uplifting, when you put it that way.

Sometimes, however, the upshot of this whole life-and-death conundrum isn't nearly as hopeful or fleshed out. Sometimes, in fact, it seems to spin in the complete *opposite* direction.

Take, for example, "Child Burial" by the venerable Irish poet Paula Meehan:


(sadly, no relation to the blogger)

Unlike the 10-month-old organ recipient in the case of Barbara Lewis, for the subject of Meehan's poem, there was no last-minute salvation. And to that end, the poet confronts the very real (and very sad) story of the death of her infant child. Normally, I'd excerpt some highlights and sum the verse up in a sentence or two. But this one is just so freakin' well-written that it is absolutely worth the full read. Here's the first chunk of the poem:

Your coffin looked unreal,
fancy as a wedding cake.

I chose your grave clothes with care,
your favourite stripey shirt,

your blue cotton trousers.
They smelt of woodsmoke, of October,

your own smell was there too.
I chose a gansy of handspun wool,

warm and fleecy for you. It is
so cold down in the dark.

To borrow a line from Ed Kowalczyk and company, Paula Meehan can certainly "feel it coming back again," alright. But what she feels is not an inner calm or a broader sense of the circle of life unfolding as it should. Instead, it's a complete inversion of the usual course of things (e.g. -- "new" dies before "old"), so all she's left with is a world of hurt. Take a look:

No light can reach you and teach you
the paths of the wild birds,

the names of the flowers,
the fishes, the creatures.

Ignorant you must remain
of the sun and its work,

my lamb, my calf, my eaglet,
my cub, my kid, my nestling,

my suckling, my colt. I would spin
time back, take you again

within my womb, your amniotic lair,
and further spin you back

through nine waxing months
to the split seeding moment

you chose to be made flesh
word within me.

Perhaps Meehan is justified in her backwards-spinning brain here. After all, "Lightning Crashes" sings of the natural rhythm of things and a case of an old mother dying as a new child is born. But in the case of "Child Burial?" Time is out of joint (as Shakespeare might say), and the older generation is left to pick up the pieces while the new one is taken to the grave well before their time.

Not surprisingly, since time already seems to be unraveling in reverse, Meehan takes this chronological about-face to its logical extreme to close out her poem. Heck, she even goes as far as to say:

I'd cancel the love feast
the hot night of your making.

I would travel alone
to a quiet mossy place,

you would spill from me into the earth
drop by bright red drop.

Dang. Talk about someone who can "feel it coming back again," eh?

In the end, "Child Burial" talks about the circle of life spinning backwards on itself, to the point where Meehan's poem actually winds up being a direct inversion of Live's "Lightning Crashes." In the opening lines of Live's song, the life cycle proceeds according to natural order: so the song starts with a verse describing how new life is born from old death. But since "Child Burial" talks about the natural order of life unfolding in reverse? Fittingly, it is the closing lines of Meehan's poem that deal with her child's birth and conception, and thus the narrative ultimately has little choice but to end at the very last moment before the child's life even began.

Kinda' mind-blowing, no?

Well, you know what they say --

".efil fo elcric eht s'tI"

(See what I did there?)

13. Happier - (Guster)

"One more inch, you son of a bitch."

"So close... and yet so far": that's pretty much the message of Guster's "Happier" in a nutshell.

And so ends today's blog entry. After all...


"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know."
- Ernest Hemingway

Ok, ok...

With due apologies to the old man ("and the sea?"), this really wouldn't really be much of a "literature of lyrics" blog if I simply left today's entry at just one sentence, now would it? But I will take a cue from dear old Ernie and try to keep the typical barrage of adjectives to a minimum, wherever possible.

So here we go.

Like we said above, Guster's "Happier" tackles a pretty basic theme: "so close, but so far." Two people (presumably onetime lovers, but this could just as easily be applied to would-be-business-partners or erstwhile friends) gave it their best shot, but things ultimately broke down in the end (as they so often do).

As the song begins:

"Say goodbye, lose your friends
Make them go, you don't need them around
'Cause it's time, lose your friends
Make them go, it was never supposed to be like this"

Clearly, our narrator is at a crossroads. Beseiged by some force greater than himself, he's forced to settle accounts in a hurry and get to steppin' before he gets sucked down the vortex of broken relationships. How broken are these relationships, you ask?

"They were too weak, too prone to break
Their needs too deep, their skins too thick
By now you took what was to take
Tear it apart and start again."

In short: real broken. And it's gone past the point where trying to fix them will do anything to remedy the situation. The narrator simply must accept that it's broken, then "tear it apart and start again."

Or, as our buddy Ernest Hemingway so famously puts it:

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."
-A Farewell to Arms (1929)

In Guster's words?

To "bend 'till ya' break" is simply to "make the same mistakes... always."

When it's broken, it's broken. No matter how close you think you were to making it work -- "one more inch" or not -- what is done is done, and being "gentle" or "brave" about the matter doesn't make one lick of difference in the end.

Accept the inevitable.

Know when to say when.

And for God's sake man -- let it go.

12. I Used to Love H.E.R. - (Common)

"I met this girl, when I was 10 years old
And what I loved most, she had so much soul."

Welcome to the world of the extended metaphor. Population? This guy:


Common: 'Sup, ladies?

The extended metaphor is one of the trickiest and most effective conventions in all of poetic writing. Through the extended metaphor (also known as a "conceit,") the author will take one simple line's worth of a flowery comparision, and stretch that sucker out over the course of each of the lines to follow.

Here's a handy Wikipedia example to hammer the point home:

If one starts with the metaphor of "The seeds of discontent have already been sown", an extension could be "It remains to be seen whether weeds or flowers will spring forth."

Basically, the extended metaphor allows the author to use a bunch of familiar and related images in quick succession in order to convey a much bigger and much broader message. And when executed properly, it's wickedly clever.

Since this blog is of a musical and pseudo-literary bent, we'll pick a brief contemporary example of the extended metaphor as we make our way into today's analysis. Please welcome...


Sylvia Plath: Why are the best girls always crazy?

In addition to being something of a headcase, Sylvia Plath was an absolute master of the extended metaphor technique. Throughout so many of her poems, Plath takes what might otherwise be a simple, throwaway line of comparison and borrows against it two, three and four times in the stanzas thereafter -- each time compounding the richness of the original imagery, and taking her readers further into the complexities of the figurative language at her disposal.

Plath's most famous poem?

"Daddy" -- a scathing, heart wrenching epic in which the poet paints herself as a Jewish prisoner in a concentration camp while likening her long-dead father to a goosestepping Nazi soldier. She's like a foot in an old shoe, or a captive waiting execution, trapped in a violent and oppressive world beyond her own creation, with no chance of escape save for death itself.

(In a grim but tragically fitting end to this story, Plath's "trapped like a prisoner in a Nazi camp" poem just so happened to be written shortly before the poet took her own life in 1963, by -- get this -- sticking her head in an oven and cranking up the gas).

Yeesh.

I think that's enough about gloom and doom for one day, yes? After all, extended metaphors needn't always be so somber and macabre. So let's switch gears and get back to Common's "I Used to love H.E.R" -- which is, thankfully, an extended metaphor of love and admiration, with a killer beat and a much-needed upshot of hope, to boot.

On the surface, "I Used to Love H.E.R." is a simple tale of growing up and falling in love with a girl with some crazy talent and some mad skills.


Lauryn Hill: Proof that the best girls are always crazy, exibit B.
Common starts the song with a Springsteen-esque reflection on his "Glory Days" of yesteryear. Not suprisingly, we soon find ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a story of young love:

"I met this girl, when I was 10 years old
And what I loved most, she had so much soul
She was old school, when I was just a shorty
Never knew throughout my life she would be there for me"

At first listen, this boy-meets-girl story is pretty straightforward, really. And in the lines that follow, Common brings up a few additional traits about this gal that he likewise happened to admire from back in the day. She's "not a church girl," she's "not about the money," and even though she's occasionally found herself mixed up "in the park" with the wrong crowd -- she's still "underground / original, pure untampered and down."

In short -- she's real. And it's no wonder that Common comes right out and says he "respected her."

Over the course of the second verse, this "respect" blossoms into enlightenment, and the songwriter finds himself learning all sorts of stuff about himself, his people, and his heritage as he gets closer and closer to this mysterious stranger. It's a pretty great gig, really -- and the singer and the girl seem to be growing together as they grow older. He follows the girl from the schoolyards to the "clubs" and "house parties," and it seems like things are really starting to click. But then life throws him a curveball and they're forced apart.

Common "went away to school" while "she broke to the West Coast" -- presumably to follow her dreams. But the funny thing about big cities, however, is that so many folks can end up losing sight of themselves as they get caught up in such a brave new world.


Gratiutous photo interruption. Helps break up giant walls of text, ya' know.

Such was precisely the case for the girl in Common's verse, whose move to Los Angeles results in a complete change of character, as she ends up shying away from her roots only to say that "pro-black, was goin out of style" and that "Afrocentricity, was of the past." Something's changed in this girl -- and perhaps it's not entirely for the best (Common actually comes right out and calls it "foul" just one line earlier) -- but life goes on, and the songwriter knows when to back off so as to let his erstwhile lady love find herself in due time

(Personal growth, of course, is a funny thing. And right about this time, the girl's earlier missteps actually pay off as she ends up "becomin' well-rounded" thanks to a burgeoning interest in "R&B, hip-house, bass, and jazz" -- not to mention that all-important "freestyle shit." In other words -- yeah, she's changed, but the respect is still there.)

But respect is the kind of thing that can take a lifetime to build and only seconds to destroy, and the third verse does a pretty fine job of demonstrating how quickly this girl came close to falling out of favor with our balladeer once the big city'd had her way with her. As he says:

"I might've failed to mention that the chick was creative
But once the man got to her, he altered the native
Told her if she got an image and a gimmick
That she could make money, and she did it like a dummy"

Translation?


Common ain't impressed by the girl's increasingly transparent attempts to appear "real." He sees her talking out of both sides of her mouth, and swearing up and down "how hardcore and real she is," but he's not buying it. After all, Common's known the girl for years, and still he can't help but remember that "she was really the realest before she got into show-biz."

For all intents and purposes, the girl has prostituted herself to the lowest bidder (to the point where she's getting "slamm[ed]" in "the sewer" -- classy, no?). And Common knows that she deserves a whole lot better. Presumably, that's why he closes the song with a pledge to make one final attempt to save his girl from this inauthentic waste of an existence that her life has become. Yeah, she's sold herself cheap -- but like he says:

"But I'ma take her back hopin that the shit'll stop
Cause who I'm talkin bout y'all is hip-hop"

Wait wait wait -- HE'S TALKING ABOUT HIP HOP!?!



And one more time, the extended metaphor rears its gorgeous head.

Common wasn't singing about when he "used to love her" (as in a real, live, actual girl) -- he's talking about when he "used to love H.E.R." -- a metaphorical female stand-in for all that is, was, and has become hip-hop music (some interviews suggest that Common's "H.E.R." acronym actually stands for "Hip-hop in its Essence is Real," while others have argued that it may simply be shorthand for "Hearing Every Rhyme").

In any case -- the conceit delivers on its intended purpose, and the deeper message of the song is well-taken:

Hip hop music was born of the soul music tradition. It started humbly in the streets and the parks. It rediscovered its roots in the house parties and the clubs. It jumped to the West Coast and gave way to all sorts of freestyle and R&B influences. And then it ultimately sold out its very nature by becoming a self-parody through endless scads of thug rap and gimmicks.

For Sylvia Plath?

The world had become so screwed up that her hope of escape was death itself.

But for Common?

Hip hop has indeed become a parody of what it once was -- but it can still be saved by way of a soulful, heartfelt, and authentic re-examination of its roots.

11. Eye of the Hurricane - (David Wilcox)

"When you lay your dream to rest / You can get what's second best... but it's hard to get enough."
Ahh, the duality of meaning. And talk of a hurricane, no less.

Seems like the perfect subject matter for a rainy day, wouldn't you agree?

After all, when they're not busy grading scads of undergraduate midterms or getting their jollies to the lesser-known works of Franz Kafka, graduate students and literature dorks pretty much live for this stuff. You know, extended metaphors, cleverly crafted allegories -- the whole nine.

Simple translation: "there's a story BEHIND the story, and some things can actually mean two very different things at the same time." Often times, we see this in "story songs" -- ballads recounting actual (or loosely fictionalized) events. That way, we manage to get two tales for the price of one.

But if singer/songwriters aren't careful, the duality of meaning gives way to full-on event-specific sappiness, and these bad boys can quickly descend into an uninspired mess of self-indulgent dreck. You know the type:

"Hey everybody! Here's something sad that happened to me! Gosh, it's really sad, wouldn't you agree? Yeah man, really sad stuff. By the way, have I told you how SAD this is?!?"


Ricky Nelson: "Oh where oh where can my baby be?!?"

Gah -- we GET it, already. "You're a self-important emo princess. Here's a tissue. NOW MOVE ON ALREADY."

(That's right, Ricky Nelson -- I'm talking to you.)

Thankfully, today's song doesn't make the same mistakes:

Instead of simply offering up a "story song" with little more to it than your basic trip down woe-is-me-mory lane, David Wilcox's "Eye of the Hurricane" busts out the full-blown two-tales-in-one, duality of meaning approach. And by so doing, we've got ourselves a perfectly acceptable stand-alone surface story AND a frustratingly tangled subtext.

You know, like that "simple" little children's tale of The Lion who returns from the dead to defeat the forces of evil...


(Oh I'm onto you, Lewis.)
But getting back to the Eye of the Hurricane...

ON THE SURFACE:
Our friendly neighborhood singer/songwriter encounters this free-spirited biker chick at a crappy roadside bar. It's night time in the summer. Let's say some place warm -- like the seedier end of Tampa. The girl's a total heartbreaker and he knows it (think Penny Lane in "Almost Famous"), but she's a looker, and he's totally smitten. They strike up a conversation, likely along these lines:

Lovestruck songwriter: "So, you like motorcycles, eh? Tell me about it."

Freespirited biker babe: "There's a lot about life that you just can't control, and I don't like that very much. But when I'm on my bike, it's just me and the open road. And I like that. That's why I call the bike 'The Hurricane.' Because when I ride it, I feel like I'm flying."
Immediately, our hero starts to read between the lines: clearly, this girl has been through the ringer. She is both brazenly confident and instantly tragic. A modern-day Rebel Without a Cause, "Leader Of the Pack" type, if you will (vroom! vroom!). Obviously, this can't end well.


Ghost of James Dean: Too soon, man. Too soon.

Singer/songwriter's surface reaction? "Wow, this chick is DEEP. Me wantie."

But since we're talking about the glorious DUALITY OF MEANING (that is, that some things can work both as a stand-alone story and as a deeper commentary at the same time), our author immediately leads us nicely into the subtext:

IN THE SUBTEXTGuy meets girl. Girl is fascinating, but undeniably screwed up. She always seems to be running from something, and if that ain't bad enough, she comes right out and says cryptic stuff like this:

"When you lay your dream to rest
You can get what's second best, but it's hard to get enough."

What. The. Crap.

That's not just a "red flag," my friends, that's some full-on foreshadowing: this girl is CRAZY, and she's got a "need for speed" (wink wink) that will probably claim her life if she doesn't get it under control in a hurry.

(SPOILER: She doesn't, and it does).

Fittingly, our song ends with a tragic coda to trammel up both levels of interpretation:

"Riding quick the street was dark / The shining truck she thought was parked
It blocked her path, stopped her heart / But not The Hurricane...

She saw her chance to slip the trap / With just the room to pass him back
But then it moved, closed the gap / She never felt the pain..."

SURFACE LEVELBoy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Girl loves motorcycle. Motorcycle meets truck. Boy loses girl. The end.

SUBTEXT
Get yourself straight. Because if you keep running from something, it's bound to catch up with you.

Yeesh, what a downer. I could really use a breath of fresh air to help lighten the mood.

Say -- anybody wanna' go for a motorcycle ride?

10. Running Up That Hill - (Placebo)

"If I only could make a deal with God / Get Him to swap our places..."
In my spare time, I like to think of myself as something of a runner. Not a future Olympian, mind you -- but I do enjoy a solid 5K or a distance run. Actually, I've been training for a 10-miler, of late, and so four days a week, I can usually be seen trotting up and down the streets of my neighborhood in a desperate attempt to make up for a long night of drinking and/or kick myself into a proper "performance" shape.

Good news? My split times are improving.

Bad news (a.k.a. "my worst enemy?)


(Yeah, I totally just went there).
Ok, so maybe not quite "The Hills" frequented by Brody, LC, Speidy, and the like (dear Lord, why do I know their names?!) -- but real life, actual hills -- as in the giant masses of land that seem to throw an unnecessary obstacle in my otherwise level playing field. Hills are like nature's own personal trainer: they make you sweat, they shred your muscles, and they kick your butt.

For today's blog entry, we're talking about hills.

We'll do this first by looking at Placebo's 2003 cover of "Running Up That Hill," originally titled "A Deal With God" and made famous by the phenomenally talented but largely forgotten Kate Bush way back in 1985. Now in Kate's version, the infamous "Deal With God" is actually a pact between two lovers to try and swap genders for a bit -- which is kinda' freaky naughty, when you stop and think about it.


Brandon Flowers: "Somebody told me / that you had a boyfriend /
Who looked like a girlfriend / that I had in February of last year..."

Yup. It's kinda like that.

But when Placebo decided to put their own personal twist on Bush's gender-bending deal with The Big Man Upstairs, they ratcheted up the darker imagery throughout the song so as to take what once sounded like a whimsical deal with God and instead twist it into something that sounds a whole lot closer to a full-on pact with The Devil himself. Suddenly, "Running Up That Hill" became a whole lot heavier, and a heckuvalot more important.

Personally, I prefer Placebo's version to the original (if only because they used it on an old episode of The O.C. -- dang, there I go again). But let's see why --

Today, we're talking about hills, right? Right. And since we mentioned my homespun running regimen, let's see if we can't take some workout advice from our friends in the band:

Placebo's Three-Step Hill Workout1) Make a deal with God
2) Get Him to swap our places
3) Be runnin' up that hill. Rinse, repeat.

The way Placebo tells the story, they've got this friend who's hurting, BAD. (kinda' like an out-of-shape runner, really). In short? The metaphorical "hills" of life are absolutely killing this runner-friend. And so when the lead singer sees his pal hurting, he immediately wants to help; so much so, in fact, that he's willing to "make a deal with God" and step right into his buddy's shoes in order to keep "runnin' up that road... runnin' up that hill" on their behalf.

It's a nice gesture. But the ominous tone of the instrumentation that underscores this line makes it pretty clear that our singer's efforts are not only in vain, but likely to be doomed, as well. At worst? He's forced to watch his friend suffer in silence. At best? He can trade spots with his runner pal, but he'll still be forced to run up what sounds like a absolutely torturous "hill" once the swap has been made.

And it sounds like he'll have to keep making that run over and over again. Maybe even to the point where it will eventually drive him mad.

Say, that reminds me of somebody I met waaaaaay back in a middle school lesson on Greek mythology:

Ladies and Gentlemen, say hello to Sisyphus.
Sisyphus, of course, is the rascally Greek fellow whose flagrant abuses of power earned him the ire of the gods themselves. As punishment for the guy's treachery, Sisyphus ended up with his own bizarro version of "a deal with god," as Zeus decided to condemn Sisyphus to a life of pushing a giant boulder up a hill -- OVER AND OVER AGAIN -- only to watch it roll right back down the hill every time he came mere inches away from making it to the top.

So basically, if we had to break it down according to Sisyphus' training regimen, it might look something like this:

Sisyphus' Three-Step Hill Workout1) Make a deal with (the) god(s)
2) Push a giant rock up a hill
3) Watch it slide back down. Rinse, repeat.

Sure, it's a fantastic workout (you should see how toned the dude's quadriceps were), but it's really a futile and ill-fated effort no matter how you slice it. Every day, Sisyphus was no better off than he was on the day before. And after a long enough stretch of time? It might even be the kind of thing that would drive the poor guy into madness.

Thankfully, there is one other literary voice of reason with a makeshift hill workout plan of his own.

Enter the genius that is:


William Freakin' Faulker

Faulkner's take on hills is perhaps best summed up by this ridiculously insightful line from his landmark 1930 novel, As I Lay Dying:

"Life was created in the valleys. It blew up onto the hills on the old terrors, the old lusts, the old despairs. That's why you must walk up the hills so you can ride down."

Faulkner seems to have learned from Sisyphus' mistakes.

As he says elsewhere, "the past is never really past," and today is really little else besides more of the same from yesterday. Hills are merely the biproduct of all of the stuff we never quite sorted out in the first place. So rather than fight the inevitability of obstacles and find ourselves consumed or destroyed by life's maddening repetition, perhaps it's best simply to tackle each new hill one at a time, and savor every new challenge as it comes.

Instead of "running up that hill" over and over again only to descend further into despair, perhaps we'd be better served simply to make the best of those rare moments where we're on top of the mountain and everything is going well -- mainly because we know there is bound to be another hill that'll require our full and careful attention waiting just around the bend. Take it slow, and enjoy the ride.

So one last time, for those of y'all keeping score at home:

Faulkner's Three-Step Hill Workout
1) Walk up hills
2) Ride down them
3) Get mind-numbingly drunk. Rinse, repeat.

But then again, Faulkner was a raging alcoholic -- and so perhaps we should take his workout advice with a grain of salt.

After all --

There really is nothing worse for a runner's training regimen than trying to tackle a major hill while you're wasted.

(Not that I'm speaking from personal experience, of course).

9. Cyclone - (Bruce Hornsby)

"The rain came down where I made my stand
And the cyclone rose with a wave of my hand."

Well la-dee-da.

"Look at me! I'm Bruce Hornsby! I can make the weather do stuff and... stuff."

Prospero: Been there, done that.

Yup, it's another hidden Shakespeare reference in pop music. This time? We're tackling The Tempest -- widely believed to be the *last* surviving play penned solely by The Bard and The Bard alone during his lifetime. And it's a doozy, at that.

The Tempest tells us the story of Prospero, the erstwhile Duke of Milan, whose dabbling in the dark arts end up earning him a good old-fashioned ousting and a 12-year-long exile on a tropical island, Castaway-style. But Prospero is something of the defiant type who tends to learn lessons the hard way, and so rather than repent for his sins and learn from the error of his ways, he decides to spend his days brooding about revenge while conjuring up all sorts of magical spirits, spells, and (wait for it!) storms.

Fittingly, Shakespeare's "late career" masterpiece also just so happens to tackle some equally serious "old age" subject matter: the veteran playwright reflects on his own life and tells a story of a similarly veteran, storm-wearied protagonist who likewise gazes back on the mistakes he's made, the lessons he's learned, and the life he has led.


Jimmy Buffett: Did somebody mention "A Pirate Looks at 40?"
Quiet you.

We're still talking old man Prospero and his quite-possibly-senile weather-driven revenge, dag nabbit!

But let's not forget about his grumpy old man partner in crime that just so happens to be one cyclone-spinning son of a gun named Bruce Hornsby (no spring chicken himself, of course). "Cyclone" is a standout single from Hornsby's 2009 Levitate album, but lest we forget -- the author's closing in on age 60 at the time of the song's composition, and so the track has got a pretty decent chunk of life experience behind it.

After all, Hornsby's first major hit initially appeared on the airwaves WAAAY back in 1986 ("That's Just the Way it Is"), and in the quarter century since? He's released dozens of studio albums, picked up three Grammys, and toured the country countless times over as part of The Noisemakers, The Range, AND The Grateful Dead.

THE GRATEFUL FREAKIN' DEAD.

So yeah, he's got some years on him.

Indiana Jones: It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage ...
Heck, Bruce says it himself right there in the text, telling the audience he often thinks back to "when I was a boy," as he "just can't see [storms] so well" these days on account of his "fading eyes." As it rolls along, this song paints a pretty clear picture that our protagonist is older and wiser, but still a little hardened by the life he left behind. He's contemplative, alone, occasionally angry, and fixin' to kick up an honest-to-goodness mess of weather to show for it. You might even call him Prospero-esque:

Most of our years have flown away with nothing much decided
Except the board we′re playing on, how it′s to be divided
Will more years yet die alone? The question′s many-sided
Got no answers of my own and none have been provided

When I was a boy there was nothing to know
The wind followed me wherever I′d go
Rain came down where I made my stand
And the cyclone rose with a wave of my hand

Like the Shakespearean hero, Hornsby's Cyclone-spinner doesn't seem to have learned his lesson all that well. Instead of respecting nature and obeying it in his old age, the protagonist foolishly attempts to summon up a squall and bend the elements to serve his every will. It is a lonely life, and an angry one -- and neither man seems to be any better off today than he was yesterday (or the day before that, or...) by virtue of only having made the same mistakes over and over again.

Wow -- that's kinda' bleak, huh?


Thankfully (SPOILER!): both The Tempest and "Cyclone" are not without their broader messages of hope. In the case of Shakespeare's play (after much introspection, seemingly unrelated subplot activity, and -- of course -- the sudden arrival and promise of love and redemption), our weather-wearied protagonist finally learns himself a valuable lesson, throws the magic book away (lean back! lean back!), and releases all of the captives of his storms free. For as Prospero ultimately says:

"The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance"

In other words: Sure, Prospero *could* keep conjuring storms and seeking revenge, but that'd only leave him feeling empty and alone -- and he'd rather give love a chance. Kinda like Mr. Hornsby himself, as a matter of fact:

"You know if it wasn't for love / I might just be a wandering man
I believe I've made the better choice / To sing about it with this band."

Or, in other words:

Sure, Bruce's narrator *could* keep conjuring storms and getting himself all worked up, but... ah, you know the rest.