The Queen Of Sorrow

Rewind ... many years ago ... The Poet asks me: If I sing really happy songs, will I become really happy ? I am puzzled, wait a minute, I am the interviewer, I pose the questions. But that isn’t the problem really, the problem is that I am dying to tell him: Yes, do it and everything will change, but that would be a big lie. The question is not a question really, we both know the answer. A few seconds later he says: No, I don't think so. It’s the same now. I think to myself: If I write happy words, if I listen to happy songs, will this make me happy? No way, my dear, relax and enjoy it, you are the Queen of Sorrow.

Weekend is the end and it’s not a happy one. I don’t want to talk about it how you broke my heart. The previous months the words to all the love songs started making sense to the girl so far away but now, no matter what I do, only sad songs seem right, the sadder the better.

I’m crying everyone's tears

And there inside our private war

I died the night before

And all of these remnants

of joy and disaster

What am I supposed to do

.................................

Nothing would change

nothing would change at all

It’s just a day that brings it all about

Just another day

and nothing’s any good

The DJ’s playing the same song

I have so much to do I have to carry on

I wonder if this grief will ever let me go

I feel like I am the king

of sorrow

The king of sorrow

..........................

On Monday I wish I could erase you, not through a painful, complicated process, like Eternal sunshine of... but in a fast way, almost like an accident: oops, sorry, I pressed the delete button. For the first time London feels like a hostile place and I am an alien. A week seems like ages. Work is hard and I cannot communicate with people. I try to hide. In my hotel room, among the busy walking crowds in Oxford Street, behind my computer screen, behind sunglasses.
Sunglasses while it rains? Rain is ok, I’m Rainman, remember? My body suffers too. A nasty cold, insomnia, exhaustion. My flight is canceled and I have to find a new one. A change of plans creates practical problems, inconvenience, frustration. Poor Milou, away from mummy, you’ll never find out how I had to quarrel about you.

Wednesday night. Liverpool vs Chelsea. Somewhere in Soho, a farewell party. I make some new friends, it’s good but then bad because I have no idea if I will ever see them again. It seems that the reasons for being miserable are endless... In addition to everything else, I lost the Athlete gig and I lost the Kasabian gig and to make it even worse Nancy Sinatra plays Sunday when I will be back home. Shit... The mohitos are good though.

Thursday night is kind of different. I meet a friend, step in Jazz Cafe and a few tunes and one pint later I feel like a happy person in a Woody Allen film. Nicola Conte is a genius. Last night a jazz man (sorry Mr dj) saved my life with a song. Michael Jackson probably sounds totally irrelevant to all this but it’s funny how a M.J. tape playing in a car can cheer you up in the middle of the night (thank you Chris, I wish I had a friend like you in Athens).

Friday is pathetic. I finish work and catch a train to Bath. I try to focus on the yellow fields but my mind enters forbidden territory and soon my wonderful window view is flooded with tears. Then I remember that Neil Hannon song about Bath and I feel better. I spread some of my sorrow around the beautiful city and the city pays me back in the same coin.

Saturday is too sunny. Time for me to go. Dear fellow passenger, the ladybird that landed on your discman was amazing and I still can’t believe that we, two strangers sitting opposite to each other on a train going to London, were listening to “Want one” and “Want Two” at the same time. This is more than pure coincidence and yes, Rufus Wainwright is definitely the soundtrack of spring 2005 at least for us.

Sunday 1:00 a.m. I am home. Milou is so happy. I wish I was a dog. But I am not and this film plays on my mind again and again as I lie in the sofa in my aquamarine living room, like a trapped fish at the bottom of an aquarium. Is this true or maybe a bad dream? This awful trip happened... I am listening to Explosions in the Sky ‘Your Hand In Mine”. It’s funny but that’s what I miss most, your hand in mine..., or rather, your palm and fingers wrapped around my tiny hand...

So what do I do a night like this ? How do I escape everyday that is like Sunday, silent and sunny (instead of grey). The Censor asks: Who gives a fuck about the crap in your head? I reply politely: But some may find something interesting in my crap. And then the fight begins... For the time being, I think I won, but the Censor won’t give up easily, so wish me luck.

P.S.: Hector, your blog is so inspiring that I decided to create my own. Cheers !