Oil and wine to bind your wounds.
So I have been doubled over with Buckner’s album, Surrounded. I have been learning to play the guitar over the past 8-9 months (among the reasons the blog has stalled a bit), and am attempting to learn some of these songs. Here is the one that I am currently obsessed with and working on. Buckner speaks to me, even if I never quite know what he is saying. (Perhaps a little like Socrates and the Delphic Oracle?)
This is Not Easy for Me
Patience with yourself is demanding, particularly when you are young. You are prone to impatience with yourself; others are prone to impatience with you. It can seem that your teenage years are a weary succession of one today “I am forever committed” and one tomorrow “On to the next thing…”. A chorus of voices, your own often the loudest, keeps chanting: “Choose!” But choosing is precisely what you really cannot do, not once and for all. This is not the stage of life at which choosing, final choosing anyway, typically gets done. The hard thing is to be between: neither a child nor an adult, but on the way from one to the other. It is hard to keep focused on the journey, –hard not to reach backwards in remembrance toward the voicelessness of childhood, with its attendant freedom, if you are lucky, beneath the rainbow of your parents’ love, –or hard not to reach forward in anticipation to the full voice of adulthood, with its attendant responsibilities, if you are lucky, toward those beneath the rainbow of your love. The hard thing is to be between, not a child, not yet an adult, but composedly trans-ing from one to the other. To be between.
On his new EP, This Isn’t Easy For Me, 16-year old Charlie Hickey presents four songs about being between. The songs are melodically assured, subtle, eschewing big musical poses for smaller, more intimate gestures. None of the melodies leap out of the speaker–but all register over listenings and make a home in memory. Hickey’s voice centers the album: clear, warm, palpably human, it is a real voice, alive. But it is never showy, never cocky, never crooning, never plangent. Unlike many (and many older) singer-songwriters, Hickey never sends his voice on an errand while he stays behind. He is there, right there, fully present in his voice. This substantializes the songs, giving them power and immediacy.
The EP opens with “Broken”.
I’ve got so much love in my life
But I’m looking for some kind of tattered touch
Yeah I can live without it
But sometimes this livin’ is not quite enough
I feel the love of my family
It’s the only thing that really lets me sleep
But when the sleeping gets easy
Sometimes I wish that there was someone beside me
I’ll let my bones be broken when I can find someone to make me feel fixed
I’m looking for someone’s tattered kiss
We can’t go on living like this
We gotta find each other…
Not a typical song of teenaged love. The addressee is more possible than actual, the distance between the two logical, not spatial. Part of learning to love is being loved and achieving an open-eyed understanding of the cost of that love. Familial love is not romantic love, of course, but the loves remain bound up with one another, and the first typically sets the stage for the second. Hickey captures this beautifully: he sleeps easy in the love of his family, and yet finds that the very ease of sleep allows him to long for something else, a different kind of love. At a certain point, familial love, however overflowing, is not all the love we wish for. Our hearts prepare a place for someone else, prepare themselves for the work of loving in a new way.
Part of what makes the song memorable is Hickey’s willingness to acknowledge familial love and its role in fitting him for a new love. Part of what makes it memorable is his ability to capture the new love while it is still a mere possibility, while he is still reaching out toward someone-he-knows-not-who, who he understands is reaching out, in reciprocal unknowing, toward him. The final part is carried in its titular word, ‘broken’, and its conceptual rhyme, ‘tattered’. Hickey treats the possibility realistically. I mean that he recognizes the cost of love he is wishing for, understands that it will, precisely to the extent that it is real, exact things from him–but he is willing to face the exaction: “I’ll let my bones be broken…” He will face it because, again precisely to the extent it is real, it will also reward him: “… when I can find someone to make me feel fixed.” And it will cost the person he is reaching out toward–her touch and kiss will be tattered. Even so, her touch and kiss will be what he needs. And he will do for her what she has done for him. Together, the broken and the tattered are fixed and repaired.
“Broken” reaches forward hopefully to new love. But in the different mood of “I Like the Idea of Loving You”, Hickey expresses the natural diffidence the actual prospect of a new love can cause.
My neck gets sore from trying to keep my head turned away from you
You’re an open door and you’re closing on my fingers
My heart rings. it sounds like a warning bell from heaven
Saying don’t confuse me with anything real
I think I like the idea of loving you
I think I like the idea of loving you
I like the idea of loving you
Sometimes it lights a fire in me
Sometimes it lights a fire in me
This is not easy for me
I couldn’t let the promise of air just breathe
And I’m lying awake cause I couldn’t leave that hope alone
And I’ve been waiting for you or any other red rose that’s passing through
But I relive every little beautiful thing until I can’t see it’s colors anymore…
Commitment in possibility and commitment in actuality are radically different, however similar they may seem in conception. January 2nd teaches us this unmercifully. Still, substituting living in imagination for living in reality seduces us, especially in between, when what we hope for is neither inexistent nor in existence. The work of realizing what we hope for we often want to dodge: we like the idea of something but shrink from realizing it. “Don’t confuse me with anything real.” The problem is that the idea now seems like it must be realized (“Sometimes it lights a fire in me.”) but now seems like I should simply luxuriate in its ideality, waving my hand dismissively toward its reality. “Almost thou persuadest me…”
Commitment is hard. (“This isn’t easy for me.”) And so we attenuate it, delay it, by a series of prefixes, each expressive of a mental state: ‘I think…’, ‘I like…’ even ‘I think I like…’ burying the proposed commitment deep in propositional attitudes. –A related example: James Thurber’s title for the fear of the fear of the fear of something: phobophobophobia. That is a towering, babbling fear. –In between, this kind of stepping back from our steppings-back is all-too-common. We are trying things on, seeing how we look. But the problem of stepping back repetitiously is that it not only attentuates or delays commitment, it also leeches the color and the vitality from our experiences themselves. Seeing the rose is one thing: a visual plunge into a warm pool of saturated red. But as we relive the seeing, it is as though our eyesight itself dims or the red cools and desaturates: eventually we cannot see the rose’s color anymore. I am, as it were, free with respect to what I relive in a way that I am not with respect to what I live–I have elbow room in reflection that I do not have in perception. But still: it is the rose that matters, the actual red rose, and if we pass on seeing it in favor of reliving seeing it, we start to lose our anchor in what matters.
The next song turns its attention to the real and to the seduction of escape from what is real. “I’m Alive”:
Living in the arms of the past
And it’s wildest dreams for me
Old flames to light up just one more time
Weary guiding light
Waiting for the sun on my face to pass
So the hope of tomorrow can show me it’s face at last
When the moment’s grip gets tired of me
I just try to make the future last
In this very instant and my
Breath goes by
Unnoticed but true, you know that
All I have
Are these very moments cause they’re
All I have to run away to
Tomorrow’s always coming
It’s giving me a break
I do so much dreaming
I forget that I’m awake
Dreaming of the day
That don’t need me to be anything that I’m not
A day that is right now
A day that is alive…
The present is our happiness. This is one of those things we have to tell ourselves over and over because we never quite effectively internalize it. And that is because being present in the present leaves us vulnerable. For the most part, we can render ourselves safe from the past, variously jettisoning, suppressing, muffling or misrepresenting it–or, more helpfully, we can gain distance from it and perspective on it. And we can render ourselves safe from the future, because it has no definite shape, and so no sharp edges. We find in ourselves a will to absent the present, to run away from it. But of course, if I run away to the past, then I am presently remembering, and if I run away to the future, I am presently daydreaming. Try as I will, I cannot actually absent the present. I am always in these very moments. I succeed only in turning my attention from my vulnerability in the present, I do not render myself invulnerable in the present. Any escape from the present is a present escape.
Hickey ends the album with “The Child in Me”, attempting to measure accurately the difference between the child he was and the man-in-becoming he has become. Here, again, Hickey’s patience with himself is instructive.
Being in control is a concept that I sit and try to understand
Scared of fate but hey I guess it’s somewhat up to me in the end
Sitting here meditating on wishing myself the best
Years will grow around me and I’ll try to make the best
Of the child in me that stayed and played and only did the steps he made
But he got by and sometimes he cried
Sittin trying to keep my eyes on the ground
But they keep on going up
I shoot the question out of the gun
But don’t stay long enough to see where it hits me
Like I said, I wanna look down and see both our hands on the ground
Trying to grasp the same thing. Maybe it’s common ground
It’s all coming down
The child in me that stayed and played
Is going places, looking into faces
And saying, what a beautiful day
And the child in me will make it where you’re going and he’ll meet you there
At sixteen, it is natural to disown your childhood for fear of being treated as a child. But we often lose our grip on childlikeness in the hurry to discard childishness. If we mature as we should, a kind of immaturity remains–something resistant to narrow prudence, gamesmanship, cynicism and faithlessness. And that something is the child who stays and plays within us, if we allow him to do so. If we exile that child, we exile ourselves from the kingdom, whether the one we now live in or the one that may be to come. Wonder is spiritual youth; it preserves that plasticity of childhood, preserves a structure weak enough to be responsive but not so weak as to be nothing but response, to be nothing in itself. To lose that child is to lose the best part of ourselves. One of the reasons for the common happiness of childhood is that childhood is all present. (The child has no past really, and has not yet become aware of the future as the future.) And so childhood is also vulnerable. And maybe that completes the lesson in Hickey’s sequence of songs: the cost of happiness is invariably vulnerability. Absolute safety includes safety from happiness.
Despite their thematic unity, Hickey’s songs musically are varied. The tempo changes , and so does the instrumentation. Hickey’s voice and guitar are the centerpiece, but not all there is. The melodies are subtle–subtle, but hummable, singable. You will find yourself singing along.
It is not often that someone between cables us a thoughtful report about what it is like to be between. It takes a certain talent, and a certain strength of character, to make such a report. Hickey gives one to us, and if we listen carefully, we can recognize in his the report we might have sent. In art, one criterion of getting it right is that what you create ceases to be yours alone and becomes everyone’s.