A little tribute to Fun.
Ever since I noticed their little nod to punctuation, I have secretly harbored a little crush.
And their ditty last night at the Grammy Awards? (I wasn't there, btw, just watched it on TV. YES! I got CABLE! I know. I know. Somehow the hubs convinced me that our boys needed to watch NHL hockey to make them better players. WTF? I was merely looking forward to this Downton Abby show everyone keeps raging about.) Neverthelessly... I watched something live. I haven't done that since The Rodney King riots when I lived in LA.
Now that you appreciate the big deal this was, I can tell you how fun. it was for me to watch this new fun. band: Fun.
Here's a line from the song they sang last night:
"If you're lost and alone or you're sinking like a stone, carry o-o-o-o-on. May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry o-o-o-o-on-on-on-nnn."
And. Then. I started to think these funky, high-pitched, choir-ish boys may know a thing or two about life. And maybe loss. Any maybe even leaving a past.
The sound of my past is not that sound. Not yet. Mine still rings in my ears and shouts at me. Through the silence. I imagine it beckoning me back. But I know I can't and won't listen to that.
To leave something behind is what I imagine detox to be like. Betty Ford style. I am in one of the rooms at the resort. I am okay. I am sober. I am proud and healthy. But. I remember (the way you remember warm weather) the buzz of close friendship, the entice of appreciation, and the high of being known. And the faces of those who knew me too well for bullshit. Those faces that filled those rooms where I was me. And I loved and I was loved.
There is a palpable wall that I hit at this, the 8-month mark of my absence. I am leaning on it. I think I'm in a corner. If it has a corner. It's a hard wall. I feel sort of stuck against it.
But. I must. Carry. On.
Fun. You're really not that fun. You're more real. than fun.