A few weeks ago, I left YouTube on auto-play. My sound was off. I was working on something or another, and absentmindedly, I switched the audio back on.
“We could get a house and some boxes on the lawn, we could make babies and accidental songs.”
That’s all I heard. A haunting, heartsick voice. I immediately started the song back to the beginning, and then binge-listened to Damien Rice’s 9 for the rest of the afternoon.
I was at work, so it had to be in-between meetings and conversations.
“I’m sorry…I’m listening to an amazing song…” I’d explain, so hesitant to pull off my headphones.
Don’t get me wrong, I love music. But I don’t remember the last time an artist made me feel so much. The songs were enchanting, beautiful… and sad.
“This has got to die…I said, this has got to stop. This has got to lie down, with someone else on top…” (Elephant)
“Does he drive you wild or just mildly free?” (Accidental Babies)
Throughout all the songs… it’s like I could hear his pain. I felt this pulling in my stomach, this mutual ache. I have no idea what kind of emotional turmoil inspires such genuine feeling and expression*.
(*That’s a lie. I do.)
His music really got me thinking about my writing, my art. The case for something more, the case for only things that you have serious fucking passion for. It made me grateful that I’ve learned that hard lesson: to heavily pursue the things that make your heart skip ten beats.
I love that I’ve only kept things that matter. I still have the little ceramic turtle my Grandmother sent me in college, the incredible painting Elizabeth painted of me. A big rock that I found on Masonboro Island, with little shells embedded within.
I love the feeling I got when I read L.J., (my not really related to me nephew), a bed-time story. I love drinking too much wine with Shana, Tassy and Erin, with an end result of realizing how hilarious and wonderful we are (and modest, obviously). I still get choked up when Goose dies in Top Gun.
Sometimes I pull out this little jacket that my Aunt bought me when I was six. It was the first real gift I remember her giving me, and the last thing of hers I have. I feel the same pull in my stomach, the ache, when I look at it.
A feeling of remembering something that you’ve lost. It’s a heart-wrenching, raw emotion that really makes you feel alive. It’s something that reminds you how deeply you’re capable of caring about something or someone else.
The best writing I’ve ever done came from that feeling, but also, the best art. There’s not an excessive amount of art I’ve done that I’m passionate about. But I have this doodle, something I drew in college, that I made a point to frame, and set on a shelf in my bedroom, because of how it makes me feel.
I don’t want to share the story behind it, but it’s a drawing of a girl looking out the window, at a memory, with a caption that reads:
“I’d trade this day for that one.”
I was heartsick when I drew it. I felt regretful of a missed opportunity, a mistake, and it came out as art. I don’t feel as forlorn looking at it now, I just love the purpose it serves — a simple reminder of the things that give you the serious feels.
Like Damien Rice’s voice, and his words. Cocoa-roasted almonds. Old issues of National Geographic.
Good whiskey. Cigar boxes. Mary Oliver’s poetry.
Everything.