Shine!

Strange confluence of events brings us this post, even though the events are actually unrelated.  They only come together in my bizarro thought process.
A few things have led me to think about funerals.  One of my close friends — about as close to family as anyone could be — lost his mother this week.  Interestingly, they didn’t do a funeral.  Said his mother wouldn’t want one, and I get that.
Forget that.  I want one.  Doesn’t have to be like the one my aunt wants, one in which people are bawling in the aisles, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say a certain vain portion of my personality doesn’t want people to get together for a few hours and talk about what the good I hope to do in their lives before it’s all done.  Part of that’s because I found Arthur Miller’s observation in “Death of a Salesman,” that the best representation of a man’s life is his funeral, to be absolutely fascinating.  I’ve been to funerals where people had to make up things to say, and it’s really, really awkward.
We humans tend to be better at telling people bad things than good ones.  At least until they’re dead.  Whatever sense that makes.
Well, a few days ago, I caught up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.  Love him to pieces.  Also worry about him to no end.  It’s kinda tough to watch your people go through it and be powerless to stop it, especially when those people are as, if not more, talented than any person you know.  Considering the people that are kind enough to indulge me with their time, that’s saying a lot.
When he left, I realize I kinda had a “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” moment.  For the non-Pink Floyd fans out there, it’s pretty simple.  Floyd’s original lead singer, Syd Barrett, was as talented as he was unstable.  After a few concerts where he just played what he wanted instead of the actual song, Syd got fired.  Years later, Syd comes in the studio to visit his old mates, looking so terrible that it brought Roger Waters to tears.
The interesting part is they were recording “Shine on You Crazy Diamond,” a 25-minute, nine-part composition about Syd, his troubles, and Waters’ wish to see him carry on his brilliance, even though it came part and parcel with madness.  The sight of the madness was enough to make it clear the brilliance may not have been gone, but it would certainly be obfuscated forever.  It’s safe to assume a genius is crazy.  The converse, however, doesn’t quite hold.
Also, it should be noted that Wish You Were Here, which features “Shine on You Crazy Diamond,” is probably the greatest concept album ever made, a treatise on the shady nature of the record industry that simultaneously wishes Syd was with them while understanding The Game just might drive them to the same place Syd was in.  Genius.
The fun — and yes, I’ve been link bouncing on the Wiki — is that “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” was intended to be an entire album side, but it was too long for that and had to be broken up.  So, this dedication bookends the record, giving it a circular feel and closure that’s hard to capture on record without being incredibly corny.  Wish You Were Here is anything but corny.
“Shine On You Crazy Diamond” isn’t a eulogy, but it might as well be.  After the recording, the group never saw Syd again (for the record, when someone leaves Pink Floyd, it does seem like he dies to the remaining group members).  The lyrics are here.  The closing lines always stick with me…

Come on you boy child, you winner and loser,
Come on you miner for truth and delusion, and shine!

Of course, writing the words don’t give them the presence they have on track.  It doesn’t share how, even though it’s catalyzed by his not-so-strong voice, Waters sells every ounce of emotion to the line.  It doesn’t show how Floyd’s grandiose sound is both perfect and ironic in this case.  It’s a 25-minute song with three verses.  It’s an anthemic tribute to a crazy man.  It’s amazing.
So, now that this lede is totally buried, I get to it.  When it’s my time to go, this is the kind of eulogy I want.  Don’t lie and say how wonderful I am.  That’s bullshit.  Talk about all of it.  Talk about the intensity, which is often more than optimal.  Talk about the self-assuredness, that often tramples into territory of conceit.  Talk about the humility and how dangerously close that comes to being insecurity.  Tell them how coldly rational I can be in making decisions while dying inside because the shit feels worse than the idea is good.  Tell them I insisted upon living a life that, in every way, gave me the creative freedom I need to stay sane while simultaneously growing frustrated with the inability to find true stability, even though I’ve got a pocket full of degrees that could get me a job secure enough that not even George Bush III could get me laid off.  Tell them who I am, good or bad.  It’s me, so I’ll love it.  If I can hear it, of course.
And tell me to shine, wherever the hell I am.  Not that I need to be told — cuz I’m gonna, baby — but because it’s nice to hear.  If I can hear it, of course.
There’s just something really powerful about how we actually are.  Seems like people often spend so much time avoiding the things about themselves that aren’t so favorable they neither fix them nor grow comfortable with them.  We are who we are.  Work on what you can, but I hope you’re appreciated for who you are.
Up soon…the results of the batting contest.  My shoulder hurts so much.