Come talk to me

The wretched desert takes its form, the jackal proud and tight
In search of you, I feel my way, though the slowest heaving night
Whatever fear invents, I swear it make no sense
I reach through the border fence
Come down, come talk to me

...

Ah please talk to me
Won't you please talk to me
We can unlock this misery
Come on, come talk to me

Peter Gabriel, "Come Talk to Me" Us

— `phfina commentary:

Okay, what are you doing? Why are you reading this post? Go! Go out and buy Peter Gabriel's CD Us (and while you're at it, get Lana Del Rey's Born to Die ... she wrote that album for us, girls; she really did).

I mean, okay: is that guy even human, or is he his name: an angel? There was not one false note on that entire album, so sad, so serious, so super-silly with his "Kiss that Frog" ...

Wait. Is 'kiss that frog' the same as kissing a 'python' because if it is ... okay: eww!

So: "Come Talk to Me." I mean, it starts beautifully, and stays that way: the (bag) pipes strike a mournful chord, and they never, ever stop, the continuous drone in the background of that entire song reminding us all of the hurt that is happening throughout the world, all the time.

And Peter offers a really stupidly simple solution to it all: "Come, take to me."

No, not: "Hear me while I tell you all the solutions to your problems, you idiot."

He didn't say "Listen to me." He said: "Come, talk to me."

And where are we coming from? We're coming from our wretched desert, where Jesus went off to be alone.

We're all alone, all of us so filled with our own pride, our own self-worth, just like that tight jackal, that we can't even hear what another person from the well of their loneliness is saying to us. We'd rather rip their throats out than sit down, look into their being, and listen to them.

But Peter, he reaches through that border-fence that we erect around ourselves, and begs us: "Ah, please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me."

Sweetheart. You are hurting.

But talking to yourself, locking yourself up into your wretched desert and erecting that border-fence only feeds that hurt.

Please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me.

I don't have answers ... I mean, I have tons of answers, all the time, and I'm damn sure I'm right, too, 'cause I'm a weak human being, too, so please forgive me my frailty ...

I don't have answers; I don't have help or relief from your pain. But I can reach out through that border-fence, and listen, and cry, hurting with your pain, and love you.

You are alone in this world. I know this feeling very well. Please, talk to me.

I love you.