Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Blame it on the Goose

I know I'm supposed to find The Warblers' classic, perfect unity and shiny smiles an annoying contrast to the grittier, rock and roll, modern New Directions, but goddamn I love the way they sound. Put anything in multi-part harmony – GOOD multi-part harmony – and I'll like it.

I totally love Glee, by the way. Even if I really can't see any of them as high school students. Even if in real life, Lea Michele is a diva jerkface who is mean to little girls. Even if I think it's wrong that they've outsold The Beatles. Glee is like a drug. They tried to make me go to rehab and I said no, no, no.

I'm just a sucker for good covers, big voices, and people who believe in making the epic out of the normal. Because, you know, life isn't really like art. It's not a novel and it wouldn't even make a decent indie flick. I mean, we admire realism in those things, but even realism isn't real. When you make something seem real, when you really study something to the point of being able to translate it into a creative form, you're making it so much more beautiful, so much more epic than it was before.

Writing about love is easy. The words and forms and conventions have been growing and shaping and evolving for centuries, in our language alone. But the emotion, the psychological and physiological and intellectual and emotional forces at work, is so utterly complex that nothing on paper or film or in music will communicate it. The tired cliché is that Eskimos have over a hundred words for 'snow,' and yet we only have the one word, 'love.' Love of a child is the same as the love of a partner is the same as the love of a television show.

I was saying today that I've decided my life is an allegory, and I just haven't figured out exactly what I'm supposed to represent yet. In reality, everything is too complex for allegory. We guess, and we fumble, and we try to break a thing, an emotion, down to its most basic elements because that's what our art tells us to do. Life imitates art. Does it? For a while, art imitated life, and then art got self-conscious about doing that, so it decided that it was just Art, for itself, for the sake of Art.

But that failed because Oscar Wilde always had a moral to the story, didn't he?

If Brittany and Santana don't get their shit together, then I don't know what the moral of the story is.

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