GOLDMINING #3 - Lyrics, Letters, and Panic Attacks.

A Creative Diary

Hello and welcome to GOLDMINING, a creative diary.

May I vent about lyricism? Putting words to music often feels like an unfortunate byproduct of songwriting. On bad days, songwriting itself feels like an unfortunate byproduct of songwriting. That is to say, it’s difficult. Until it isn’t. Until something falls into your lap, dusted with heaven, pre-born, fully formed, and certain of itself. Nothing beats that. But most of the time, it’s an effort. Especially the lyrics.

Nine times out of ten, when I sit down to write with intention—about this thing or that, a story, a person, or worst of all, an opinion—the words dry up, turn to ash, scatter away. There’s nothing to say. Nothing that should be said. Everything has been said. Perfectly and poorly. And yet, something stirs—a maelstrom of feelings that demand expression.

These feelings are abstract and wordless, living in a lower chamber of the body. Not the head, but the belly. Let’s call it the soul. They grumble and murmur and desperately want to find voice, and, as it happens, words. Words? I thought there was nothing to say. Very well. Let’s find some. Just not mine. Please, not mine. I beg of myself, stay out of the way. Let the other thing speak.

What thing? I’m the only one in the room. Or am I? When it’s flowing, I feel surrounded; assisted. But when I start thinking my way into a song, the angels flee, taking all the good lines with them. Taking everything with them. “Thinking is the death of creativity,” says the magnet on my fridge, and I think it’s true.

It’s a relief, actually, that anything valuable I might have to say isn’t mine alone to produce. As far as I can tell, it’s some lucky collision of subconscious, emotion, presence, vocabulary, psyche, intuition, voodoo, and consciousness—whatever that is. Not to mention the weather, the day of the week, sleep, and what I had for breakfast. The task of songwriting—and of life—then becomes less about being smart, calculated, or skilled and more about staying open, honest, feeling, unknowing, and willing to let go.

That actually sounds harder than being cerebral, now that I write it down, especially for someone prone to vicious overthinking. Fitting, then, that when I recently sat down to create, the theme that emerged was overthinking itself. In truth, there was no concept or language at first, only the dripping, desperate, pre-verbal coo of a newborn idea, unable to express the infinite wisdom of all its past lives. In other words, gibberish. A common starting place:

And like every parent, you wait and hope your infant’s first words will arrive on time, and that they won’t be trite. That’s a lot to put on a baby. Or a song:

“Oh no there I go once again

No boats, no trains, no planes

Just me in my head”

I liked the words, but felt done with the theme: head in the clouds, dissociated, untethered from reality. It’s not such a bad angle, I’m just burnt out on it. I’m not even sure I write about it that much, but I think about it constantly. I think about my thinking. I’m aware of my awareness, and as a result, I live mostly in my head.

I wanted this song to be about something else. But what?

Oops, I’m imposing my thinking brain on the sacred act and doing exactly what I hate—the thing I’ve been prattling on about and warning against: trying to write a song.

Probably a good time to put it down and go check the mail.

I have one friend who writes me handwritten letters. In these modern, digital times, one pen pal is a lot. I feel very fortunate to receive these letters. They are thoughtful and poetic. After reading them, I always tell myself I’ll write her back. I never do. There is guilt. But there is still time. If there is still guilt, there is still time. I like that. I’ll put that in my notes for later.

In my friend’s most recent letter, she told me about her panic attacks. I related immediately, having had a bout of my own recently. Panic attacks are fascinating. They rule you. You can’t reason your way out of them. The chemicals take over, and even though you know there’s no real danger, your body is convinced it’s dying. All you can do is let it burn through itself until the chaos subsides. Time is the cure.

Well, the cure is probably deeper than time. What was it that trained your nervous system to perceive this innocuous thing as such a threat? Is it what they call emotional trauma? Is it stuck somewhere in the body? Can this stuff of trauma actually get stuck in the body—like, physically? What’s going on in there?

I’d love to know, but I’d love even more to write a worthy song, so I returned to the task, her letter and my thoughts about nervous system upset still floating around the room, which, of course, had everything to do with the song finding a new story, thank goodness.

Though I didn’t send a letter in return, I shared with her the song and thanked her for saving it. She replied with a voice memo saying she “pulled over in a sunbeam” to listen to it. What a great line, I thought, and a perfect image. She also offered a little more insight on how she navigates her panic attacks: “It’s not happening to me. It’s happening in me.” Fantastic.

The song was too short, so I borrowed her words for an outro. They paint a scene: someone pulled off to the side of the road, panic attack in full swing, drenched in sunlight, repeating a mantra. You know it’s happened. Everything has. And it’s all been said. So let’s keep saying it.

Thanks for stopping by. Full song below.

Onto the next and into the mine.

-XORG

P.S. If you’re stuck in the process, especially with lyricism, and want some prompts, here’s a couple. I’ll do the homework too and report back. Godspeed.

1. Go for a walk and write down all the words you see: Graffiti, posters, flyers, signage etc. Bring it all home. Mix it up. Rearrange. See what happens.

2. Write someone a handwritten letter. It can be to yourself.

“Oh No” :

LYRICS:

“Oh no there I go once again

No boats, no plane, no train

Just me and my chemicals

Hold my hand tighter than you ever did

Before I sail away

Love, love, love

Love is fun

But love, love, love, love

It’s not enough

To keep me from running so hot

Oh no it’s bad

No joke, no notes, no diagnosis, no clothes

Just me and my panic

Hold my face tighter than you held my hand

Before I break my jaw

Drugs, drugs, drugs

Drugs are fun, so damn fun

But drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs

They’re not enough

To keep me from running so damn hot

Way down, way below, underneath

There must be some calm

There must be a way, must be a staircase which leads

To my daddy and my mom

Hold my heart softer than they ever could

Before the poor thing goes pop

Pulled over in sunbeam

It’s not happening to me

It’s happening in me

Pulled over in sunbeam

It’s not happening to me

It’s happening through me

Oh no there I go once again”