No Time Left for Lies

Leaving a Pitiful Party

I've been thinking of New Year's Song by Simon Joyner, America's criminally underrated cartographer of the human condition.

Any old fop can write a song about depression, but Simon's songs level the very notion of depression into thousands of residential lots, and demonstrate that no two men ever go missing in the same place. Nevertheless, these places need to be added to our maps — lest even the proverbial (omniscient) bitch in Google's box waver to recall some future wayfarer from such a horrific detour.

There's no time left for lies.
The dust can't hover for long,
so you try and take your time,
because it's had you all along.

You clutch the thin air, and try not to swoon;
you touch the mirror and reach for a towel.
The sun pours gold into the room,
and it leaves a sick taste in your mouth.

You heard the lovers sing "Auld Lang Syne,"
as the dancers bruised their feet.
And how come my lips taste like wine,
when theirs look like champagne?

Now there's no room left for lies.
You douse the fire and nurse the dark,
and bend your elbow one more time,
to kill the lights and stab the clock.

It's a new year!
And you don't look your age,
and everyone seems so happy,
celebrating winter this way!

What time does it end,
and when can I go
get into that car
and drive through the snow?

All aboard? We appear to be stuck at a dreary party, with no good excuse to leave yet.

There's no time left for lies.

Everyone here is lying, even when they're telling the truth. It probably started long ago, with the lies they told themselves to avoid having to feel the full unfairness of their positions: alone in their hearts and minds; treated like pets; shamed for arbitrary reasons pertaining little to anything they've done or neglected to do; fed only when they’ve shut up and wagged their tails.

The sun pours gold into the room,
and it leaves a sick taste in your mouth.

Who can survive direct sunlight while weakened by drink, with nerves threadbare from abrasive chatter? If I'd left at a decent hour, I could've driven home with dignity - but now the sunlight shall smack me in the face and it very well may be dark again before I rest and come back around un-poisoned. Some fine start to a year this has been!

It's a new year!
And you don't look your age,
and everyone seems so happy,
celebrating winter this way!

No gathering is fun for the one guy in the room who disavows the premises of all the others: that appearance supersedes reality; that youth is virtue; that the status quo is fine, yet things must and shall be different this time.

Only Richard III and everyone who goes to every new year's party ever, would celebrate the reappearance of the winter of his country's discontent. How very lame of them! Are we even still allowed to say things like that?

You douse the fire and nurse the dark,
and bend your elbow one more time,
to kill the lights and stab the clock.
It's a new year!

Ambiguity rears its ugly head. Earlier, we thought the sun had risen and the party was twitching and hanging on for dear life. Perhaps these events occurred last afternoon, when the party was only getting started, and now we’ve finally made it to midnight. But how, then, have we already heard the lovers sing "Auld Land Syne"? At the same place, last year? Why do these experiences - supposedly worth living for - always prove to be repeat episodes at the same bat time, on the same bat channel? And what's the point of watching again?

Come to think of it, would a party really be lit only by a single fireplace, and would we be allowed to routinely ‘douse’ it, with no impediment? Certainly it is dark in many places just before the new year, but most such places are... such as... a closed and moonless bedroom. And when the alarm clock rings to wake us up in time for celebration, we can stab at it in the dark with bare fingers, until the noise stops.

Maybe I sing this song not because I'm not trapped at a party and yearning to leave, but because I’m keeping away from a party that couldn't possibly offer my kind of fun. I did tell everyone I’d attend - but with the year about to expire, there's no room left for lies. They sent an invitation to promote the farce that I belonged in their group, and I accepted it to promote the farce that I wanted to belong.

What time does it end,
and when can I go
get into that car
and drive through the snow?

This is all starting to feel eerily symbolic, like I'm on a long car ride with Jesse Plemons in "I'm Thinking of Ending Things." Or like I am Jesse Plemons.

What do you think? Is this dreary, insipid party something we’re literally experiencing? Is it something we’ve dreamt of experiencing, before opting out? Or is the party metaphorical?

Channeling Holden Caulfield, I feel as though my entire life has been some phony (mandatory) celebration of nothing good - and there’s no escape until the authorities announce it’s officially over.

The dust can't hover for long,

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

so you try and take your time,
because it's had you all along.

No need to rush this. Every path leads down eventually - whether the long paved road into a crowded tunnel, or the emergency turn-off. Maybe there's even a runaway truck ramp where I can beach myself a while, and watch the other cars drive past.

You clutch the thin air, and try not to swoon;
you touch the mirror and reach for a towel.

What appeared in that mirror, anyhow?

And how come my lips taste like wine,
when theirs look like champagne?

Not too much difference between wine and champagne, when you think about it. Both aged. Both fermented. However, the color of one becomes a stain to the lips, while the other practically substitutes for makeup.

It's a new year!
And you don't look your age,

Does age make a man bright and pale, or dark and sour? Maybe it depends upon whether he stops to smell the roses, and drink the champagne. But didn't we already pledge to permit no more lies? How are they crawling back?

You douse the fire and nurse the dark,
and bend your elbow one more time
to kill the lights and stab the clock.

The clock provides time to celebrate, and we eschew the instrument and its boon in destroying ourselves. But here we are, dousing the fire of life once again and raising our noses to the clock’s blessing. This too is a familiar song.

when can I go
get into that car
and drive through the snow?

We’re escaping for real, this time: dousing the fire, smashing the clock, taking the off-ramp. Forever sickened by the golden rays of sun, hence to embark for an endless snowfield - wherein the darkness to nurse, like a final round before closing time.

If the symbolism of this song now seems trite, it's only because we’ve unpacked it from the carton where it was lovingly pressed - between styrofoam inserts especially produced to support its dimensions. We unpack meanings out of loyalty to the packagers. We wish to digest them slowly, palate-cleansing our tongues beforehand, and leaving the bones and hard parts on display in a windowsill, wrapped in the scar tissue of our individual selves.

Denser lyrics especially require unpacking, and Simon's are pressed in like black holes. Somehow, the box doesn't implode.

When finally emptied, good songs retain a bittersweet aura, colored like Pandora's box after all the evil has flown.

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To those misfortunate enough to perceive it, all life can be an inescapable party that drags on long after the snack tray is empty, the jokes told, the confetti fallen.

Here's the catch.

He who would escape this party, dishonors its Platonic essence. By the subject’s own cognition, it is in fact a party. It is proper that lousy parties prove ungratifying, but not metaphorical lousy parties.

After all, how could a man who requires that even the bleakest portions of his experienced reality be represented as some kind of party, react to being actually held in any kind of prison?

Only with unimaginable horror.