Music – 3

I like this one a lot. I like the various instruments. I like the duality of how fun and upbeat the song is, while also sounding melancholic. I like the piano, I feel it doesn’t dominate too much, but works great with everything else. Plus, I gave it the Learning Desire tag, meaning I’d love to know how to play this song. Since this is the first song I’ve given this tag to, so it’s a good moment to explain why it earned it. When I was originally developing the scoring system, this was one of the categories, but found that really it was more of a yes or no question, and that it wasn’t actually reflective of what I’d rank the song (hence why it doesn’t impact the overall score). It simply means that I like to imagine, if I was a musician, and I learned how to play this song, all the various ways in which I could perform it. It frees my imagination up to picture myself playing it live, and the song creates an open world in my mind of what a cover of this song could entail.

Poetry – 3

I like the lyrics of this one, I find it to be delightfully minimal in its expression, unlike most of his songs. Specific enough to evoke imagery, but not explicit enough to say anything definitive (this will give it a worse score in the insight category, unfortunately. But hey, that’s why we have both).

I’m also particularly impressed with how he uses rhyme in this one.

Change – 2

I gave this a two because it is, throughout most of the song, the same. However, it has two parts that are different, and I absolutely love the role they play in the song. The moments where he goes from:

…with you /

oh what has it cost you …

and

…with me /

No, I didn’t start it …

When he does those changes, I’m obsessed with them. Very satisfying, and exactly the kind of ‘change’ that I seek in a song. I’d use those moments as examples of what it is that this category is scoring for, it’s just sadly used sparingly in this particular song, which is why it’s a two.

Insight – 1

This song is honestly, in its lyricism, one of the … blandest and least descriptive. I love the way the words are used with the music, and how they stand alone, but as a statement this song leaves a lot to be desired. My favorite line however:

I didn’t start it / You’re brokenhearted from a long, long time ago

I enjoy immensely, and find to be phrased in a way that isn’t usually put so eloquently (then again, I’ll be reviewing Innocent Man soon, and that’s a whole song based on basically that line).

Good – 4

I love this song. I love the moments I emphasized in the change score, I love that it’s a song I would want to learn how to play, it’s off of my childhood favorite album, so I have a lot of nostalgia for it. Would definitely make a playlist of must-listen to Billy Joel songs for me.

“Can I come over?”

“No!”

“Please? I fucked up my arm.”

“No! Under no circumstances!” 

The call doesn’t end there, and half an hour later you open the door. 

“What happened to your arm?”

There is a gash running up most of my left arm, from above my shoulder to a little below my elbow. When I had tried to ‘fix it’ earlier, and all I could see was the inside, with all the muscles, ligaments, and blood, I had nearly fainted. So all I had done was amateurly wrap bandaging around it. The shoddiness of my effort was starting to show, and the bandage was thoroughly soaked in blood. 

You don’t help me with my arm. You don’t want to touch it and make it worse. 

But you openly stare at it.

You clearly care. You’re clearly concerned. 

And that was all that I really needed at that moment. 

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, concerned. 

“I have to go to bed. It’ll be better in the morning and I’ll be able to deal with it then.”

Looking back, I have no idea why I had this in my head. It must have been some form of denial, a byproduct of the unbearable pain the arm was causing. 

I fall asleep, but you continue pacing the apartment, passing the bed, watching me, seeing the blood. Growing more concerned. 

Eventually I guess you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Wake up.”

“What? Why?” I ask, half-asleep. 

“You were crying.” 

“Yes, but I was finally asleep.”

“Oh, make me into the monster, why don’t you? Goddamn it. I’m trying to fucking help you. You can’t sleep through this.” You’re clearly upset, at the end of some rope. This is hard to take as the one who is actually suffering. And the one who is convinced that the cure is to sleep until the morning. 

“Leave me alone. Why are you being mean to me?”

“I’m not. I need you to wake up. I need you to do something about this.”

“Fine. I’m up. Are you happy? And you know what else? I’m leaving.” 

“Oh come on, you can’t leave.”

“Oh I can’t?” 

I grab my bag and go out the front door. You don’t follow me at first. 

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” 

I’m walking down the street in the middle of the night, gripping my arm. I’m mad. Mad at you, but more mad at myself. Mad at myself for getting my arm injured, and even more mad for going to you when I needed help. 

“God fucking dammit. Fuck you. Drop fucking dead. God fucking dammit.” 

In my anger, and pain, I’m not particularly creative, muttering the very first obscenities that I can think of about you. I go to touch my arm and only experience more of the agony. 

Half an hour ago I was asleep in your bed. Now I’m walking down the street, gripping my arm. Wishing I had a leather belt to bite down on, but I’m in my pajamas. 

And an hour after I storm out, I have to call you again. 

“Come to the emergency room.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m in the fucking emergency room goddamn you, is that not enough of a reason? Get over here.”

“Oh Goddamn it. Alright I’m coming.” I hear you start to pack up as you hang up the phone. 

By the time you get there I’m certain this is my last night alive. I’m certain I’ve lost too much blood to make it. I’ve wasted too many precious hours on your insanity and my delusion. But that seems to be a recurring pattern. You also seem to have calmed down since you woke me up. 

“What happened? Where did you go? I ran around all over looking for you.”

“I can’t… I can’t talk about this now. It’s over.” I start crying. “It’s over. I’m dying. Fuck. I’m not going to make it. I’m sorry. Please. Nothing is going to help. Please. Please don’t leave me. Please stay.”

I can only speak through hysterical sobs, gritted teeth, a face soaked in tears. My right arm is gripping my left with everything I have left. The hospital bed I’m lying on is soaked in my blood. I’ve stopped making any sense, both in my head and out loud.

“Whoah whoah whoah you’re not dying, you’re okay, you’ll be okay.” You’re trying to be reassuring. 

“No, I can feel it, I know, it’s cold and it hurts.” 

“No. That’s not going to happen. I promise.” 

You reach out and pull my hand off my arm, and hold it very tightly. I can tell you’re scared for me. You’re wondering why I’m thinking this, trying to figure out how to convince me that I’ll be okay.

“Why are we here? Why did you do this? I love you. I’ve never not loved you.” I continue crying as I grip your hand. 

“Hey okay okay you’re okay.” I can only barely hear your voice over the pain. Or my own crying. 

“Say you love me.” 

“You should know it.” 

“Please say it.” 

“I’ll say it when you’re better.” 

“I’m dying. Say it.” 

“You’re not dying. And of course I love you.” 

“Am I going to die? I’m too young to die.” 

“You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Please help.” 

I can take no more. I close my eyes. 

It’s a summer day on my childhood balcony. The balcony is made of orange wood panelling and large thin-pane glass windows. The windows have simple metal clasps to keep them shut. Only one of them has netting to protect against mosquitos. Because of the way the balcony protrudes from the building, with three sides exposed, it’s always flooded with light. A massive tree grows in the yard below, and the branches can be touched from the window. It casts shadows on the couch that I’m lying on. In the summers it’s warm and quiet. I can lie like this for hours, not rushing to anything, nowhere to be. Relaxed, but not tired. I’m lying down, reading, and listening to the sounds of the wind, the distant street, the person on the phone walking down below, the birds.

The roof of the balcony is tin, and pigeons land on it and walk around. The sound of their little feet tapping on the tin and cooing will make me cry even twenty years down the road, when I happen to hear it in New York. As children, my brother and I would grab the broom, wait for as many pigeons to gather as we thought the roof could hold, and then we’d suddenly hit the handle on the ceiling to send them scattering. The launch, the sound of beating wings, the cessation of the tapping, the cooing, would fill our little hearts with pure glee. 

Its midday, and I lie on the couch with my book, baking. The warmth of the balcony has gone from pleasant to uncomfortably hot. The sun is starting to shine almost directly into my eyes. It rests heavily on my skin, like a dense blanket, making it hot. I begin to realize that I’m sweating. I set the book down, and realize I can’t get up. The sounds outside are gone, drowned out by the growing cacophony of the pigeons on the roof. The sun is getting hotter. I’m gripping my arm, which seems to be in pain. Out of the corner of my eye I can see you walking around inside the apartment, and I’m trying to call out to you to come help. 

Help me please. 

But you can’t hear me over the sounds of the pigeons. They have become unbearably loud. I close my eyes as hard as I can. I want to leave this place. I’m still being blinded by the sun, even with my eyes fully shut. The tapping of the feet on the roof is hurting my ears. Tears slowly start trickling down my cheeks. The pain in my arm grows, and the sun starts blistering my skin. Someone hits the ceiling with a broom handle, the ear shattering clang sends the pigeons flying, and my eyes open to the hospital.