Saving stems

I’ve been working on some songs. While this process sometimes involves the Promethean fire of creation, much of it involves separating a track into 7 vocal stems, saving the stems as .wav files, and waiting for the .wav files to upload to Google drive. 

So much of writing is editing. And before that, finding time to edit. Wrestling hours from the day. This tedious vision of an artist doesn’t fits the sexy archetype, the free spirit gyrating on stage, signing books, and sure, why not, leaning into a line of cocaine, the bright powder on the smudged mirror where one almost brushes the forehead, the affected, leonine hair of one’s reflection.

I adore the cocaine angels of the art world, though I could never be one. In my 20s, I tried on the lifestyle like a fur coat. It didn’t fit. Part of me yearned for weightless coolness, to be one of Leonard Cohen’s “figures of beauty.” In the end, I couldn’t commit; I needed time alone.

I haven’t fulfilled that need completely, but I’ve found a balance that has brought me closer to myself. Writing about my projects makes them feel real. It’s like measuring out the spires of the imagination, figuring out how they might translate in the material world.

Here are the projects:

1. The songs. I don’t want to say too much about this right now, only that the process continues to be a fulfilling collaboration. The project touches on some themes that for me at least have been marinating since childhood.  The music excites me; frightens me at times, too. 

2. The zine. I set out to make a breezy photography zine. In the process, I discovered I am incapable of making breezy photography zines, only heavy tomes. I meant to write a few prose poems, and ended up writing what is currently 63 pages about suicide, self-immolation, Buddhism, fashion, Hollywood, heroin addiction, hope, sex, steak, and the theory of singing harmony. Interweaving these pages are photographs that round the book to 100 pages. 

Editing non-fiction is a long process. You cut prose, and in the process, personal memory. It’s like editing VHS tape, jumpy, imperfect, tedious. 

In a paragraph I’ve since cut, I wrote: 

“Writers who chronicle true events must contend with moral dilemmas that writers of fiction are privileged to ignore. In the end, everything becomes a tally of costs and benefits: Is the cost of rupturing scar tissue, smearing out each ligament for myself, my family, and strangers worth the benefit of crafting a piece of writing that is true? What is the benefit of stating a painful truth? What is the cost to my still living parents? To myself?”

I plan to self-publish this zine. I have two reasons for this. One is I don’t foresee a publisher taking the risk of investing in an experimental book of color photographs. The other is I want complete control over the layout of this project. The form is necessary to the content. I don’t want it fucked with.

I have a few beta readers giving me honest feedback. So far, the revision process has been slow but rewarding: I feel like I’m learning more about myself and my position in the world.

3. Winter photos. A few friends and I are planning a photoshoot in the woods. We’ve been sharing visions, garment designs, and deciding on an overall mood for the project. It feels like planning a short film. I’m grateful to have friends who share my aesthetic, who understand that aesthetic isn’t just beauty, but a communication of emotion, belief, or statement.  

Lately, much of my work is reformatting file formats. Flipping images in Adobe In-design. Searching the bottomless online archive of my portfolio for RAW images that will print well. I wish I had more time for all the boredom necessarily to bring works of art into the world. All I can do is keep scraping at time, like a climber with their spiked shoes scraping up a glacier. Onward the minutes, hours, and days. The year. The sun spiraling the earth. With me on it. Waiting.