Bright Eyes was my favorite band for years. If I had to pick a favorite now, I'd still probably say them. It's mostly because they used to be so significant to me, and they will always have that sentimental, nostalgic value. Bright Eyes was the band that understood me. Conor Oberst knew what I was feeling and could put it into words better than I could have. Back in junior year of high school, whenever I was feeling angsty, depressed, or mourning another failed attempt at female interaction, I'd listen to any or all of I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning. Or Digital Ash. Then I found Lifted and loved it equally.
With Cassadaga I had to listen a few times, but it grew on me, and I now accept it into the canon. But by the time The Peoples Key came out this year, I had grown a lot and was a different person than the high school junior with major depressive disorder (which was indeed a bad time, but the DSM, I feel, is somewhat dramatic with that one). Conor had changed too, in my estimation of things. The trend started with Cassadaga. He seemed to be searching for meaning in his life and finding it through unorthodox ideologies, which is fine for him but not something I'm about to do.
So for the period in Bright Eyes' music spanning Lifted, Wide Awake, Digital Ash, and Cassadaga and the period of my life from, let's say 17 to 19, Conor's music was absolutely how I was feeling, it was my outlook on life, and it expressed sorrow and beauty in ways that resonated with me.
So I love Bright Eyes.
In the middle of last week (a day or two before my birthday on Thursday), I found out from my* girlfriend that there was a free music festival across the bay in San Francisco with none other than Bright Eyes playing Friday evening, preceded by M. Ward (whom I love as well. This passion developed later than that for Bright Eyes and never reached the same intensity). I cancelled plans for a birthday shindig with some friends and decided to go to the festival to meet my girlfriend and see my favorite band. Great.
I got to Golden Gate Park, watched M. Ward finish his set, which was nice, and met up with her before Bright Eyes came on. We had a great spot on a knoll* next to a tree that prevented people from crowding in front of us.
I ask if she's going to stay the night with me in Berkeley before heading back the next day, she says she doesn't want to leave her friends.
"What does that say about our relationship?"
We're basically just friends. We text and see each other on weekends.
"Are we just friends?"
"[I don't know... etc.]"
"Well if you don't care, then the answer is yes."
"[I don't know, it's just that we both moved to different colleges, I have a different life, this is hard, I don't know if I have the time, etc.]"
"[Well that's shitty. Is this the last time I'm going to see you?]"
No, we're still friends, we'll see each other from time to time.
Wow.
I thought about leaving her there and watching the show with a former coworker from San Diego who just so happened to move to Oakland and just so happened to be in San Francisco at the same show and just so happened to see me walking through the thousands of people ten minutes prior and call out my name and chat with me for a bit. But I stayed.
I stayed and watched my favorite band play the last show of their tour with my new, first ex-girlfriend. I held her and watched a show I envisioned for years, and the show itself was as great as I imagined and hoped it would be, and it was nearly joyless because I could not stop thinking how that was the last time I would have my arm around her waist and that soon or very soon another person would have his arm there.
We both felt that after college we can be together again. Between songs she reassured me, "This isn't the end." Then "First Day of My Life" began.
After I went through that whole song contemplating the lyrics in contrast with my situation, they played "Lover I Don't Have to Love." Right. Really what I need to hear.
The set went on, and I would have been in musical bliss the whole time if my two-year relationship had not just ended. The band ended with "Road to Joy," which was everything I had hoped it would be live, except devoid of any enjoyment.
Then we said goodbye. We both said, "I love you."
Here's my problem with what "you" said, if I may address you. I'll admit things have been hard since I moved to Berkeley a month ago. We have never been apart like that, but we kept in touch while you were still back home, and once you moved to college only 70 miles from me, we made the effort to see each other. It wasn't what it once was, but it was working because we were making it work. I admitted during that conversation that I knew I couldn't do this long-distance thing for three years, but you know what... for right now, for the present moment, I was content with seeing you when I could and loving you.
My problem with what you said was that your love isn't the same as mine. If we shone it through a prism, let's say, or viewed it through a diffraction grating, it could be split apart, and we would see what it consists of. (Sorry, astrophysics is clearly taking over my life.)
You have (had?) storge, I know that. You loved me in spite of and even for my idiosyncrasies. I saw it from time to time, but certainly less as of recent. Thank you for that. You know I loved you in that way also.
We had phileo for sure. We liked the same bands (clearly), I showed you my taste in movies, and we had a friendship based on numerous mutual interests.
Here's where we differ. There's no doubt in my mind, because I've been clear about it, that I had eros for you. If you don't believe me, check your text messages. I was afraid when we saw each other recently that yours for me was gone. I should have given greater credence to my gut instinct, but Friday's conversation would still have been a surprise. The "love" you assured me you had on Friday is not eros.
Lastly, I wouldn't say you lack agape in a general sense. You're a good person, and that's why I loved you. You care for other people and you do the right thing when it matters. But did you want to give me your selfless love, in spite of distance and difficulty? No. I was still content to love you even though it would be easier to find someone here and not make the trip to Santa Cruz every weekend.
So, "you," when we said we loved each other for the last time, I said, "I love you" (4 for 4), whereas you only love me (2 for 4). It's unfortunate our numbers don't match.
I'll miss you.
Getting back to that irony I was talking about, I haven't bothered yet to count specific instances, but here's a summary tally:
1. Break up a day after my birthday
2. Break up right before seeing my favorite band live for the first time
3. Chance meeting of former coworker in new city
4-9. Content / titles of songs juxtaposed with my shit
10. Watching show with someone I just broke up with
11. Saying "I love you" during break-up goodbye
*[erstwhile]
*Grassy, but alas not used for any assassinations that day to my knowledge.
