On Mixtapes

Last Dance, Federico Bebber

Music is incredible. Enchanting. Haunting. The way it can make you feel--something, anything, an emotion that may be intangible, that you can't put into words but you can feel pulsing through your veins like the humming of a melody, the beat of a chorus. One of my favorite things about sharing music, whether through sharing platforms, playlists, or old school mix tapes, is that you can learn so much about another person just through what songs they have selected to put together. The sharer may not even realize it, but their choice of song order and song type, even if totally "random" was still directed by some subconscious force that knows what soothes your brain, what your soul grooves to. A dear friend of mine in high school used to make me mixed CDs, and through these I learned about the art of song order and album making. My friend used to sprinkle intros, interludes, three second commentaries strategically throughout the playlist, making the sides of my mouth turn up because it was like he was in the car next to me, playing DJ. He introduced me to songs that I would have never considered listening to, solely because I would have only given them five seconds before deciding I wasn't into them and hitting next. My friend hated that--he made me give every song a far chance, and  I had to listen to the playlist in order, from start to finish. Couldn't interrupt the rhythmic flow he had crafted--and crafted he had. 

Unbeknownst to him, those mixed CDs got me through daily hour long drives to appointments I didn't want to attend, people I didn't want to see, conversations I didn't want to have. That song I wouldn't have given a first chance thanked me for its second chance by being the soundtrack to my muffled cries under the steering wheel, the bridge rising as the windshield wipers kept the time better than any metronome. That song with only one sentence of lyrics was the mantra of my long drives home--I didn't care what they said, only that I could repeat them the whole way home, like the string of words was the kind of numbing fuel I needed to put myself on autopilot. That last CD, that was the one I played when it was sunny and I would roll the windows down and make myself smile. Then after a while, I didn't have to force it--Track 01 began, smile immediately formed. A Pavlovian thing, almost, to condition oneself to forget the bad and the words and the feelings as soon as a certain string of chords is struck. 

But the songs that really intrigue me even still are what I call the "filler" songs. You know what I'm talking about--those songs on a certain playlist that you would never listen to just on their own, you'd never actually seek out probably, yet they fit perfectly right there on Track 05, not the beginning and definitely not the end. Not striking enough to be the intro, but also not punctuating enough to be the finale. They kind of just keep that flow going, a steady transition. A la Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (looking at you, psychology people), these are the songs that put you in the zone and can continue to play while you are there. You don't want anything too loud, but you also need that steady beat to keep you going. No annoying lyrics, but still something to inspire. I have so so many songs like this floating around in the back of my head, the songs that I immediately know I know but have no idea what the name is. They are those songs that sometimes come on in places like the little independent coffee shop downtown or at that random person's backyard barbecue you were somehow invited to. You bob your head and surface from your conversation for a second--"hey, I know this.."--but then, you're back under, dipping down below the melody, ears hearing but brain tuning out, because that's what fillers are for--background, flow, transition.

I think that I am like these filler songs. I have come to play this role in people's lives--enter, quietly, slowly. Then they notice me--if I'm lucky, I'll get a wow, I like her, I wanna know more. Maybe they'll even look up my name, my album title, my artist. A quick Wikipedia search yielding little information because I am more than likely a one hit wonder in their eyes. I don't confess this in complete sadness--I do serve my purpose. We have a few weeks, months, maybe even years, of a relationship. Magic, fun, blissful, always learning but always only me left wanting more. Dancing on rooftops, your smile in the morning, the way that he had to look down his eyelashes at me because he was so tall, making his face look softer. Doing pirouettes for you, belly laughs on wooden docks, promises made on pillows in the dark. 

But my kind of song doesn't really seem to be the main theme. It's good while it lasts, but there is more to come for the listener--or so they think. In real life, when your playlist is hidden and you don't know when the next song will come along, and if you will like it, and if you will have the ability to press next or press pause, it's always just a guessing game on which song should get the most air time. So I'm a filler song--full of so many memories with so many people who meant a lot to me, but this imprinting of those moments, those feelings in my stomach and those thoughts in my head, wasn't reciprocated, and so I'm left here stuck on repeat. Because the only song I know how to sing is the one I have always been singing, and if that's not a platinum single for anyone then I guess it's just not meant to be the main melody. If my song is just the buildup, just the bridge, then I will sing it loud and proud and it will be the best transition you've ever heard. 

Maybe I am meant to just be a stepping stone, a learning block, a lesson to teach others about themselves. A pit stop before moving on to better and brighter things. That song you scribbled down on a sticky note and stuffed down in your glove compartment. I hope one day you'll find it, uncrumple it, and remember what that tune once meant to you.

xx mm

On Tornadoes

i am terrified of tornadoes. when its storming and then everything stops and the sky turns green and the birds are tricked into coming out of hiding—that is when i experience the deepest terror. the thing about tornadoes is that they are built into the fiber of the earth’s heartbeat, they are part of the rise and the fall, the deep breaths and the sharp inhales. i am terrified of this tornado life—what if all i can hope for is that five minutes of calm before the wreckage, that stillness that does not come without a price? what if my whole life i have been riding out this storm, my passionate heart rumbling on like the deepest thunder and my impulsive, racing brain shooting ideas and bursting out of confines like the sharpest streak of electricity across the night sky, just to realize that there is no end, no penultimate happiness, no comfort in finality? what if my instinctive, blind, conditioned response of sheer terror to tornadoes is part of a larger consciousness that finally understands the necessity of preluding the word ‘romantic’ with the word ‘hopeless’? what if the lower atmosphere will always be warmer than the upper atmosphere and the resulting unstable pressure system is inevitable—the tilting of the wind shear much like a life trajectory that has no destiny, gusts of air that are fated to constantly change direction? it is not the lull of stoicism that i crave but the internal stillness that i dream comes with growing roots deep enough to experience tranquility even in the midst of unpredictable squalls. what if we are all actually isolated thunderstorms that occasionally come into contact, only to eventually mess up the air front or the updraft of the other, creating a cyclone that uproots and flattens and necessitates a new beginning? isolated storms are more likely to form tornadoes than storm systems, and i am terrified that life is actually only a solitary tempest, that when stripped down it is comprised of not much more than your own pressure system and the looming threat of empty funnel clouds.

xx mm

On Being Alone

"La Dame del Lago," Antonio Mora

"If there's empty spaces in your heart,

They'll make you think it's wrong,

Like having empty spaces,

Means you never can be strong,

But I've learnt that all these spaces,

Means there's room enough to grow,

And the people that once filled them,

Were always meant to be let go,

And all these empty spaces,

Create a strange sort of pull,

That attract so many people,

You wouldn't meet if they were full,

So if you're made of empty spaces,

Don't ever think it's wrong,

Because maybe they're just empty,

Until the right person comes along.

-e.h.

Being along can be incredibly uncomfortable. You are in the company of no one but your mind, a mind unbound by the constraints that immediately wrap around your truth whenever you enter the presence of another being. For when you are alone, your thoughts are free to wander, free to tiptoe closer to the edge, to push boundaries, to go somewhere uncharted. Sometimes they get tangled but it is in this mess that art emerges—a compilation of lines and squiggles and uncalculated turns that is completely unique and more part of your identity than any inked thumbprint. When you are alone you can give in to the unpredictability of the wandering mind, you can give up control and see where your authentic self takes you. This is where some people start to squirm—their mind takes them somewhere that they don’t think they want to go, somewhere that is scary in its raw honesty, in its caustic truth. Some people prefer to live on the surface of their mind, surrounding themselves with other breaths exhaling out congruencies and ideas with straight lines and common shapes that are easier to fit into their empty spaces.

But it is only the ones who accept the gift of solitude that are permitted into a space where the scariness of the world, with all its zigzags and one-of-a-kind puzzle pieces that aren’t easily connected, can be interpreted and turned inside out and made into something beautifully sincere. When you allow yourself to stop the ever-present ticking of the other, to quiet the stream of outside opinion that usually guides you through life like a fallen leaf reliant on the current to move it from one place to another, you are free to dive past the line of acceptance and outside the strangling arms of comfort. Your solitary thoughts, in all their unpredictability, are the most veracious instruments that you will ever be given to aid you in your life journey. But it is up to you to move past the insecurities and the fears that come with the lack of outside assurance and give in to the pulsing of the truth that is hidden deep down inside yourself.

When you have allowed yourself to be alone, to be truly removed from anything that is not of your unique essence, then you can truly gain all of the wisdom and happiness and perspective that is found in time spent with others. When you know yourself, you are standing on solid ground that cannot be shaken by all the risks and unknowns that come from engaging with the world. You are a firm foundation, assured by the fact that you are the only one who you know will always welcome you with open arms after a lost battle. Your gravity is centered, so you can feel free to be swept away by the rollercoaster that is external relationships. You can participate without inhibition, and your outward actions will be an honest reflection of your inward convictions.

So today, I ask my unaccompanied self to engage me in what it only knows makes my eyes smile, what rocks my soul. The wisdom that comes from being alone has taught me that I am actually more connected with the universe than I will ever realize when I learn to relish the time spent with my rare, incomparable self.