Tired of Talking

Baby I'm out of breath, we're talkin' our selves to death
And nothing seem to change, maybe it's best if we parted
It's like the blind leading the blind,
We're even further behind than when we started

I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go
Baby I'm so confused and feeling a little bruised
When all we do is fight, we can't help but feel down hearted
It's like the blind leading the blind
Even further behind then when we started

I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go
Baby I'm out of breath, we're talkin' ourselves to death
And nothing seem to change, maybe it's best if we parted
It's like the blind leading the blind
Even further behind then when we started
I'm tired of talkin', guess it's time to go

the legendary blues guitarist Robben Ford, "Tired of Talking"

I saw Robben Ford years ago at the old Aladdin Theater at the foot of the Ross Island Bridge, and he put on a show worthy of the confluence of three freeways and two rivers, rocking the stage from one end to the other and never letting go of the audience for two solid hours, the whole building rocking and bobbing to every beat. I sat in the next to last row with a sultry blond I was dating at the time and we necked through the entire show. It was a fine time, and thinking of it now is a reminder that passions come and sorrows go, and sooner or later everything passes but the blues remain and justify it all.

I feel justified today, vindicated and sanctified, for no particular reason than I'm still living and still going to work. I earned my pay today and rode the train home, cutting across a field of shin high grass to Cascade Station because somehow walking through the field made the trip more interesting, singing the song above like it was my own. I heard "Tired of Talking" the other day on Pandora.com and I hadn't heard it in a long while and it just seemed like the perfect soundtrack for a point in life where all the talking in the world hadn't done a bit of good.

I have no idea what comes next. I'm not in a particular hurry to find out. I had a fine and simple meal on the bench at the entrance to Fred Meyers, a baked chicken breast, some ciabatta rolls and fresh raspberries and the last fall peach, and now I am in my clean, well-lighted place listening to the symphony number 31 in D major. And that alone is enough loveliness to sustain a man for quite a while. I'm tired of talking, but after a good nap I'll be rested enough for another day. That will do for the time being, just knowing I made it off the mountain in one piece like another survivor I read about.

There was a story on the front page of Yahoo the other day about a 7' 9" center from a school in North Carolina, Kenny George, who had to have a part of his foot amputated because of a staph infection, and now his basketball career is over. His school is going to honor his scholarship, though, and his coach said, “There’s more to Kenny George than basketball. The students at this school think the world of Kenny George outside of basketball. We’re looking forward to him coming back second semester — that’s what he wants to do — and complete his degree. At that point, we’d still like him to be a part of our basketball program and part of this school.”

That's a remarkable story, and a reminder that even the feet on which we walk through empty fields are a miracle of creation and a remarkable blessing, and there isn't anything guaranteed to us: all of our smug pronouncements of self-determination and self sufficiency are a ridiculous conceit. Everything passes. Our memory, our intellect, our physical talents, our wealth, health and prosperity don't last a moment. I hope Kenny George has someone who loves him, and realizes that even though he'll never dunk another basketball he's an all time All American of courage and heart. We all are in our own way. It's remarkable what we risk and endure. It's remarkable the hopes we hold on to, and the sorrows we ignore, to work and to love in this imperfect world.