It is the third time I sit down to record
The Letter Reader. The laundry rack has been pushed back, the lights dimmed. There is a flat grey sky outside the windows. The song has changed key three times. I even tried it a capella, the guitar just resting on my knee. The words felt hollow and empty when I heard them playing back. Unlistenable. The struggle is a familiar one - between the glowing idea of something butting up against the reality is presents as it enters the world. We are all famous in our own minds - heroes, geniuses, rock stars and saints. In the real world, we are flabby, and fallible. We are painfully human, and no angels. How to align all of this? How to put yourself in front of a microphone, or an empty piece of paper, an open road, a classroom full of children, an office?
Maybe there are glimpses of greatness. Maybe there are little cracks of something magical, if you wait for them, if you nurture them, if you struggle for them. I often find myself yelling at tv screens when I watch films where someone takes up a creative pursuit and finds instant and effortless success, as if they blow their nose and Mozart comes out. That's not the way it works. As one of my favorite writing teachers used to say, you need to gnaw on the bones. You need to drag your story into the dark, toothing into it to find that sliver of meat. And you need to be satisfied with it.
The black and white guitar comes back out. The song goes back to its original key, like an old pair of jeans I lost at the back of the closet. I try a different fingering for the opening G chord. It annoys me less than the old way now. I close my eyes, and try to sing it one more time. I forget the words, even though I have been living with this song for two years now. I will make mistakes, saying "Well, I got you on my mind he said " when I am supposed to say "Well, you got me on your mind I said".
But maybe this time I did catch that firefly.
well, there’s a pint in my mattress
and Charlie always prays for suicides
he saved up those blue pills under his tongue
and then ate them all one night,
heard the ambulance
as it pulled away, driving slow
And then, I listen to some playback after an afternoon coffee. The voice rumbles, swooping around the speakers. The guitar jangles, chokes and starts. I cannot even recognize myself in this any more. It is someone else.
It must be someone else, not me.
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