Hole :: My Top 10 Favorite Songs
Courtney Love may be polarizing, she may be controversial, and sometimes she may do things that are unlikable, but many of us are all that, as well, just without the notice of the world. No matter what, I have a forever and always place in my heart for Courtney, and a shared sort of kinship with her. Her daughter and my oldest are the same age, and we also both lost our husbands to addiction and suicide, something that is not so easy to live through. Her music with Hole, though, helped me live through it, and a lot more. Hole songs still help me live.
My Top 10 Hole songs:
“I was punk,
now I’m just stupid,
I’m so awful.“
Growing up with pain and pressure, abuse and redemption, music and punk rock sensibilities. I left my adolescent good-girl mask behind me and set out to change my place in the world, or at least the perception of me. Some of it was awful, some of it was stupid, and some of it was fucking glorious.
“Even though I’m wide-awake,
and blackest night and I wait for you.
It’s cold in here,
there’s no one left,
and I wait for you.
And nothing stops it happening.
And I knew,
I’d cherish all my misery alone.”
When you are the one left behind, not just left, but left behind, there are all these scattered feelings, big enough to spread across the vast, star filled sky. These feelings, no one tells you how to deal with them, what to do with them, or what they are supposed to mean (if any of it means anything). Some times in the middle of the night I lie awake cursing the stars, hoping you can hear me somehow, that you can take some of these feelings from me – it seems only fair.
“And they say in the end,
you’ll get bitter just like them,
and they steal you heart away.
When the fire goes out you better learn to fake,
it’s better to rise the fade away.”
He said I was the light in the middle of the tunnel of dark, that I was the opposite view, the broken optimist that helped to keep him alive. So many people said I was his reason to be alive, but who was my reason? I had to make my own, define my own, be my own savior, because no one saves the savior – no one.
“I am the girl,
you know can’t look you in the eye.
I am the girl,
you know so sick I cannot try.
I am the one,
you want can’t look you in the eye.
I am the girl,
you know I lie and lie and lie.”
The thing about being the other half of addiction is that all the lies told, they become your lies, too. You breathe them in, sucking them deep into your pores, covering them with pressed powder, eyeliner and red lip lies. We made our bed of lies together, wrapping our bodies like mummies, entombed in denial.
burn the sorrow from your eyes.
Oh come on be alive again,
don’t lay down and die.”
No one asks if I miss you, no one cares to know if I still hurt. Years pass by and it is all supposed to be healed and buried and gone. The ocean, though, those spots in Malibu where we snuck off together once, maybe I need to go there again, to try to find a way to let it go, to let the sorrow float away.
“Oh, Cinderella they aren’t sluts like you.
Beautiful garbage, beautiful dresses,
can you stand up,
Or will you just fall down?”
The jealousy was part of the illness, the violence part of the addiction, and the spirals all turned one into the other. I put on that dress, the one I once bought for you, and it tore in the midst of one of those knock down drag outs. I locked the door and slid down the wall, because if you are already down there is no further to be pushed, no further to fall.
“I fake it so real,
I am beyond fake,
you will ache like I ache.”
The smile was practiced, years and years, a mask I fashioned back when I was the girl from a hell of a home. You said you saw the cracks, the lines, the tell-tale signs of a broken child underneath my eyes. Only the fake, and the broken, can recognize the same.
“I knew a boy,
he came from the sea,
he was the only boy who ever knew the truth about me.”
I wrote a story about him once, a story about a boy that swam from the depths, leaving his fins and gills on the sand, in order to follow the little lost girl into the caves, and then later, into the city. Salt water leaked out every time the boy and the girl touched, and the only way to replenish the loss was to empty bottle after bottle after bottle. The piles reached tower high and eventually they toppled and fell, the glass cutting the girl into shards of who she once was, blowing away into the air, out the window and off down the Pacific Coast Highway, then off to sea, the sea where she once found the boy who gave up his ability to swim in order to sink, with her.
“We look the same.
We talk the same.
We even fuck the same.”
Parochial school survivor, I wore the scars under my school uniform (torn and tattered with fishnets, of course) to turn myself into a carbon copied idea of somebody else. The trick is to find that something different, when in the harsh light of neon and glitter, we all bend and break, and fuck the same, don’t we? Somewhere though, there is a key, a note, a hall pass, a microphone and the decoded way to not be the same.
“You should learn when to go.
You should learn how to say no.”
By the time it was time to go I thought it would be a parting, and a new chapter for both of us. Perhaps in the future we would be something different, to each other, to others, but instead time to go turned into a no u-turn end. Most of the time I shove it into the darkness and never turn back to look, but some times the music turns me around, and around, spun as abruptly as no turned to go turned to end.