Mecca Normal 1922 lyrics

“What happened to the art she made?”
I walked out of the French doors of the library.
In my mind I have a painting of you.
I walk past the statue; seen it every day, every day of my life here.
Walking across the lawn in 1922.
Carrying a glass. Holding a plate.

It's 1922 -- nothing's automatic. Nothing's precise.
All colour comes out of a tube.
This was before me. This was before you.
I'm happy here in 1922. There is no Radio Shack.
I couldn't be an over-achiever if I tried.
I'm happy, it's 1922 – I don't know if it was a good year; I've got nothing to compare it to.
I'm walking on the lawn, grass under my feet.
Museums are for men -- we know this. Men need history. We need it. We are men; we need to remind ourselves of that. I don't feel important enough in the present tense. History reminds me -- I'm a man.
I'm important, yes I am.
I don't know where Sweden is or was or will be.
It's 1922 and it's raining in long dashes. Silvery long, leaping slivers into the centers of oscillating circles, like punctuation leading out of the library, out of the patio doors -- demanding a thrilling conclusion to a book I will never write. It's 1922 and I'm happy.

He's talking to his dog. He's out of focus. Out of balance. So far out of whack. He's telling his dog, “You're going to have to learn, you're going to have to learn, boy. Don't be so pushy. Don't be so pushy.”
He's talking to his dog, crazy detrimental male programming.
He's generating misunderstandings with his dog.

It's 1922 and I'm happy.

(…he's a jerk, he's a jerk, he's such a jerk…)

“Where's the art she made?”
“It's on the wall, but we don't call art. In the cool of the summer kitchen. We put it there until we need it – we don't call it art.
It's something we use – not every day, but we don't call it art.”
I'm a man and I'm happy, it's 1922.
I eat three times a day to keep my strength up.
Saturday night I fling my hairy fist into the wall if my bath water's cold.
I need history to remind me – I'm important.

He's walking on the lawn towards a milk pail – he's going to kick it over – he doesn't care if it's empty or full.

The womenfolk are the scientists and organizers. The women sit together in analyzing rooms arriving at conclusions.

(…he's a jerk, he's a jerk, he's such a jerk…)

I'm a man and I'm happy.