Songs from My Life

It never ceases to surprise me that these guys sing the song I most identify with at any particular time of my life.  Like any good book reader, music lover, and recreational moviegoer, I believe my life has a soundtrack.  At definite moments, I know what song should be playing in the background and why . . .  Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know" for moments of quiet disorientation and a small amount of wanderlust; Radiohead's "Videotape" for moments of quiet just after saying a sweet, sad goodbye; Spamalot's "Song That Goes Like This" for moments when I realize people are together just to be together . . .

 

Anyway, back to the 70's country rock band.  (A country rock band?  Isn't that an oxymoron?  Hmm, maybe not in the days where Jennifer Nettles and Bon Jovi can make sweet, sweet music together--speaking of which, "Who Says You Can't Go Home?" frequently recurs when I find myself hopping a bus just to go talk to my mom)

 

The song that never ceases to apply.  And here we go:

 

I'm in a hurry to get things done, oh, I rush and rush until life's no fun

I don't know what, exactly, it is.  But I only seem to run on turbo and just-beyond-turbo-in-the-realm-of-blurriness speed.  I eat quickly, read quickly, shop quickly, walk quickly, and become impatient with those in the world who get in my way.

 

All I've really gotta do is live and die, but I'm in a hurry and don't know why

I honestly don't know why I'm in a hurry most of the time.  Sometimes I think it involves particular destinations; then, when I stop and think about it, I realize destination doesn't matter.  My shoes click against the sidewalk equally fast going to work and coming home, running to the grocery store or dropping by the Gateway's Barnes & Noble.  College was no different; neither was high school.

 

Don't know why I have to drive so fast, my car has nothing to prove; It's not new, but it'll 0-60 in 5.2

I don't drive.  And I don't know how many miles per hour I can actually get my legs to move, but I know my body has nothing to prove.  But that doesn't stop me from making it move as fast as I want and need it to.  Or as fast as I think I want and need it to.  Sometimes I wonder if my speed isn't sometimes based on an adrenaline rush.

 

I'm in a hurry to get things done . . .

Sometimes a "now" mindset can get a body in trouble.  Immediacy is not necessary as often as I think.  In fact, sometimes things need to wait.  And I need to remember, too, good things can happen when I'm standing still.

 

Can't be late, I leave in plenty of time, shakin' hands with the clock

I hate being late; I also tend to have an initial distaste for people who do not particularly mind being late.  My clock and I don't shake hands, because far too often I look at it and promptly run away.  Even when it's not close to stroking midnight and there are no masked balls happening.

 

I'm on a roll and I'm ready to rock

Speed is dangerous and addictive, particularly to someone with a good sense of rhythm.  I don't know if I'll be able to explain this well, but all my days have a rhythm and pace to them.  So when I'm think of a day as being "fast" or "slow," this is a literal way (for me, anyway) of describing my day.  Fast days involve a lot of movement.  Slow days involve a lot of lethargy.  Time moves more quickly on fast days--seems to, anyway; time almost seems to stop on slow days.  Fast days--I'm on a roll, nothing can stop me, and I'll do anything just to keep my rhythm up.

 

I'm in a hurry to get things done . . .

And things that can't be done in a hurry usually frustrate me.  I like to see results now.  Makes certain aspects of office jobs frustrating.

 

I hear a voice, it says I'm running behind, I better pick up my pace

Natalie Goldberg calls voices in your head like this "inner critics."  Of course, she's talking about negative voices people hear as they're writing.  But I think my inner critic has a need--a need for speed--that isn't satisfied until I arrive, breathless, wherever I need to be.

 

It's a race and there ain't no room for someone in second place

I've definitely felt this race sensation, but what I can never rationally figure out is this: Who am I racing?  A version of me from ages past?  Other people who are headed to the same final destination?  Life as a race is a ridiculous concept, because no two people are living exactly the same life (no matter what Ray Bradbury may think).  Actual races involve a great deal of objectivity; different lives are inherently subjective.

 

Not only that, but we're all running in different races.

 

I'm in a hurry to get things done . . .

I honestly think I've got to do more in life than live and die, but it's true: I'm in a hurry and don't know why.