Something’s Looming

The author looms above his page
and thinks it’s strange that at his age
he cannot find the proper words
to describe his only world
One would think that in a life
where no two snowflakes are alike
one would have a brilliant rhyme
for each and every bit of time

From “The Yeti” on the album The Elephant Riders by Clutch

The author looms above his page. He thinks it’s strange that at his age he cannot find the proper words to describe his only world. One would think that in a life where no two snowflakes are alike, one would have a brilliant rhyme for each and every bit of time.

Arguably, this is one of the best stanzas in music.

But is it?

And would one really think that in a life where no two snowflakes are alike one would have a brilliant rhyme for each and every bit of time?

Would you think that?

Would I?

Do you? Do I?

Let’s take a look at this beautifully crafted verse.

First of all, it’s part of a song, so without the music, some of its essence is lost.

That said, let’s focus on the words. And just the words in this stanza because if you look at the rest of the song, the rest of the lyrics don’t really match it 100 percent. If you haven’t listened to it recently, don’t worry. Finish this article first, then go back for a listen. They’re on Spotify.

Let’s start at the beginning of the verse.

The author looms above his page – this unassuming line almost seems like a throwaway. He’s looming for some reason over the page. Do writers really loom over their pages or do their pages loom over them? The word “loom” reminds me of one of the first pieces of feedback I got as a pre-writer at a time when I didn’t have the words to describe myself, let alone my “only” world. But I digress.

This writer looms over his page. Fine. This author. Pardon me. The scene is set. It’s actually quite relatable even if you’re not an author. I guess we’ve all felt at some time that we were looming over something, pondering something deeply, foolishly believing that we are superior. Looming does require one to be above or more dominant in immediacy. More of a dominate presence. I for one love this because it immediately makes me think of tortured souls like Poe and Lovecraft and the like who must’ve loomed over their own pages. They must’ve, right? We can add flourishes to the scene like a candle in the darkness or a furled brow. But this line manages to conjure up the exact image we all need to take us through to the next line. Who doesn’t want to know what happens next at this point? With six words, we are invested already. Next line.

Actually, it’s the next three lines:

And thinks it’s strange that at his age
he cannot find the proper words
to describe his only world.

Now we get into the head of the author, who we’ll call the main character of the stanza. He thinks. He thinks it’s strange. He has an age. He supposedly has only one world. He can’t find the words to describe it. Apparently, he’s motivated to do so. Can we question that motivation? We can question a lot about the rest of the stanza. Like, does he really have only one world? I mean, even prehistoric people had more than one world. At least two. As a matter of fact, in these four lines, we’ve already got two worlds. The author looms above his page in the first line. In lines three to four, he’s pondering not the page, but his lack of ability to describe something properly. This is clearly happening in his head. So he has an outer world where he looms, and an inner world where he thinks things are strange. One thing that both worlds have in common is him. He is the focus of each. One in space. The other in mind. Either way, the main character is wrong about having only one world. It’s obvious to us, and we have only just met him.

On a side note, he is quite self-absorbed. The page is all about him. Yet he limits himself to it. He limits himself to only one world. He limits himself to the proper words. He is a defeatist in a way. In another song, maybe a sequel to this one, if songs can have sequels, he realizes this and frees himself from his self-imposed limits. But I digress.

Our man here is struggling. And we get it. We want to know more. But then he disappears. Or at least it seems like he does. The next line drops him from the conversation and starts referring to “one.” In other words, it switches from the point of view of the main character to anyone’s point of view.

One would think that in a life
where no two snowflakes are alike
one would have a brilliant rhyme
for each and every bit of time

What happened to the author? Are these final lines somehow referring to him and his lack of ability? Or are they criticizing people broadly for not being able to write rhymes about everything and anything in their entire world? Honestly, it seems unfair. Unattainable. These are impossible standards to live by. Especially if it applies to everyone. In a life where no two snowflakes are alike, we would have a huge task in describing their infinite variation.

But let’s say it only applies to the author. If so, we now see a fuller picture of the situation he’s in. He’s looming. The page is there. He struggles for the proper words. What is he even writing about? Snowflakes? Again, snowflakes are theoretically infinite. And having a brilliant rhyme about each one? No easy task. Their uniqueness just makes it harder to find the proper words. Which brings me to the concept of “proper” words. Wouldn’t this be subjective? Wouldn’t one author’s proper words potentially be improper to another? These final lines give us a bit more detail about the pressure this looming author might be under. Something’s looming over him.

Alas, he looms. He struggles. He sets himself up to fail by giving himself the impossible task to describe the infinite variation of a very subjective point of view.

I have always loved this stanza as have many other fans, like my friend Ira Cogan, who actually introduced me to the band’s music. It drags us briefly into the mind of a sort of navel-gazing writer, one who finds it strange that after all this time, he still sucks. We see him struggling with his self-imposed limits. We see a vast world of infinite variation, one measured in bits of time, that he simply cannot rhyme about. There’s a lot to relate to here.

The stanza gives us a lot to think about. There’s a lot left unsaid. Most likely the author has written before, but even if he hasn’t, he’s the author. That’s how he’s first defined. As a writer. But he judges himself so harshly that he believes he cannot write brilliantly. The words that define him are the words that limit him. The proper words that elude him oppress him. Maybe he does get some words out onto the page. But we never get to see them in the stanza. Maybe in the sequel we will. But I digress.

So is it one of the best stanzas in music? Maybe. I guess that’s subjective. I would at least say it’s a great one.

Thanks for reading.
This article was inspired by my friend and fellow writer Ira Cogan.