On endings and returns

transcribed from my notebook on Dec. 5, 2024

I don’t want to be someone who constantly ruminates on endings, but by nature of where I’ve found myself, it seems that these thoughts are rather unavoidable. It’s not that I believe endings are wholly negative, but the focus on the denouement causes some of us (not all, of course) to lose sight of all the steps that came before, to fixate on finality as the one true king. I would prefer to avoid that fallacy, if I can manage it. Yet, here we are. Thinking about the ending of things again.

I’ve got a nasty habit of giving love to the B-side, so I’m going to carve out space to appreciate the last half of Evelyn “Champagne” King’s Smooth Talk. I’m enamored by the way that the energy mirrors that of a party, ratcheted up all throughout until the very end: “Shame” is a timeless club banger that announces the second half’s arrival with glorious horns that rival that of a royal coronation. While still being staunchly romantic -- King argues for her forbidden love despite all opposition from the outside world -- I can’t imagine a better example of disco existing in my brain, where the groove works its way up from your feet through every crevice in your body. And in the way the next two tracks “Nobody Knows” and “We’re Going to a Party” maintain the happy feelings and jaunting compositions, your brain is primed to think you’re hurtling to a joyous opus of euphoria. Yet, the soothing serenity that sits at the doorstep of the finale “The Show is Over” is a complete emotional drop-off, a cratering of the mood in the most comfortable way. It places us at the feet of one of my favorite tracks, as well as one of my favorite genres: “The Goodbye Song.” The proverbial final straw. Or, at least the result of that final straw. Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be as dramatic as someone getting kicked to the curb, or left in the dust, or escaping like a thief in the night. I think that’s something that gets learned as you continue to live and grow: sometimes, goodbyes are painfully boring. The stark simplicity of a departure, a breakup, a finale that goes off without a hitch. We trick ourselves into believing that the goodbyes draped in dramatics and fireworks are more powerful than the ones that end with a quietly closed door, forgetting about the latent strength of the emotions that simmer underneath the surface.

There’s an almost frightening clarity in the way that King constructs her goodbye in the “The Show is Over.” (I guess it’s only frightening to the likes of us that have unique issues and hang-ups with letting go of the people we love.) She doesn’t reject the reality of her feelings, owning the reciprocated love that kept her going in the past. But that does not change the fact that the relationship has run its course, delivering the news of her departure with kindness and care: “But ooh baby I’m sorry, but you know I’ve got to leave from here / Ain’t no two ways about it / Maybe I’ll see you this time next year.” There’s no room for arguments, the beginning, the shameless pleading that plagued R&B superstars hearts for the decades to come. What’s happened, happened. All that’s left is to try and hold onto the love that existed before, and that likely will exist long after you’ve left. It’s a hard ask for anyone. You want to prolong the version of the relationship you once had, for however long the universe will allow. The B-Side’s structure almost creates a crash course for dealing with this plight: party track after party track filled with love and joy hurtling towards a painful demise. Does that mean the love and joy and dance that occurred just minutes before no longer exists? That it no longer matters? I don’t think so. It all played a part in the show that we loved, that we laughed with, that we cried into when we had a rough day, that we celebrated when it succeeded, and comforted when it flopped. Like King said, maybe you’ll see each other this time next year. Until then, holding onto the memories will have to suffice.

But that line leaves me thinking about another hyper specific genre of love song: “The Reunion.” This one always feels a tad bit messier than its predecessor, for you can’t have one without the other, I fear. This is where the hubris of man really takes hold of the brain, that we believe that we had used the necessary logic to defeat the emotions of the situation, that we’d buried all feelings deep in the past. It’s true that geographical distance often makes the heart grow fonder. But I think that temporal distance is a bit more insidious, based on the fact that it plays tricks on your heart and mind. It allows you the grace to forget the impact that goodbye had on you, to feel that you’ve reached a new stage in your life where the past emotions can no longer cause you grief. But your grief is not linear in any way. Grief is the guerilla warfare of emotions, ambushing you in the streets and in the shadows of your life, without any regard for human life.

Glen Campbell may not have the best rendition of “The Reunion” song, but it is among my most played; wearing out jukeboxes in Chicago and New York whilst being drowned out by Red Stripes and conversations that ranged from muted to uproarious, flooding through headphones and speakers while making dinner for one or for 12. “Cryin’” is a heavy hitter, starting with the lies we tell ourselves and how easily they are dismantled: “I was alright for a while, I could smile for a while / But I saw you last night, you held my hand so tight / As you stopped to say hello.” For my money, it’s the most depressing form of the reunion, as the guitar strums along with every utterance of how tears cascade from Campbell’s face at the thought of his old love. How the touch of their hand allowed every memory to rush back in an instant. Hopelessness dominates the realm, as if you’re unable to look past the mountains and down the valleys without seeing dark clouds blanketing the land, with the muted yellow sun fighting tirelessly for a moment in the foreground. The minute that you realize you’re powerless to combat the impact of old loves is quite a long one -- that even after years of distance, Campbell can “love you even more than I did before,” if it was even possible to conceive of that level of pain.

I find myself wondering how many people would prefer to live in that middle ground between the goodbye and the reunion. The space occupied by Pages’ “If I Saw You Again” and Windy’s City’s “If By Chance,” Where you could wander and wander in this controlled, hypothetical ecosystem. Where hope rules the land without ever having to placate reality. It sounds (and feels) comforting. Where dreams of neat resolutions and blissful reconciliations as a stand-in for moving forward. The unrealistic serenity motivated by avoiding more potential pain does feel alluring, don’t get me wrong. I just find myself thinking that the endings that I promised not to harp on in the beginning actually need to happen. That the goodbyes and reunions are where we learn most about ourselves and each other. That the growth and learning and lessons that we’ve accumulated in their absence don’t mean shit until another test arrives. That we feel the impact of the love given and received when it’s up against an insurmountable amount of pain and constant reminders of loss. This is all to say that I'm thankful for the goodbyes, and I’m thankful for the reunions. The chance to say goodbye to the ones I love, because it often means that I’ll see them again as another version of myself. And that no matter how much it may hurt, the new versions of ourselves can embrace each other with open arms. That we can tell each other what has happened since they’ve been gone. That we can learn something new about the other once again, another thing to love, another new thing to care about.