Behind Blue Eyes

Pete Townshend, The Who, 1971, from the album “Who’s Next”

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like

To be hated

To be fated

To telling only lies

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

No one bites back as hard

On their anger

None of my pain and woe

Can show through

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open

Before I use it and lose my cool

When I smile, tell me some bad news

Before I laugh and act like a fool

And if I swallow anything evil

Put your finger down my throat

And if I shiver, please give me a blanket

Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No, I don’t have blue eyes although I wish I did.  “Blue eyes” came up recently when my wife and I met with our therapist.  I said to her that I’m normal, like anyone who is left-handed or has blue eyes.  Sure, part of a smaller segment of the population but normal nonetheless.  Our therapist then said that although she loves me deeply that she might not be physically attracted to someone with blue eyes.  

Later, privately, she told me that she’s fearful that indeed, blue eyes may be a turn-off for her.  Worse, she worries that she might find herself drawn to someone who doesn't have blue eyes.  

I understand what she’s saying. But it does hurt.  And worry. I just have to trust that we will work it out.  

P.S. I don’t mean to brag here but I just have to share… I saw The Who in the summer of 1972 at the San Francisco Civic Auditorium during their Who’s Next tour.  My friends and I had fantastic seats about 20 rows back from center stage. The music was so loud that it felt like blood was trickling from my ears but of course it was not.  Such fantastic memories of Roger Daltry whipping his mic high into the air only to catch it perfectly in time with the beat from Pete Townshend’s guitar and Keith Moon’s drums.  

I was 16 and had driven the family station wagon about 50 miles from the South Bay.  The previous evening my father asked if I knew how to get there, and of course, I hadn’t thought of that.  Together we looked at a map to plot a course.  We made it to and from okay but also remember feeling so disoriented and scared trying to find my way back to the 101 freeway after the show.