Why Am I Crying? I'm Not Even Sure What This Song's About.

on words, vibration and actual magic.

a fairy in a bottle - Jacob Alon

A close friend of mine is in intensive care. I’m fucking scared. We’re texting and stuff. He’s doing the brave thing but his brother said he’s feeling low. I love this man. He is kind and generous and troubled and open and unbelievably talented. I don’t think it’s fair what is happening to him. How much pain he’s in. But it’s not about fair. Never has been. Life is an unfair funfair.

Evenings are brighter this time of year. A good thing, in my opinion. Still, brake-lights become temporary suns. They flare up and blur out. I have to blink to reset. Lift my head up. Make sure I’m paying attention to the road. Feel the effects of other people’s issues and frustrations. One hand on a steering wheel wishing I had similar control over the life circumstances of people I love.

Even though I’ve done a shit ton of therapy I still have a pretty efficient sadness suppression mechanism. My body will reject grief in its most impulsive form, as it should be, like a burp. It has to burst. Bleed out of me. The grief. Otherwise it’ll be stifled by a yawn. Masked as a low mood. Curve itself into a hook caught up on screens and scribbles. I honestly try my best not to keep it down but I’ve had the mechanism longer than I haven’t. It happens so quickly.

I can get the tears out eventually. But it’s hard. In my case, the presence of my partner really helps. When I’m on the brink and I see her, I often break. And vice versa. I know some people have to hide. It’s not always been like that for me. But with her my shoulders relax. The most frustrating thing about struggling to cry is feeling the tears store themselves somewhere else. Next best release for me is sweat probably.

Not long ago, I watched an artist perform an acoustic song live. I’d never heard of them. I had no expectations. They were barefoot. They started playing. Quite soon after beginning, the room went quiet. A silence that forms in the presence of clear energy. Purity. How?

In that moment I felt so grateful to experience live music. How absolutely out of this fucking galaxy it is to have my life altered by vibrations in the air. To bear witness to some sense of harmony. Especially nowadays. When everything is alarming. Listening to these chords. Guitar and vocal. Material matter making music. Feels like the only thing that makes sense. Godly shit, for real.

The first time I listened to that song after the performance. When I streamed it. My eyes streamed. I just started crying. And I had stop because I was about to walk down Oxford Street. Of all places. I was caught between the immediate feeling of relief and lack of convenient context. I promised myself I’d come back to it.

And when I did, in my car. I cried again. The song was just pulling this shit out of me. And the craziest part is I barely even know what the song’s about. The singer’s falsetto in the chorus just slices me. Something about it. The shift. And the movement of the chords. Those chords. How does this stuff even happen?

So it’s got the point where I’ve used the song to help me cry. In the moments that I’ve been stuck. I’m not sure it’s had the same effect on others because I’ve played it and been like “you wanna cry, right?!” and had a differing response. True say, it might not be the same in company. I’d heard in the past about playlists of songs that people would go to in order to evoke tears. Never really got my head around it. Now I have a taste. Shit’s magical.

“There is some confusion as to what magic actually is. I think this can be cleared up if you just look at the very earliest descriptions of magic. Magic in its earliest form is often referred to as “the art”. I believe this is completely literal. I believe that magic is art and that art, whether it be writing, music, sculpture, or any other form is literally magic. Art is, like magic, the science of manipulating symbols, words, or images, to achieve changes in consciousness.” - Alan Moore

And yet the question as to why we feel compelled to sing or perform or paint will no doubt permeate discourse more now than ever. While we’re submerged in mental shipwrecks doing backflips for survival. Pestered by the pursuit of profit. Why sing? Or more so - why does it feel so liberating to experience?

Do we need to know the answer? Should the question be why are we so neurotically driven by “sense”? By quantitive measurement? The sheer fact that music can compel so many minds at once should be answer enough. Perhaps it really is a portal of some kind. And, yes, I understand the reality that to be a commercially successful entertainer within this framework will more than likely bring suffering. In a financial sense. Frustration. Our egos will be summoned via flute in the hope that we too can snake upwards upon whatever ladder we’ve deemed most worthy.

But even for those who have chosen rationale. Parked their souls to ensure stability. Listen, passion isn’t always art based. I know plenty of people driven at the very least by a desire to contribute to a functioning community. In whatever way. But for those who have looked at the ‘best ways’ to garner wealth. To climb the ladder. Thank god there are those willing to risk drowning. How fine we are to wear armbands while we watch people diving. I want to dive in.

~

I had a friend say to me once that he “doesn’t read fiction anymore”. Gave reasoning along the lines of not having “time to waste”. Facts only. All of that. A growing seed amongst men it seems. As vague as that category may be. I understand the appeal and essential nature of documentation. An insight into reality. But surely regarding fiction as only fiction is an oversight. There is an unbelievable amount of truth in stories. It’s that relaying of truth that ultimately holds certain stories in higher stead. The ability to encapsulate and transmit a shared experience so astutely, that it can transcend time, location, anything. Is other worldly. I struggle to wrap my head around it.

I just finished a fiction book that took me about half a year to read. I read other things along the way but it was so heavily recommended that I wanted to stick with it. I find reading difficult. Especially when there’s loads of commas. For those of you who’ve read my book, this is apparent. Full disclosure, I zoned out for huge parts of the book. Never enough to not know what’s going on, but enough that I had to go back and re-read certain bits. The book was long. Exquisite in places. I pushed on. I got to the last chapter. I finished the book. I cried.

I put the book down and frowned in disbelief. I genuinely thought I would arrive at the ending only with joy that I’d completed it. Instead, I found myself bound to the final moments of a character relationship I hadn’t even realised I was invested in. It was wild. Somehow, in spite of my spiralling attention span, days if not months between chapters, disobedient imagination and mild confusion, I felt a sudden magnetism. A desperation. I wanted more than anything for these two characters to find peace. Then I cried. Why would I cry if that shit wasn’t real? It’s magic for fuck sake.

I guess people don’t believe in that.

~

My friend made it home. I went to go and see him. I took him a load of fruit. His mum was there. I was so happy to see him. More than I was able to let him know. Maybe the fruit proved it. He shared with me how terrifying the whole experience was. How it was his brother that saved him. Demanding he saw a doctor instead of ‘braving it’. Saved his life. He spoke of pain beyond imagination. And a deeper understanding of pain he’d read about. Heard about. He was definitely still processing everything.

He makes incredible music. We discussed the inevitable creation of music in the wake of all this. Kind of has to happen. Only way to make sense of it sometimes. And to think. Everything that he went through might become vibration. One that can set a mind alight. Most likely mine.

Nearly dying isn’t the only way to make magic. In a literal sense. Fortunately. Although surviving pain like that can only mature a soul. Metaphysically, it is the only way. Death. Something has to die to make magic.

For a lot of people, that death will be the belief that words can’t change lives.

SONG - Fairy In A Bottle by Jacob Alon

BOOK - Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver