Memoir (Salvy's World)

One day, a stranger allowed his dog to get too rough with Salvy, and Marc shouted some harsh words. And the stranger said, "Good God! He's only playing! Don't you know what rough-housing is?" And Marc walked away, though the exchange clearly continued to plague him. How do you move on briskly--when something awkward has happened, and neither party is left "covered in glory"? (I would get especially irritated at the timid strangers who would seem to half-encourage Salvy to get playful, and then would feign terror when Salvy got a bit jumpy. "Relax! He's a harmless puppy," I'd mumble, and then, more quietly: "Fuck off." Adult humans can exist in a kind of self-obsessed fog; even when they're talking to each other, a certain invisible mist will erase the possibility of a real connection. Puppies won't tolerate that. They will get into your space. They will lick your chin--whether or not you're prepared or even awake. At all times, a puppy is a "Miss Manners" column waiting to happen.

Marc worried about two of Salvy's friendships. One was with Pierogi, a fluff-ball, who had real love for Salvy, and who met with Salvy's cold shoulder on more than one occasion. (Pierogi's associate was "Dumpling.") I sensed that Marc wanted to coach Salvy--to cultivate, in Salvy, a warmth, a love, that Salvy actually did not feel. Pierogi came up again and again in Marc's Saturday reports: Further overtures, further bits of chilly rejection. There was no proper response to this; it's like teaching first graders that, in the natural world, father creatures sometimes abandon their cubs, and then they just don't return. Day after day after day and: No return. No letter. No explanation. Pierogi's opposite was "Bear," a nasty, big dog who would maul Salvy at every opportunity. Salvy would not learn; he did not understand that, if you're repeatedly getting held-up at knife-point at 2 AM in Bushwick, then you're partly to blame, because you're insisting on exposing yourself, over and over, to the Bushwick version of night. (Often, and I know, here, I'm not being P.C., it does take two to tango.) What could we say to Salvy to help him develop his street smarts? Bear snarled; Bear drew blood. And Salvy kept on flirting and flirting--asking for water from a poisoned well.

***

So far, the New York Times popcast has devoted at least 2.5 hours to Taylor Swift's new album. "In terms of pop writing: At her worst, Taylor Swift is much better than everyone else." "'Dear John'--the savage dismantling of John Mayer, in the style of a John Mayer song--is among the top classics of the past fifteen years." "'Delicate' is legitimately great." "'Delicate' is a big tune." The speakers have special praise, also, for "Getaway Car," "Don't Blame Me," and "I Did Something Bad." There's a debate: Will the monster hit from this album be "End Game" or "Delicate"? But the speakers don't have a great deal to say about "End Game"; it's not clear that they're very excited about that one. (The female speaker expresses disdain for "Dress"--the other speakers are quiet, here--though, in other quarters, "Dress" has been called the best song on the album. Curiously, the female speaker does not elaborate on her disdain.)

"Delicate" really is a showstopper, so let's linger here:

This ain't for the best
My reputation's never been worse, so
You must like me for me...
We can't make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
But you can make me a drink...

Dive bar on the east side, where you at?
Phone lights up my nightstand in the black
Come here, you can meet me in the back
Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you
Oh damn, never seen that color blue
Just think of the fun things we could do

'Cause I like you
This ain't for the best
My reputation's never been worse, so
You must like me for me...
Yeah, I want you
We can't make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
But you can make me a drink...

Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you're in my head?
'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)
Is it cool that I said all that
Is it too soon to do this yet?
'Cause I know that it's delicate
Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?
Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?
Delicate

Third floor on the west side, me and you
Handsome, your mansion with a view
Do the girls back home touch you like I do?
Long night, with your hands up in my hair
Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs
Stay here, honey, I don't wanna share

'Cause I like you
This ain't for the best
My reputation's never been worse, so
You must like me for me
Yeah, I want you
We can't make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
But you can make me a drink

Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you're in my head?
'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)
Is it cool that I said all that
Is it too soon to do this yet?
'Cause I know that it's delicate
Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?
Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?
Delicate

Sometimes I wonder when you sleep
Are you ever dreaming of me?
Sometimes when I look into your eyes
I pretend you're mine, all the damn time
'Cause I like you

Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you're in my head?
'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)
Yeah, I want you
Is it cool that I said all that
Is it too soon to do this yet?
'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)
'Cause I like you
Is it cool that I said all that?
(Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?)
Is it chill that you're in my head?
(Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?)
'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)
(Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?)
Is it cool that I said all that
(Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?)
Is it too soon to do this yet?
(Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?
Isn't it?)
'Cause I know that it's delicate
Delicate

How do you talk about this song? By making reference to Michael Chabon and Philip Pullman. Chabon, reviewing Pullman's fantasy novels, observed that good fiction happens "in the border territories"--between two worlds. Liminal states are great for storytelling. Think of Jhumpa Lahiri's characters, or think of Junot Diaz. "Delicate" is a superior-to-the-original sequel--a sequel to "Gorgeous." It explores terrain between two prospective boyfriends; the speaker hasn't quite extricated herself from the dying thing in her life, and yet she is also pursuing this new thing. (Perhaps the ex is formally/superficially out of TS's life--but, clearly, he's still there. In these situations, he's there for a long time, even after the official kiss-off.) Such fertile ground--a person lies to herself, to both lovers--and it's typical of the braininess of TS that she moved in quickly and colonized all of this in her songwriting. Form underlines content: A song about emotional delicacy will use low decibel settings, breathiness, and a refrain of obsessive, unanswered questions. And we're off to the races.

Like her friend, Lena Dunham, Taylor Swift pays close attention to craft. (TS gets more credit for this particular gift than Dunham does--and that's unjust.) The first line--"this ain't for the best" (suggestive of undead semi-former lovers hovering in the background)--immediately establishes tension. The NYT highlights TS's trademark wordplay, and here it is in the second line: Thoughts of the "best" cause TS to veer toward another pole, and she says, "My reputation's never been *worse*"...See what she's doing there? And then another hard swerve: Well, in that case, since you're still here in my bar, you must like me for me. ("So you fancy me, not fancy things.") The NYT describes TS's songwriting as a series of mildly-surprising turns; It's like you're in a car (!) and you're frequently veering left, right, right, left. I see that here.

(Also, note the recurring interest in "best/worst." "It was the best of times, the worst of crimes." "They say I did something bad. Then why's it feel so good?")

The material world takes on emotional importance. The phone lighting up on the nightstand, in the dark: Like that light, the young man is a surprise, a disruption in TS's life. Geography is used to advance the plot: Though we're in an East Side dive bar, in verse one, we veer over to the West Side, to the young man's mansion, in verse two. There's smart friction, in verses one and two, between the things TS can say and the things she must silently think. So, while she chats about "your Nikes," "your handsome mansion with a view," she is privately wondering: "Just think of the fun (sexual!) things we could do," "Do the girls back home touch you like I do?" (Another great, unsettling line!) "Stay here; I don't wanna share." The level of investment is changing; the suspense is building.

The bridge strips away self-delusion. "We can't make any promises"--but, in fact, TS is making all sorts of promises in her head. "Are you ever dreaming of me? I pretend you're mine all the damn time." ("We can't make promises but you can make me a drink"--another fine bit of TS wordplay). Then TS leaves things unresolved: Having made her confession, the speaker sort of evaporates. We have to write the ending of the romance. The song has been called "a bit of old TS"; it has more detail and more cleverness than some of the new stuff. It's just such a pleasure to see a young--27 year-old!--writer wringing so much story out of a standard, even universal, situation. I hope this one gets a music video soon.