The Gristly
Like most great movements in art should do, some of the songs I sang in middle school choir left an imprint in my memory that you could fill with a lifetime supply of Lincoln Logs.
My Personal Timeline of Significance is distinctly noted to mark the difference:
Before 7th Grade Choir | After 7th Grade Choir
While one could never forget the ever-melodic “Dark Brown is the River”— nor could one ignore the suggestive overtones of “Yonder Come Day”— one would be simply bereft for never having sang “My Father Killed a Kangaroo” at least once in one’s life. Ah, yes. That glorious, symphonic masterpiece, sung in a round (as most middle school chorus songs are,) over and over and over until you (and your fortunate audience!) were left wondering whether the song had any endpoint.
Whenever I reflect back, chin propped in hand, on my illustrious career in middle school choir, it is “My Father Killed a Kangaroo” that I find myself pondering the most. The lyrics—how unexpected! They are as follows:
“My father killed a kangaroo
and gave me the gristly part to chew
My father killed a kangaroo
and gave me the gristly part to chew
The gristly part of a dead kangaroo
The gristly part of a dead kangaroo
The gristly part of a dead kangaroo
The gristly part of a dead kangaroo
(repeat until death)”
Needless to say, the song was a conversation piece. Why is the narrator so pleased with the death of a kangaroo? Is this some sort of father/son bonding ritual in Australia? Should the song be sung in an Australian accent? Just what is a “gristly part,” pray tell? Would you chew it?
I took the liberty of looking up the exact definition of “gristly” so no one else has to. The results are enlightening: “consisting of or full of gristle.” Gathering research from that point tells us that “gristle” is “cartilage, especially when found as tough, inedible tissue in meat.” Interesting! That explains the chewing, I suppose.
** Having collected this material, I’ll be straightforward and inform you that I’ve chosen to use this “gristly part” as my extended metaphor for this post. Let’s not try to be subtle, because there’s really no way for a dead kangaroo’s gristle to sneak up on you, as far as I can tell. I’m being a doofus for shaping it to fit my designs, but this is just something I’ve been thinking about, so I mean, take my hand and don’t look back, please. ***
Today, you log onto Facebook and see that at least three of your friends have important announcements to make. There is a constant hum of busy-business, of transitions, of significant-next-steps being taken. Friendships that require distance become rooted in a cacophony of “How are you’s?” and “What are you up to these days?” Even the things in between these announcements must meet the minimum quota of excitement—“This past weekend, I did this and saw that and met this person and ate this meal! Simply DELICIOUS, it was!” Nothing else seems worth sharing if it isn't molded to a standard of This is Worth Sharing. We hate to think that our lives aren’t worth sharing, so we choose how we broadcast them.
I don’t think this is strictly a bad thing. Why shouldn’t we want to keep our friends and family in the loop? It illustrates a desire to be connected. Sharing is caring. And after, we control what we can. Oh, you’ve had a bad week? Maybe you’ll have some wine. Or maybe you’ll post about how this awful week has made you stronger, or you’ll post about one good thing that happened ( or about how much you hate your coworker and he’s just RUINING YOUR VIBE,) and someone might respond to that, and you’ll find you feel better. Getting it out of your head has diminished its weight. It’s one of the strange buzzes social media provides.
It’s just that when you’re not sharing those important things, or when you haven’t had a week worth remarking on, or when you’re not on the precipice of some brilliant change—when you find yourself stuck, muddling somewhere in the middle—that is when the onslaught of sharing hits. You are conditioned to react, react, react. You’re so exhausted from reacting to everything, that what little energy you have left is spent pondering the state of your own current affairs.
What have I done today worth remarking on? Am I not so remarkable, after all?
The contrast of filtered excitement against your completely average day, or week, or month, can make you feel uninspired, to say the least. (I truly believe social media acts as a drug in this way, and that we’ve all experienced it to an extent, and that some people develop an unhealthy dependency on it that can ruin their lives similarly to how a traveling meth lab would, but I could just go on and on and that would change the direction of this post, so I’ll refrain from going any further, at this point.)
Experiencing this drought-like sensation can affect your art, too, though for many that goes without saying. While I’m sure some have a surge of imagination on their more banal days, filling in for that lack of content that you’ve kept throughout the day, I’ve come to the realization that the older I get, the harder it is for me to separate my imagination from my self-worth. If I feel somewhat worthless (I don’t mean in a morose way; just in a general, day-to-day way) on a given day, you better believe anything I write is going to be flavorless, or worse: tainted with a trace of self-pity.
And that’s just crap. No one has time for that, let alone myself.
But I’ve realized something else about the things I like to write, as well the art that affects me: a lot of it stems from the day-to-day, in the monotony of something. Everyone seems to be constantly holding their breath for the moments when they can drop their bags and say, “This Must Be the Place.” (Great song, btw.) So why does it seem like the most monumental shifts occur in a breath, in an unfiltered exchange that’s rather commonplace? A conversation over the changing of a coffee filter. A train ride. Turning on the TV. Going through old boxes. Stepping into the day. It only takes one thing to transform the moment into something transcendent.
Or maybe nothing happens. Maybe you make an observation, is all. You go through the motions. You live through a completely ordinary week. You wash, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And there’s a kind of music in that. You are on the precipice of something, but you don’t know what it is yet. And you don’t mind, because you are too busy listening to the way the rails sound beneath the wheels of the train car you’re sitting in. You notice the same old woman reading a different book—she has lived so much more than you have. Next week, you might notice someone new.
So to bring it back to the kangaroo song.
I always liked that the repetitious part was the least interesting lyric, a summary of sorts. “The gristly part of a dead kangaroo.” The action is past us; now we’re just going over the gristly part until the next verse. We like the gristly part. It’s something to gnaw on until we face down another wild animal.
I encourage you, if you’re feeling stagnant, or uninspired, or bored—or like your day isn’t share-worthy just now—embrace the gristly parts! Be it in your art or in your routine—don’t shy away from exploring monotony. Even if it’s not worth sharing now, you can find something in it to save for later. And you have NOTHING to be embarrassed about if you’re muddling in the middle, like so many of us are. ;)
CHEW IT OVER.
