The Lonely Ones

Nearly all of us think that we are the lonely ones. Everyone else has friends and lots of them. As we walk down a street at night, everyone else is in a warm house, with a fire, and a choice of friends. Only we are doubtful.

In this day of music with lots of decibels drawn at great expense from the great ether, only the quality of the sound seems to matter, so that when we sit down to our old piano and, shamefacedly, bring out the old, somewhat mouldy (flood in the basement 22 years ago) hymn or songbook we play softly, hoping the landlady or neighbours don’t catch us being so sentimental or amateurish and know that we are the only relic of the old melodic sentimental non-relevant days, and more than the quality of our music troubles us.

The problem is that we are out of date and the suspicion is that we always were third class in all our cultural choices and non-choices… we feel guilty for indulging our own evidences of cultural inferiority… we don’t belong to any minority so we must be doubly-damned – once for being oppressors and a clincher for being insensitively inferior. Our ancestors chopped down trees, damned streams, saved pounds, ate oats, when they should have been bowing at the altars of the superb Europeans who licked the boots of Otto the Great, Ludwig the Mad, Medici the Murderer… All our grandparents did was pull taffy, raise barns, build schooners and prepare the way for the true refugees from autocrats who brought with them the evidences of our inferiority. There are times when I could cry but I usually lie down until the feeling goes away and then I wake and need something to eat.


~ by dkcrowdis on February 24, 2008.

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