Home Is Anywhere

I am a guy in my head. Maybe you would call me Mr. Misery. Music is a way to find my heart–a long shot but reliable, oddly. I listen to music to see if the emotion can find a tie to my head that allows the feelings to be ok. It is like I have a switch on the railroad that forces the train to make a turn to appease my brain. My head has to be ok and then my heart can have a chance. I am not saying this is ideal. I am saying it is my way.

Elvis Costello makes sense to both my head and my heart. Something in me wants to be him, but that goes against the idea of him. So, something in me wants to find my angry, loving, raw, defined voice, like him. He wrote this line about home being anywhere you hang your head. My brain likes the play on a place to hang your hat. It also appreciates being able to write about contemplating murder without being ridiculous. My heart is always looking for home, for a place to be, for home dammit. I love the tension in the line, in the song, the poem really. Adding real music to real poetry is beyond what I can imagine, although I have been told that adding real writing to real photography is new and different. I agree. (!!)

Here comes Mr. Misery
He’s tearing out his hair again
He’s crying over her again
He’s standing in the super-market shouting at the customers
Here comes Mr. Misery
He’ll never be any good with a mouth full of gold and blood
He’s contemplating murder again
He must be in love

[Chorus:]
But you know she doesn’t want you
But you can’t seem to get it in your head
Oh and you can’t sleep at night
And she haunts you when you go to bed
When you’re tired of talking and you can’t drink it down
So you hang around and drown instead
Home isn’t where it used to be
Home is anywhere you hang your head

You hang your head
Home is anywhere
You hang your head
Home is anywhere
You hang your head
Home is anywhere you hang your head

Here comes Mr. Misery
Looking for a place for his mouth to shoot
Saying “You’d look cute in your birthday suit”
You tore him out and screwed him up
Like a bad page in a naughty picture book

The day ended as it began
As he was seconds older than the man he was this morning
And the world has wiped it’s mouth since then
Or maybe it was yawning

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2 Responses to Home Is Anywhere

  1. Joanna says:

    What you are saying is interesting. In order to get into our involuntary, we must first be able to rest our minds. Our minds have to have just enough of a container and rational thinking that it stops and allows us to begin feeling. The more we practice our felt sense, the better!

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