True Love Will Find You in the End: Introduction & Prologue
introduction
Clark and Pete were late additions. Croutons in the salad. The Office was in its final season when Little Dwight and Plop replaced Ryan and Kelly. Both were lazily eager and naive to the world of paper. Charming in their own way. Neither stole scenes from the main characters - but they didn’t have to. They just had to be Clark and Pete: Little Dwight and Plop. Fill in background. Get some laughs. And go home.
I like croutons as much as the next person. But I wouldn’t eat them without the lettuce.
Mind you, there is a scene where I find Clark endearing (season 9 - episode 22: A.A.R.M.). Darryl’s been cornered for trying to leave without saying goodbye. And like the others, Clark is looking for some final “Darryl time”. However, unlike his coworkers, Clark’s request is thoughtful, unselfish, and tender. “Darryl,” Clark says. “I would love to just record some of your stories… just let the tape roll for six or eight or ten hours and just see what we get.” Clark is ignored. The scene moves on. And I believe Darryl is worse because of it.
Clark is right. Sometimes you need to get it all out. Scribble it all down. Press play and let the tape roll.
These past months have been meaningful. Life changing meaningful. Life correcting meaningful! And I feel compelled to write it all out. Make sense of it and share it. What you are about to read is my rolling the tape. It’s the story of my life and the threads that have bound it together. It’s long - so I’ve blocked it in PARTS and CHAPTERS and after this (introduction and prologue) I will send out one chapter at a time.
And don’t worry. Not everything has an Office reference. (Though, it could. And probably should. But I won’t. You’re welcome).
Here goes.
Press play.
[record]
prologue
My feet tread the rose carpet floor of my parent’s bedroom. Gliding silent. It was a rare opportunity to be alone with a television in a house of 9ish people. I wasn’t going to blow it. I grabbed the converter. Clicked on the TV. And began scanning the channels. Basic cable on a Saturday afternoon in the late 90s was was ho-hum at best. Nothing was on, still I dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, hidden amongst those stacking numbers of faces and reruns and infomercials would be something worth watching. Click - click - click.
Primordial doom scrolling.
YTV - channel 25. Vision TV - channel 27. MuchMusic - channel 29. “Wait.” Stop. “Is that a cello in a rock band?” I stared upon a dimly lit stage surrounded by draping curtains and flickering candles. Strewn about - as if at random - was a band of musicians. Guitars and bass and drums, and yes - a cello player. A rerun (or a replaying of a previous “taping”) of an MTV Unplugged concert. Bingo. “Something worth my wasted time,” I mused.
And then I saw him. The man. That left handed guitar playing man. Singing. Closed-eyes. Raspy-angst. Passionate indifference. Long golden hair shrouded his face and a scruffy beard covered a narrow chin. He wore a tan cardigan and torn jeans. I didn’t recognize him. Nor could I sing along to his melancholic songs. I was a sheltered church-boy. “Secular music” was the devil’s playground; a highway to hell. But I couldn’t avert my eyes.
I was transfixed.
Nirvana’s sound was haunting. And Kurt Cobain was the coolest person I had ever seen. I have been donning cardigans and an unshaven face ever since.
My love for Nirvana peaked in my mid 20s when I finally embraced my long awaited “teenage rebellion”. I downloaded their albums, grew my golden-straw hair, and learned their songs on piano and guitar (upside-down-and-backwards “Look Ma! I’m left-handed like Kurt!”) I absorbed all things Nirvana and all things Cobain. His life and death. Career. Marriage. Music. I read, watched, listened. Then one night, whilst lost on a Youtube rabbit-trail, I discovered an obscure reference to one of Kurt Cobain’s musical influences. “The best songwriter on earth,” Cobain was once quoted saying.
His name was Daniel Johnston.
Johnston was a solo musician and artist. Never overly famous. Or popular. You could even say that Johnston wasn’t overly gifted. Or talented. His music was childlike. His songs were simple. Erratic. Even out of tune (?). He made the kind of music you implicitly connect with, understand, and love - or like my wife and children - explicitly hate: “This is the worst music I’ve ever heard.” But Johnston was special. There’s a sweetness in his voice. An unencumbered depth to his writing. He yearns for something beyond. Unreachable. Ungraspable. Innocent hopeful suffering.
In the 80s Johnston worked at McDonalds where he’d hand out cassette tapes of his music to people and patrons. Anyone who looked the least bit interested. He finally got a break when a big-wig music executive took notice and offered him a contract to record his first legit studio album. The album (1990) didn’t sell well (see above) and Johnston never broke into the mainstream. Johnston never found nirvana. Rather the opposite. Suffering with severe mental illness, sickness, and hospitalizations for his entire life. Johnston died a few years ago at 58 of a suspected heart attack. And yet, despite the obstacles, Johnston never stopped writing, singing, and playing. He embodied his music: hopeful suffering. To this day, Daniel Johnston remains an inspiration to many folk-indie-rockers. A beacon of persistence in joy-filled-suffering. The definition of an underground poet.
My obsession with Nirvana and Cobain inevitably faded. Their brooding anger didn’t jive with child-rearing. It’s hard to cheer up a toddler when “Something in the Way” lulls in the background. And I confess, my admiration of Johnston faded too.
Two weeks ago we lost our dog.
The day after his passing, I began searching for something. It was something I’d lost long before he died. Something I’d almost forgotten. A melody. A song of warm notes and comfort. I was desperate for it - but I couldn’t remember it - who sang it - or even know where to look. I took to the web, scoured iMusic and Youtube - retraced my musical tastes back and back and back. Until finally, I stumbled into a familiar sound. A song I had once known but only now could understand.
“True love will find you in the end…”
It was Daniel Johnston.
Like most of Johnston songs, “True Love Will Find You in the End" is simple. Four chords played on a solo guitar with a runtime of under two minutes. It feels rushed. Almost incomplete. It leaves you wanting more, as I suspect was Johnston’s aim. It’s not a love song or a song of heartbreak and woe. “True Love Will Find You in the End” is a song of reassurance in suffering. Hopeful yearning.
The moment I heard Johnston’s voice I broke into a million sobbing tears. I had found what I was looking for. What I needed. Pure forgiving God-given love. Simple. Honest. Perfect. I’ve adopted Johnston’s song as the soundtrack of the story I am about to tell: A story about a boy and his dog.
Daniel Johnston was right: true love found me in the end.
This is for you ol’ boy.
