I was recently trying to remember a song from one line in the chorus (“reality is not the terror, possibility is”). I was eventually able to recall the next line which allowed me to track it down (“Everything’s Slipping Away” by the Clumsy Lovers; you can listen to the entire song on their bandcamp page). It occurred to me that the album falls into some sweet spots of my taste when I was in my early 30s — obscure enough to have the thrill of discovery, smart, ambitious, with a jaunty fiddle keeping it from feeling too pretentious. The chorus for that song really is catchy, and it speaks to a feeling of uncertainty about how best to live in the world.
It has some of the same appeal as many writers on substack — executed with obvious skill and also quirky enough to clearly reflect a person’s thoughts and interest.
Everything's Slipping Away
(words Cameron Thomson; music Chris Jonat/Cameron Thompson)
STORY FROM QUIDDAM'S DIARY IN SOREN KIERKEGAARD's 'STAGES ON LIFE'S WAY'
I read an old philosopher who writes about a man who inebriated as a youth was led into a brothel; who as a man upon the shore, on country roads and in the city, watches little faces looking for a sign.
He is looking for an indication, something in the jaw or eyes -- something that could settle it and cease his frantic speculation(he is afraid that having known that fatal painted woman -- unawares he might have fathered a child).
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Everything is slipping away.
Like a scar that comes and goes, like an echo 'cross the water, like a ghost that's never visible -- this could be or not be. But he seizes the impression, sustains it through the night -- he must be getting sicker: what was maybe feels like certainty.
He's thinking back and he is looking in the mirror and he makes their inky images on everything he can -- he sees his lover's features, makes the choice -- he is the father; he made the mother and abandoned the child.
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Reality is not the terror possibility is.
Everything is slipping away.
If you do not get it then get this -- picture this; picture this in your head: see yourself without a boat over 70,000 cold fathoms of water . . . .
And if you do not like this morbid story -- remember this because this is the fact; you are alone without a boat over 70,000 cold fathoms of water -- unawares you might have fathered a child.
A day or two later I was trying to remember another song (for which I also couldn’t find the lyrics online and will transcribe here) which speaks more to my tastes in my late 30s. Katy Moffatt’s St Anthony With Broken hands:
It’s clever — less flashy but so well written — and less anxious about the uncertainties of life. The message is that life is imperfect, we form various emotional attachments, and sometimes they hurt, but it’s worth appreciating things that provide some consistent comfort.
St. Anthony With Broken Hands (Katy Moffatt)
Saint Anthony got drunk one night, fell down the hotel stairs
And spiderwebs and church bells flew out of his hair
The Patron saint had fallen hard from God's anointed grace
His hands all wrapped in bandages; gin blossoms on his face
I found him in a pawn shop. I went and made his bail
When I've lost pens and car keys my friend has never failed
Some say he's just a plaster saint, a statue made of clay
But he's always come to life for me when I close my eyes and pray
And even when he's had a drink he's never rash or rude
He'd say that every hopeless case could call upon Saint Jude
But if you've lost an object I will find if I can
He's the patron Saint of misplaced things, my friend with broken hands
The only time he let me down was when I lost my heart
This blue-eyed handsome Texan man tore my world apart
He said 'I know you're hurting kid your prayers are hitting hard
But in matters of the human heart I'm afraid you're on your own.'
And even when he's had a drink he's never rash or rude
He'd say that every hopeless case could call upon Saint Jude
But if you've lost an object I will find if I can
He's the patron Saint of misplaced things, my friend with broken hands
He's the patron Saint of misplaced things, my friend with broken hands
Let me know, which one speaks to you.