When my ex and I separated, I went through all the emotions you would expect, plus a few I was pretty sure I invented, as ego-centric and silly as that sounds. If you asked me what was the worst of them, I would have said, and still say, that feeling nothing was the worst. More precisely, there was a hollowness that overwhelmed more frequently and intensely than sadness or regret ever did. Like floating in a state of emotional ignorance, with an unseen hand applying just enough pressure to your chest and abdomen to make it slightly hard to breathe.
The intense “negative” emotions are much easier to tolerate, much easier to understand and palliate. I suppose that’s why one of the few songs I’ve been able to write specifically about the immediate trauma of marital separation was the one I’m featuring this week, “A Beer and a Cry”. I wrote this one back in early 2007, and I’m featuring it now in part because I was too busy at Merlefest with The Gravy Boys this past week to write anything new. But I think I’m also posting it now because it’s taken me this long to put it in perspective; to see it as more than the outpouring of raw nerves and self-sedation.
You know, a beer and a cry does make the evening go by, and a lot more tolerably than staring at the wall. I tried meditation at the suggestion of my fantastic counselor of five years, Ellen, God bless her, but it didn’t work for me, at least not in a way that I expected, hoped or comprehended. The idea is to empty your head and just exist. Supposedly, with practice, many people get good enough at it that they can go into calming trances for hours at a time. Me? I could never clear my head for more than 30 seconds. Still can’t. I’m pretty sure now that that’s a symptom of whatever it is in me that drives creativity, which I appreciate. But it makes me a world class failure at meditating. A couple minutes after I started, I inevitably found that my eyes had snapped open and that I was staring at a point on the wall with a song in my head, sometimes my own, or maybe someone else’s. Like I was taking comfort in a new or familiar pattern. Not the ground breaking, soul searching, emotional development that the experts wished for me, but at least it was more tolerable than the aforesaid emptiness, so maybe I did get something out of meditation.
So gradually I spent more time focusing on the songs in my head, letting them coalesce. (Is it just me, or have we all started using the word “so” as the first word in way too many sentences?) You see, at first I had ignored the sad-songs-post-separation-experience, because I assumed they would be too trite, too predictable, too cliché to even bother writing down. But eventually I did start writing them down, telling myself at first that they weren’t really songs, just journal entries in the form of songs (Ellen was always on me to keep a journal, which I only did haphazardly). In retrospect, I think “A Beer and a Cry” is the one that is the most accessible to others, provided they can tolerate the decidedly honky-tonk, cry in your beer nature of the music. For the music, I blame my buddy Joe. At the time, he was doing some badgering of his own, telling me I needed to experiment with George Jones’ singing and lyrical stylings.
Here are the lyrics:
You know a beer and a cry make the evening go by
When you can’t be with the one you loved
Cause she walked out your door, don’t wancha no more
And brought a curse on you from heaven above
Put some George Jones on the phonograph
Don’t think of how she used to laugh
At how them old songs made you clutch
Just have a beer and a cry, let the evening go by
And forget about the one you loved
When the tears in your eyes make you wanna die
And you’re sprawled out on the cold hard floor
When there’s no one to say, you’ll be better some day
And you don’t think that you can stand anymore
Put some George Jones on the phonograph
Don’t think of how she used to laugh
At how them old songs made you clutch
Just have a beer and a cry, let the evening go by
And forget about the one you loved
When enough months go by that you’ve spent enough time
Hiding from the light of day
When the worst of the pain goes away with the rain
And you’re strong enough to walk away
Put some George Jones on the phonograph
Don’t think of how she used to laugh
At how them old songs made you clutch
Just have a beer and a cry, let the evening go by
And forget about the one you loved
© Steve Celestini, 2007
Not bad for what it is, for what it was selfishly and unconsciously intended to do. What I like most about it now is that I see in it the beginning of the slow, steady climb out of the emotional abyss. I was finally feeling sad in a comprehensible way and having real emotional outbursts. And ultimately I’m glad of it, for it meant one sad chapter was closer to closing and a happier chapter was opening up. I was glad to be sad.
Unlike other songs I’ve posted, none of this is made up, lyrically speaking, except for the George Jones hook. All the emotional outbursts portrayed herein are based on actual events. Plus it gave me an excuse to use the word clutch as an emotional verb … love that. The judges at the Merlefest songwriter’s contest weren’t blown away by it. I got the digital cricket’s chirping response from them on this and three other songs that I entered this year, but that’s OK. I listened to some of the finalists and their stuff was really good. I’ve got some more baby steps to take.
And I thank all of you kind readers for being there to hold my hand in your own way while I take those steps. And thank you, Mr. Jones. Talk to you next week.
