Phil Ochs was one of the great singer/songwriters of the mid 20th century, a man who believed that his songs ought to say something and mean something.
He was a folksinger, seen by some as the poor man's Bob Dylan, and he killed himself at the age of 35 because he could no longer sing. I saw him at the Cellar Door in Washington, D.C., a couple of years before his death, and it was one of the most memorable nights of my life.
His voice was awful; he had been strangled in Tanzania in 1972, damaging his vocal cords. He growled out most of his songs, but the audience was packed with people who loved him and we kept calling him back for encore after encore.
I think it was 1974 when I saw him. I would have been 24, still filled with the enthusiasm of someone who thought he could get it together and really accomplish something. Believe me, it took enthusiasm. I had flunked out of college three times by that age and I was working the graveyard shift at a fast food restaurant.
I'll be 60 this year, and there are a lot of times I feel I've lived too long. For all intents and purposes, my career in journalism ended 14 months ago, when a corporate flunky with a Napoleon complex set me up and fired me. Since then I've been working on a book, but the closer I get to finishing it the more I wonder if it will ever be finished.
It's a look back, of course. I always find myself looking back.
I always find myself wondering what might have happened if I hadn't fucked up my life when I was young.
I'll never kill myself. It's too hostile an act, and there are too many people who love me and would be badly hurt by it. But I find myself sympathizing with Ochs, and understanding why he did what he did.
I set this site up to update it frequently, but I have been doing a horrible job of that lately. I suppose I'm depressed, suffering from empty-nest syndrome. The only thing in my life I ever did really well was be a father, and my two children are grown and gone. These days I stumble around trying to be a good husband and pretending I'm not counting the days till ...
Well, till whatever.
Something has got to change.
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4 comments:
You could become a volunteer and help other people...
Stop whining, babyboomer.
It's NOT about you.
It's about WHAT you can do for OTHERS.
Yes, it's hard making transitions in life, but we all make them.
When my husband died three years ago, I thought it was the end of the world.
But good friends kicked my tail and got me turned around.
You're too smart to wallow in self-pity.
Get up and do something for someone else.
A neighbor, a friend, someone is trouble.
BE a friend to the helpless, hopeless, and harassed.
So you got kicked in the eeth and were treated unfairly.
You think that doesn't happen every day to millions of people?
It's not getting knocked down that ultimately matters. It's getting back up again.
I agree with the comments left here. BUT it's up to you to decide that you still want to live. I keep thinking of Grandpa who lived til the day he died. Can we say the same of you?
I also agree with comments here.
You've had some bad luck. Or good fortune.
You'll never know until you shake off the self-awareness curse of the baby-boomer generation, and lose yourself in serving others.
You've also painted yourself into a corner with your negative thinking.
You seem almost cemented into a particular way of thinking.
I've been reading you on and off for almost a year, and you refuse to allow a different point of view to be tolerated, much less entertained.
If you don't want to become a volunteer, then go back to school. There are community colleges where you could pick up new skills.
Go into sales, and meet people.
Mix things up.
My wife and baby daughter were killed in a car accident almost 15 years ago. The next three years I lost -- in a haze of self-pity and alcohol.
Finally, I woke up one day and figured out that my beautiful wife would've never wanted me to waste my life.
I changed careers.
I started new things.
I even voted fifferently (I actually voted for a Republican a couple of times) and one day I met another woman.
I will never forget my wife, but now I have a fun and gorgeous girl friend. We're even talking about getting married.
Life seems beautiful again.
I miss my wife and daughter every day, but I know I honor with memory with every hour I live.
I remember starting to read you after you lost your job -- and I thought that maybe, just maybe, losing your job might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.
I still think it can.
You need to risk failure.
Life has no guarantees.
If it did that drunk driver who ran into the back of our car would never have even out on the road.
Take the good and the bad and live.
I like what PAULINE wrote -- it's up to you.
I, for one, am pulling for you to get back into the fight.
Mourning is over. A new day has dawned.
Carpe diem, man. Carpe diem.
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