Sometimes all you need is a moment of silence: Maybe clarity will come. Maybe something will change. Maybe the problem will fix itself, or new information will come to light and it will turn out you didn't do anything wrong. But you can't find that moment if you're dying. And right now, Jackie is dying. She needs drugs. What she's done, with all this leveraging, is turn Maszlow's hierarchy upside down. The medicine becomes the disease becomes the medicine. So if she's going to work this thing out -- and I think she will -- she's going to need to do some fucking drugs.
Yesterday, and days before/ Sun is cold and rain is hard
The song is about rain out of nowhere, the grace that comes after the storm that comes after the calm, but it's also the misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, right? Cold sun, hard rain. Serious fucking vanity:
Tonight there's a man waiting at the bar for his wife to come home, so their life can start over again. There's a woman looking down at her mother, on the edge of death, weeping and more alone than she's ever been. There's a girl who dreams of clockwork men, and what she did to break them. There's a woman dreaming of her lover, of healthcare and cinema. Coop will dream, with Jackie and Mohammad on his lips, of his mothers making love; he will wake sweating and more confused than ever. There's a girl who can't stop dancing, and a budding arsonist, and a man without a foot. And Jackie doesn't care about any of them. Not really. Not today.
When this old world starts getting me down/ And people are just too much for me to face/ I climb way up to the top of the stairs/ And all my cares just drift right into space...
They chased her from room to room like a rat, until the world was tiny. Until it's just this room, and Jackie, alone with her drugs. Finally alone.
Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table The nun who taught Jackie to recite Eliot also taught her that the people with the greatest capacity for good are the ones with the greatest capacity for evil. Smart fucking nun."If I were a saint," she told us once, "I would be like Augustine. He knew there was good in him, and he knew there was not-so-good. And he wasn't going to give up his earthly pleasures before he was good and ready. Make me good, God. But not yet." It's only a problem if you're afraid of lightning. Which she is not.