by Benjamin Ong

You’re my Sunday
make my Monday
come alive

Just like Tuesday
you’re a new day
wakes [sic] me up

Wednesday’s raining
Thursday’s yearning
Friday nights

Then it all ends
at the weekend
you’re my star.

1. Much of music sounds simple when stripped of its context.  But there is something to be said about naive simplicity, or deliberate parochialism, or innocent parochialism.  For earnestness draws attention to itself; the masses love the desperation of honesty, and in so doing elevate it, and thus bring it to heights of grace from which it may fall in beautiful fire, and make even the last man weary, and make him lie down and imagine what it must be like to love as man does in the face of death, and smile and face the here-and-now, not in sudden solipsism, but rather in the joy of the parochial and the beauty of the simplicity that is gained by shutting oneself out from the greater universe.

2. For down there there is lameness, but there is the one “best part”, the one, the bit which, as a duller rose among thorns, makes one suddenly aware of the audience of the universe and brings one to slightly higher heights, from which one may look on proudly, as a poor man on his deathbed does, and bring oneself back to life.  It is like sheer drunkenness, which sets up an entire bubble-universe of meaning and makes the lights to dance around it, though God may look on and laugh.  It is what clothes madness in the beauty of time and, paradoxically, by driving all away, creates what is when none can exist.

3. And then he runs out of fuel, and, too, falls gently from his little height, and sees that it is as they said it would be, and glimpses the looming, but knows that it is already time to rest.  And that is, until the next working-day and the next lunch break and the next 4 p.m. and the next hour until the train, all that matters.