Mr. Brightside

And Robbie Robertson Bails Me Out Again

Paranoia…jealousy…Machiavellian desires to cheer others’ failures…crises of confidence and courage…resignation and left to fight another day…

“Jealousy
Turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibis
But it’s just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
‘Cause I’m Mr. Brightside”

— The Killers, “Mr. Brightside”

…a friend once asked me how I figure out what to write. Those two lines above are essentially the whole process. I jot down ideas or hear lyrics to a song that I think can pertain to me and go from there. The other approach, selectively used, is to write like you want everyone reading this to know you like you know you.

It is not complicated.

But it is one thing for me to prevaricate over writing something for you to read on Substack and to take those same two lines and make it your governing philosophy. Bombing places, killing people, destroying alliances because of paranoia, jealousy and insecurity issues is…unhealthy. The U.S. President needs a good therapist.

Writing is the least expensive substitute for counseling anyone can ask for. I have talked (or written) myself down from the precipice so many times. This is not an endorsement of writing over actual therapy but a gentle suggestion. Journaling is a great tool. And you can have fun with it by figuring out how many songs from The Band/Dylan/Springsteen can get you through your next life crisis. So, grab that pen and paper…or download Microsoft Office and learn how to type. Whatever.

So, hang out with me for a bit.

Mornings are worse than evenings.

I have never been one to celebrate the “bright light of a new day” like so many people. I can be, if given the opportunity, the foolproof antidote to the power of positive thinking at 8am.

What is there to celebrate at dawn? That you awoke from – or survived – the night? There are SOME mornings, not many but some, when waking up to see light begin to escape the grip of darkness is worth celebrating like you won the NBA Finals. I have had mornings like that. Everything else was a comedown after realizing I was still alive.

“Save some face, you know you’ve only got one
Change your ways while you’re young
Boy, one day you’ll be a man
Oh, girl, he’ll help you understand

Smile like you mean it”

— The Killers, “Smile Like You Mean It”

And while I like The Killers because they had some early U2 vibe to them and even the song, I absolutely loathe the idea “smile like you mean it.” It is the more benign way of saying, “fake it ‘till you make it.” If I am not cheered by my surroundings or by your presence, then I am not going to smile.

“I hate everything about you
Why do I love you?
I hate everything about you
Why do I love you?

Only when I stop to think about you, I know
Only when you stop to think about me, do you know?”

— Three Days Grace, “I Hate Everything About You”

Mornings can be lousy if you do not like your job (phew…do not get me started on Monday mornings), but you manage to make it work. Maybe you have a coworker…or two…or three that make things bearable. Maybe you have people around you that you do not work with but have regular contact. They like you. You like them. Mornings generally are terrible times to render a judgment on friend or foe. I have hated a person so much in the morning, I wanted a smallpox outbreak to hit their neighborhood…five minutes later, that same person was the most valued set of eyes and ears I ever knew, and I kick myself for every thinking ill will of them.

So, let’s assume you do not live somewhere torn asunder by war, you live in a place governed by semi-competent individuals, you have a decent enough job, people generally like you, and your days are gleefully strewn with nuggets of intrigue you can share at dinner.

I acknowledge that it is a pretty rosy picture. And it feels like something worth celebrating at the end of the day (and night). Night does not have to be associated with haunted spirits hovering around, waiting to drop on your head like an anvil.

Maybe you are like me and just conflicted…or confused or both.

Life is not linear. I have been sitting at this desk for the last half hour, and three different ambulances have sped by, a very thick, heavy night ablaze with their red lights and sirens piercing through a neighborhood accustomed to such intrusions. The homes on the receiving end of the 9-1-1 motorcade likely did not expect these first responders to be on their front stoop when they got up in the morning. Their arrival is only in response to something traumatic happening in that home. Hopefully, it will be taken care of neatly and orderly. No lives lost. No arrests were made. Jungleland is quiet for one more evening.

I do not like that uncertainty is the most dependable part of my day.

“Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water (that’s right)
There he goes, turning my whole world around”

— Robbie Robertson, “Broken Arrow”

I am reaching back into the archive because I know I have written about “Broken Arrow” before. Tonight, I needed to take small wins in small packages, simple pleasures and great verses to bring me back from the precipice tonight. This song rolled through the playlist, put a smile on my face, so it gets final billing tonight.

I amend that statement from two paragraphs ago…the most dependable part of my day is right…now.