We’re all born incomplete and aspire for wholeness.
Thrown into this world at breakneck speeds, immediately socialized by our parents and guardians, who we trust as gods with our childish, wonder-filled minds. Once, we all believed our guardians and teachers and elders knew everything and could be trusted completely.
Alas, they were all once chucked into this world too, raised up by previous generations that may have often convinced themselves that they knew what life was all about. But they didn’t. No one did.
In the beginning, a rock appeared in the firmament, and on that rock a fissure did form. An old man with youthful eyes looked upon this rock and said, “I shall call you ‘Shredrock.'” And upon receiving the reverberations of his utterance, the rock burst forth a great explosion, showering the old man with mystical properties, endowing him with the wisdom of old age and the vigor of youth. And when the phenomenon did cease, the rock told the man, “I shall call you ‘Grampfather.'”
Recently I had the opportunity to interview Greg Connors about his new single “Future Nostalgia.” As I was listening, I was so drawn into the track, which prompted further listening to Connors’ vast cannon of eclectic material. I found his songs speak to me in a familiar voice, both vulnerable and comfortable. His melodic, yet ‘cut the crap’, self-styled phrasing dances with a deliberately off-kilter, sweetly angular guitar motion.
Almost anything can be a metaphor for songwriting. Prying open a jar of pickles? Yes. Playing Russian Roulette? Sure. Tending to a plant. Why not? If writing songs is inseparable from life itself, then it must fall somewhere between meditating and giving birth, at the equator of zen and utter pain; the middle path between the sacred and mundane.
I have yet to come across any profession that is as rewarding, fulfilling, and promising as well as depressing & anxiety-inducing as being a musician. It’s peaks & valleys to it, but there’s more beauty in it than most people will ever know.
I was crazy before. At least my former psychiatrists believed I was. And so did I, to be honest. But now I write to you, a changed man- who’s creativity is now thriving when it once could barely breathe.
In the wake of trauma, and especially abuse, there is often a bottoming out of the self: it can feel like everything you were has been hollowed out and replaced by this terrible event. When I started to heal, I began writing songs.