From Randy Williams, Editor and Romantic Fool:
Maybe it's just the hint of spring in the air that has me thinking this way, but I have a confession to make. Despite the "streetsmart" slogan we Tripodians live and work by, the truth about me is that I'm an incurable romantic.
Yup, I'm a sucker for the giddy sheen of old Gershwin and Cole Porter love songs, for the heartsick blues of Billie Holiday. I go ga-ga for shimmering cinematic creations like "Breakfast at Tiffany's," "Hannah and Her Sisters" or "Four Weddings and a Funeral" movies that hold out the hope of emotional fulfillment in a complicated world populated by complex human beings.
This acknowledgement of an uphill battle is a key ingredient in the romantic works that resonate deeply with me; I may be a dreamer, but I'm hardly naïve. For that reason, I don't really go in for piffle like "Sleepless in Seattle" or the sort of slick ear candy that clutters modern Adult Contemporary radio. These sorts of "products" seem calculated, even cynical in their attempts to pull the heartstrings of the "customers." And any dork past the age of seventeen ought to realize that love is never perfect, happiness never easily come by, contentment rarely lasting.
Still, if one didn't believe such things were possible or worth striving for, life would become grim pretty quickly. One of my all-time favorite songs which was, coincidentally, released in 1962, the year I was born is about this very subject. Written by Gerry Coffin and Carol King while they were part of the old Brill Building song factory, produced by legendary hit-makers Leiber and Stoller, and flawlessly performed by the Drifters, "Up on the Roof" is an irresistible concoction. The singer, seeking an escape from "all that rat race noise down in the streets," climbs the stairs to the top of his building to find a place where "all [his] cares just drift out into space." Although he has found "a paradise that's trouble-proof,"one crucial element is missing someone with whom he can share his wishes and dreams. A line near the end of the song transforms the message from one of escape to one of longing: "At night the stars put on a show for free, and darling you can share this all with me."
I love this song because it doesn't turn a blind eye towards the gritty realities of daily life, even as it celebrates the magic to be found in the simple act of gazing at the heavens (or, even better, the wonder of sharing that act with another). The real beauty of the lyric is that the singer does not make any hot and heavy romantic or sexual overtures to the object of his affection; he merely asks this person to join him in his reverie. That sort of shared experience, I think, is the best beginning for a deeper bond. As the high-flying French novelist, essayist, and aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, "Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction."
Which is not to say that such a bond will last without hard work. In Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation."
Relationships are even more difficult, of course, when those involved do not "look outward together in the same direction," do not share goals, dreams, or philosophies of life. One of my old girlfriends used to accuse me of being too romantic in my notions about love, places, people, ideas, my writing, my work you know, life in general. One of our standard arguments went something like this:
SHE: "If you always expect a happy ending, you're bound to be crushed and disappointed."
ME: "I don't always expect a happy ending. But I believe they're possible. I have to be optimistic if I want positive results. If something doesn't work out, at least I will know I gave it my best effort for the right reasons."
SHE: (rolling her eyes) "Not me, man. I always expect the worst; if something better happens, I can always be pleasantly surprised."
ME: "But that philosophy doesn't seem to allow for hope. How can you function that way?"
SHE: (pause) "What's on TV tonight?"
Needless to say, neither of us was "pleasantly surprised" by the outcome of our story. Although there was no conventional happy ending, she got a reinforcement of her gloomy outlook and I learned a valuable lesson. But my fear is that her take on life is common, even fashionable these days. I also suspect that such an attitude lends itself to self-fulfilling prophecies.
Several years ago, I was asked to write the books and lyrics for two original musical comedy plays. The content of the shows, which were successfully produced, was largely left up to me. Reviews for both productions mentioned the sharp-edged social commentary I wove into the stories and the often smart-assed dialogue I gave the characters. But in spite of the driving ambition and "streetsmart" faces these characters presented to the world, they all yearned for something simple and true. One of the hard-bitten protagonists had a small solo where she advised her lover on the importance of finding time to "Give in to daydreams and /Make little wishes on moonbeams."
I would never suggest that all such dreams come true, but I would argue that taking the time to explore our goals and aspirations (and yes, thoughts of love and tenderness) is vitally important. If we can learn to be open about those feelings, to share them with others, and to hold them as common beliefs, maybe just maybe we will be on our way to mastering Rilke's ultimate work.
We can only make the future better if we truly believe in the dream that it can be better. So, as spring approaches, perhaps we should all (as noted philosopher Casey Kasem maintains) "keep our feet on the ground, but keep reaching for the stars."
I for one don't mind admitting that I still make little wishes on moonbeams. And if this old world starts to getting you down, there's room enough for two up on the roof.
Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.