Skip to main content

Joni Mitchell

 She quickly sets the scene:

 

Sitting in a park in Paris, France—

Reading the news, and it sure looks bad.

They won’t give peace a chance; that was just a dream some of us had.

Still a lot to see—but I wouldn’t want to stay here.

It’s too old and cold and set in its ways here.

 

She is already poking fun at herself; she is both hungry to see more of France and irritated by a European “coldness and oldness.”

 

Met a redneck on a Grecian Isle;

He did the goat dance very well.

He gave me back my smile…

But he kept my camera to sell.

Oh, the rogue, the red, red rogue….

He cooked good omelets and stews—and I might have stayed on with him—

But my heart cried out for you, California….

 

Again, there is some difficulty with decision-making: “The rogue….I might have stayed on with him….” Also, we jump from one country to another with just a single word.

 

I caught a train to Spain…

Went to a party down a red dirt road…

There were lots of pretty people there, reading ROLLING STONE, reading VOGUE…

They said, How long can you hang around?

I said, A week. Maybe two. Just until my skin turns brown…

Then I’m coming home to you, California….

 

Joni is Dorothy in Oz, walking down a red (dirt) road. She is also a faithless lover, and she is writing to her patient spouse, who happens to be the state of California. “Will you take me as I am—strung out on another man? California, I’m coming home.”

 

It’s easy enough to trust the writer because she seems to speak the truth; she acknowledges what a mess she is, and she laughs about it. (“When I think of your kisses, my mind see-saws.”) Ambivalence is a guiding light: “He gave me my smile, but kept my camera.” “I hate you some, I love you some.” “I’m so hard to handle; I’m selfish and I’m sad. I wish I had a river I could skate away on…..”

 

“I’ve looked at life from both sides now….”

 

Specific and universal, and seemingly effortless—over and over again.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...