Love will tear us apart cover
I found out from wikipedia today that Ian Curtis hung himself. Sorry I did not know this earlier. He was the singer of Joy Division, named after what Nazis called a special area designated for all the attractive Jewish girls to rape. Because I’m morbid, I often think about how bad it would feel being slowly herded towards my noose, seeing that circle from afar, that apathetic rope just hanging there. When you’re young and sad, maybe you gravitate towards Joy Division, and then in high school art class when the teacher asks you to draw something, you draw Ian Curtis. You draw it with paint or pencil, filling in your self-made lines like a coloring book, fleshing out the shading in the name of a human. And maybe when you hear “love will tear us apart” in that robotic monotone, you think of that boy or girl you really like, and how you’ll never be together, how love — that soft word oft used to describe, oddly, the pit in your chest those sacred moments they pass in the hall — has failed to tear you apart. It only punctured you. And you remember these people forever, each syllable that made up their name, until the past becomes the present in f , and each facebloat is a little bloated older, a little less mind-photoshopped as you remembered, and here we are.
When I see a youngish person walking out of an art store with a big plastic bag I imagine them this evening using a lead pencil to describe the black behind some singer’s head, repeating the traced path of darkness over and over until the paper becomes shiny. They struggle on the eyes, though they are not windows of the soul. They are tiny bowls of jello. Every fantasy has a soundtrack, so I hear “love will tear us apart” playing in their bedroom, a cone of yellow inadequate light cast from their bedside lamp. I see these kids, these future art students, then baristas, then office temps, the office whatevers, working their soft hands over a shiny darkness until they are sore; then they climb into bed, remove the yellow dunce cap of light from the room, and go sleep. The slow nightmare of life has a built in sequel of tomorrow. Every bed is a coffin waiting for its walls. And the bass line keeps going dun, dun dun, dun dun dun, dun dun, duuuuuun, dun. Good night.
Tags: Joy Division