Show’d my soul to the woman at
the liquor store
She said put that thing away boy,
’fore it turns the wine
Show’d my soul to the woman at
the 7-Eleven
She said: Is that all?
Copyright © 1974 by Rattlesnake Music, Inc.
You will notice that the meter here is various and the artist is given great liberties.
Another type of song which is a dear favorite of almost everyone is the song that has a message, some kind of thought that people can carry away with them and think about. Many songs of this type are written and gain great acceptance every day. Here is one of my own that I put to a melody which has a kind of martial flavor:
How do you spell truth? L-o-v-e is
how you spell truth
How do you spell love? T-r-u-t-h
is how you spell love
Where were you last night?
Where were you last night?
Copyright © 1976 by Rattlesnake Music/A.I.M. Corp.
When “Last Night” was first recorded, the engineer said “That’s a keeper” on the first take and it was subsequently covered by sixteen artists including Walls.
The I-ain’t-nothin’-but-a-man song is a good one to write when you are having a dry spell. These occur in songwriting as in any other profession and if you are in one it is often helpful to try your hand at this type of song which is particularly good with a heavy rhythm emphasis in the following pattern
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
where some of your instruments are playing da da da da da, hitting that last note hard, and the others answer whomp, whomp. Here is one of my own:
I’m just an ordinary mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
Just an ordinary mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
Ain’t nothin’ but a mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a grizzly mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a hello-goodbye mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a ramblin’-gamblin’ mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a mane’s mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a woeman’s mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m an upstairs-downstairs mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a today-and-tomorrow mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
I’m a Freeway mane
Da da da da da
Whomp, whomp
Copyright © 1977 by French Music, Inc.
Well, you see how it is done. It is my hope that these few words will get you started. Remember that although this business may seem closed and standoffish to you, looking at it from the outside, inside it has some very warm people in it, some of the finest people I have run into in the course of a varied life. The main thing is to persevere and to believe in yourself, no matter what the attitude of others may be or appear to be. I could never have written my songs had I failed to believe in Bill B. White, not as a matter of conceit or false pride but as a human being. I will continue to write my songs, for the nation as a whole and for the world.
The Farewell
—WELL MAGGIE I have finally been admitted to the damn Conservatory. Finally.
—Yes Hilda I was astonished when I heard the news, astonished.
—A glorious messenger came riding. Said I was to be admitted. At last.
—Well Hilda I suppose they must have changed the standards or something.
—He was clothed all in silver, and his hat held a pure white plume. He doffed his hat and waved it in the air, and bowed.
—The Admissions Committee’s been making some pretty strange calls lately, lots of talk about it.
—A Presidential appointment, he said. Direct from the President himself.
—Yes those are for disadvantaged people who would not otherwise be considered. Who would not otherwise be considered in a million years.
—Well Maggie now that we are both members of the Conservatory maybe you won’t be so snotty.
—Snotty?
—Maybe you won’t be lording it over me quite so much, all those little vicious digs.
—Me?
—All those innocent remarks with little curly hooks in them.
—Hilda this can’t be me you’re talking about. Me, your dear friend.
—Well it doesn’t matter now anyway because we are both on the same plane at last. Both members of the Conservatory.
—Hilda I have to tell you something.
—What?
—A lot of people are leaving. The Conservatory. Leaving the Conservatory and transferring to the Institution.
—What’s that?
—A new place. Very rigorous.
—You mean people are leaving the Conservatory?
—Yes. Switching to the Institution.
—It’s called the Institution?
—Yes. It’s a new place.
—What’s so good about it?
—It’s new. Very rigorous.
—You mean after I’ve killed myself to get into the Conservatory there’s a new place that’s better?
—Yes they have new methods. New, superior methods. I would say that the cream of the Conservatory is transferring to the Institution or will transfer to the Institution.
—But you’re still at the Conservatory aren’t you?
—Thinking of transferring. To the Institution.
—But I sweated blood to get into the Conservatory you know that. You know it!
—At the Institution they have not only improved methodologies but also a finer quality of teacher. The teachers are more dedicated, twice as dedicated or three times as dedicated. The design of the Institution buildings has been carefully studied, and is new. Each student has his or her own personal wickiup wherein he or she may spend hours one-on-one with his or her own personal, supremely dedicated teacher.
—I cannot believe this!
—Savory meals are left in steaming baskets outside each wickiup door. All meals are lobster, unless the student has indicated a preference for beautifully marbled beef. There are four Olympic-sized pool tables for every one student.
—It’s just unfair, hideously unfair.
—The Institution song was composed by Tammy and the Rayettes and the Institution T-shirt is by Hedwig McMary. And of course they have the improved methodologies.
—Of course.
—Yes.
—Maggie?
—What?
—I guess this joint is tough to get into, right?
—Impossible.
—Then how can you—
—There’s this guy I know he’s the Chancellor. Boss of the whole shebang. He likes me.
—I see.
—He is devoted to me and always has been. Me and my potential. He is wonderful on the subject of my potential.
—I already had a babysitter hired. For those hours I would have spent at the Conservatory.
—Well don’t be downhearted Hilda, the Conservatory is a very fine place too. Within its limits.
—I already had a babysitter laid on. For those days on which I would have been wending my way up the hill through the gum trees to the Conservatory. Once the zenith of my aspirations.
>
—Yes how is that kid you’re a mother now must make you feel different.
—What can I tell you? It eats.
—I guess the father what’s-his-name never showed up again did he?
—Sent some Q-tips in the mail.
—The beast.
—Maggie you’ve got to help me.
—Help you what?
—I must get into the Institution.
—You?
—I must get into the Institution.
—Oh my.
—If I don’t get into the Institution I will shrink into a little shrunken mummy, self-esteem-wise.
—O my dear one your plight is painful to me.
—My plight?
—Wouldn’t you call it a plight?
—I guess so. Good of you to find the mot juste.
—Hilda I will do everything in my power to help you achieve your mete measure of personal growth. Everything.
—Thank you Maggie. I believe you.
—But we have to be realistic.
—What does that mean?
—There are some kinds of places for some kinds of people and other kinds of places for other kinds of people.
—What does that mean?
—Did I tell you I got a grant?
—What kind of a grant?
—There are these excellence grants they give to people who are excellent. I got one.
—Oh. I thought you already had a grant.
—That was my old grant. That was for enrichment. This is new. It’s for excellence.
—I could I suppose just sink down into the gutter. The gutter of plain life. Life without excellence.
—Hilda it’s not like you to give up like this. It’s sensible, but not like you.
—Maggie I am floating away from you. Floating away. Like a brown leaf in the gutter.
—Where will you go?
—I have decided. There’ll be a night-long, block-long farewell party. Everyone will be invited. All those who have mocked me will not be invited but all those who have loved me will be invited. There will be crystal, silver, Persian lilies, torches, garlic bread, and jugs of rare jug wine.
—When do you figure this will be?
—Maybe Thursday. All my friends smiling faithfully up at me from their assigned places at the block-long table. Spaced carefully here and there, interesting-looking men who look like ads. Smiling up at me from their places where they have been put as interesting stuffing between all my friends.
—All your friends.
—Yes. All my glorious shining friends.
—Who?
—All my friends.
—Yes but who? Who specifically?
—All my friends. I see what you mean.
—I can’t believe I said that Hilda. Did I say that?
—Yes you did.
—I didn’t mean it. It was the truth, but I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.
—OK.
—It just slipped out.
—Doesn’t matter.
—Can you forgive me?
—Of course. I’ll have the party anyhow. Maybe ask a lot of answering services or something.
—I will come. If I’m invited.
—Who if not you?
—You’ll make it Hilda I’m sure you will. One of these days.
—That’s good to hear Maggie I’m glad I have your support.
—You will not only endure, you will prevail.
—Well thanks a lot Maggie. Thanks. Over what?
—Over everything. It’s in the cards Hilda I know it.
—Well thanks a lot. Do you really think so?
—I really think so. I really do.
—All my friends smiling faithfully up at me. Well, fuck it.
The Emperor
EACH MORNING the Emperor weighs the documents brought to him, each evening he weighs them again; he will not rest until a certain weight has passed through his hands; he has declared six to be the paramount number of his reign, black the paramount color; he hurries from palace to palace, along the underground corridors, ignoring gorgeous wall hangings, bells, drums, beautiful ladies; how many more responsible officials must be strangled before his will prevails, absolutely?
The Emperor sleeps in a different palace each night, to defeat assassins; of the two hundred and seventy palaces, some are congenial to him, some not; the three worms inspiring disease, old age and death have yet to find him; his presents this morning included a most dazzling parcel-gilt bronze wine warmer, gift of the grateful people of Peiho, and a sumptuous set of nine bronze bells tuned in scale, gift of the worshipful citizens of Yuchang; he has decided that all officers in these places will be promoted one rank, and that the village well in Peiho will be given the title of Minister of the Fifth Rank . . .
The First Emperor has decreed that the people of his realm will be called the Blackheaded People, in the ocean there are three fairy islands, Penglai, Fangchang and Ingchou, where immortals live, and he has sent the scholar Hsu Fu, with several thousand young boys and girls, to find them; he dictates a memorial which begins, “The Throne appreciates . . .”, the famous assassin Ching K’o has purchased, for a hundred pieces of gold, a bronze dagger said to be the sharpest in the kingdom.
Hats are six inches wide, carriages six feet wide, the Empire has been divided into thirty-six provinces; a jade cicada is placed upon the tongues of ministers of the Sixth through the First Rank, upon interment; as he hurries through the corridors he is beseeched by wives, so many that he no longer attempts to remember their names, but addresses each as “Wife!” and flees their fatiguing excellences; he sends armies hither and thither as others send messengers; the model of all China he has decreed must be inspected, its rivers of quicksilver and cities of celadon must be approved; if you have artisans strangled for poor work there remain their families, consistently large, whispering against you in the squares and taverns . . .
The Emperor Ch’in Shih Huang Ti has decreed that six thousand archers, lancers, charioteers and musicians be buried alive, along with two thousand horses, in military formation on the four sides of his tomb; responsible officials attempt to reason with him, stating that this will enflame the people against him; but his tomb must be defended by precisely six thousand archers, lancers, charioteers and musicians, lest it suffer the fate of other tombs in other times; the enfeoffed Marquis of Chienchang has wrongly seized territory in that area, stranglers are summoned; generals on the frontier must be regularly and thoroughly frightened, so that they do not misremember where their true allegiance rests . . .
His gifts this morning include two white-jade tigers, at full scale, carved by the artist Lieh Yi, and the Emperor himself takes brush in hand to paint their eyes with dark lacquer; responsible officials have suggested that six thousand terra-cotta soldiers and two thousand terra-cotta horses, at full scale, be buried, for the defense of his tomb; the Emperor in his rage orders that three thousand convicts cut down all the trees on Mount Hsiang, leaving it bare, bald, so that responsible officials may understand what is possible; the Emperor commands the court poets to write poems about immortals, pure beings, and noble spirits who by their own labors change night to day, and has these sung to him; everyone knows that executions should not be carried out in the spring, even a child knows it, but in certain cases . . .
The deft and subtle assassin Ching K’o is beheaded, and his botched attempt recorded in the annals, and his botched last words excised from the annals; the Emperor hurries through the corridors of his plethora of palaces accepting petitions which he thrusts into the sleeves of his robe; seventy thousand convicts are at work on the construction of his tomb, which has been in progress since his thirteenth year and measures 2173 meters north-south and 974 meters east-west; the ceiling of the inmost chamber has a sky in which pearls
of ungodly size represent the stars, the constellations; the Emperor Ch’in Shih Huang Ti pauses, drinks warm wine, and considers whether sufficient chairs have been provided, in his tomb, for the suites of wives, generals and responsible officials who will be buried with him; the scholar Hsu Fu, and the youths and maidens who embarked with him, have not been heard from, have most certainly been devoured by monsters . . .
For a thousand piculs of grain a commoner can now purchase noble rank, a scandal; the Emperor has had a building stone too large to be moved through the Kirin Gate given sixty lashes, to punish it; there is a woman who excites him, the Lady Yao (with the long scar on the right leg) but to find his way back to the pavilion that contains her is an almost impossible task; a blasphemer has described him as a dog, a hen, and a snake, and he rejoices in the poverty of mind displayed; he will cause Mount Hsiang to be planted in squared-off stakes, so that certain officials may achieve a more sophisticated comprehension of the Imperial will . . .
No. He will permit the six thousand clay soldiers to be buried, and with them, one real soldier, a prince, a secret happiness; he will prepare with his own hands for this prince a potion to put him softly to sleep, a fatherly happiness; he will whisper into this prince’s ear, before administering the potion, a lifetime of secrets, a delirious happiness; he will have the buriers of the prince themselves buried, a geometric happiness; those who perform the second burial will be sent away to a war, which he will contrive through transcendent military skill to lose, a sad, remote, and professional happiness; he will walk through the streets of the capital barefoot and carrying a thorn bush with which to flagellate his naked shoulders for having lost this war, a hidden and painful happiness; these happinesses taken together may be the equal of the herbs of immortality growing like weeds on the magic island of Penglai; like weeds
Thailand
YES, SAID the old soldier, I remember a time. It was during the Krian War.
Bless you and keep you, said his hearer, silently.
It was during the Krian War, said the old soldier. We were up there on the 38th parallel, my division, round about the Chorwon Valley. This was in ’52.
Donald Barthelme Page 73