When I was young I had reason to lock away certain thoughts and feelings for safe keeping, because if I allowed myself to express those thoughts and feelings it was likely they’d be burned down and crushed by those who’s company I found myself in back then; feelings like tenderness, and intimacy in friendship, fraternity expressed through love of art and nature—those things that, when I was young, marked me as weak and easy prey for the types of people who like to pull the wings of butterflies for fun.
Once you do lock away feelings and lose touch with those parts of yourself that can put you at risk, it can seem like they were never there in the first place—but you’re left feeling hollow and purposeless, and even angry at yourself, for both being “different” and for being a fraud by creating an “acceptable” character that doesn’t set off the bully’s radar. You also risk becoming that thing you are most afraid of, and victims make excellent bullies—I’m ashamed to say, I know this to be true.
I am, thankfully, not what I would call a “career” bully. I have known more than a handful of truly violent and seemingly hateful people and we have very little in common—except fear. I think an awful lot of violence is due to fear, and is a learned behaviour-but that is a discussion for another day.
It is, I think, inevitable that we express the totality of our selves in one way or another, even the parts we have suppressed. In my experience it’s often other people who notice that bits that are “missing”, and, if we are lucky, encourage us to “be ourselves” instead of acting out the character (hollow though it may be) that we’ve created for ourselves.
I have my wife to thank for telling me what should have been obvious. Although she has not been alone in encouraging me, she has certainly been the most persuasive—and persistent.
It’s hard to imagine (or maybe not) how simply stupid one (I) could be through so many years, and I’m still far from sorted out—as anyone who knows me will attest to. So many years where, although outwardly I may have seemed successful in my working life, I found day to day life itself to be confusing, and full of anxiety and frustration which led to breakdowns in relationships—including my relationship with my “self”, and situations that led to self-denial and self-destructive behaviour and the loss of friendships and opportunities to create and enjoy the fruits of creative relationships.
That is to say nothing of the abuse of various legal and illegal substances.
And there is no “end”.
It doesn’t all get fixed one day.
Life unfolds inexorably in all its complexity, anxiety, artifice and wonder, we only get to make choices (or not).
It can be the best fun, but in a way—if you take it at all seriously—it’s all work, and there’s so much to be done.
This morning as I was attempting to “tune” new PA speakers and going over yesterday’s rehearsal in my mind I found myself hitting many of the mental and emotional road blocks I’ve become accustomed to when trying to put together various musical projects over many years. The walls began to close in, but before I did my usual (text everybody, cancel everything and go back to “real life” because it’s not going to work, it’s all shit) I turned off all the electrical devices, amplification, speakers etc., retrieved my nylon string guitar from the spare room, and as the light of the new day became apparent through the trees outside our window, I sat down and played.
It was then that I encountered a sense of subtlety, the balance between tension and tenderness that’s often part of my work. My voice softened, the tempo (and my heartbeat) slowed, and my playing became more sparse but also more articulate.
I realised that this is how I play when I’m by myself, or with Christine, and sometimes with trusted friends, and that is when I feel most at home with my work.
I thought about how when I play music in a way that doesn’t allow space for tenderness, articulation, playfulness and even sensuality, I quickly become disengaged and my playing and singing becomes mechanical and meaningless to me—although I’m told some people like me that way.
Having realised and written all that comes before this, and even as I write this, my mind is saying, “People are going to make fun of you for saying this stuff, people won’t like it, they’ll get bored if you don’t do “rock” versions of everything, you’re useless.
It’s not as if I haven’t pissed enough people off already. My voice and fingers won’t hold out forever, and I am pretty much useless at everything else.
I know bugger-all about anything really, but in the time I have left I’d like to have a go at doing “me”.
Who knows, it might not seem that different from the outside—we’ll see.
BH