Wordsmith Wednesday: Built to Spill “Pat”

Standard

Our words this week are the full lyrics to Built to Spill’s song “Pat” off of their album There Is No Enemy.

They read:

“Pat, we need your brains back
Pat, we need your fire and your imagination
Pat, we know you fucked up
But we don’t care you fucked up, everybody’s fucked up

Thought I heard your voice the other night
And sure enough, it came from you
Thought I’d be surprised that you weren’t dead
But all I was was glad

Just sitting by your bed
And talking to your head
And hearing what you said
As if you’d never left

Can’t you see yourself yet, can’t you see through our eyes?
Can’t you see the truth?
Nothing’s worse than ever, falling in a dream’s where
We can see together

Saw you the other night
Have to say something wasn’t right
Of course, but I didn’t mind
‘Cause seeing you being all alive

Just walking in the room made me so relieved
Like everything was fine and you had never died
Or second-guessed your mind or gave up on our trust
Thought you’d gone too far for us to take you back
But distances like that, Pat, don’t exist in fact”

Doug Martsch beautifully displays the simplicities/complexities of processing the suicide of a loved one in his half of the conversation with a dead friend, Pat Brown, on this song. When you lose someone suddenly that way, there are conflicting emotions, waves of guilt/anger/sadness, and unanswerable questions that haunt you, but all you really want to is to be able to do is sit and talk to that person again. The honesty and clarity in these words always speak to me and for me. Thanks, Doug. Love and miss you, Logan.

– NR

dougmartsch

Editors’ Note for Issue 3

Standard

The following is the full Editors’ Note for Issue 3:

“Anxiety can either cripple or drive you.

It can drag you down like a stone, trapping you on the murky psychic riverbed to choke on seaweed and self-critique. It can be the palm that holds you underwater, screaming bubbles and scratching at the invisible force. It is the sound in the distance, the figure in the dark, the uncertainty of the answer to a difficult question. It is the thing that stops you from enjoying any taste of success by planting the thought of a more satisfying success just ahead yet unseen. It is FOMO and the neighborhood watch and small town racism and narrow-mindedness in all forms. It is the smoke break and the bitten-up fingertips and standing on the back porch at 4 am.

It can also be the motivation that forces you back to the surface, making you flap your arms until you figure out how to turn slapping hands into a doggy paddle into smooth strokes propelling you for as long as your mind muscles allow. Anxiety can feed off fear, turn frustration into fuel. It can be the foundation for great innovations, inspired music, transcendent literature. It is that thing that must be alleviated through expression, the need to take some internal pressure and spit it out into the world so that somebody else can chew on the idea for a while. It is the desire to find solutions.

The tricky conundrum is that anxiety can also suppress that expression, trapping everything inside your skull. What if what I think is stupid? What if what I made isn’t good? What if what I did isn’t important? What if people laugh in my face? What if they laugh behind my back? What if they laugh in the comments? What if nobody cares at all? Anxiety can be completely paralyzing to creativity, killing all motivation before the process has even begun. The effect can be especially fatal if the primary motivation is to create something impressive or cool in the eyes of others instead of trying to give a voice to that gnawing thought in your frontal lobe.

The real trap is allowing anxiety to breed off itself, choosing activities and developing habits that perpetuate rather than alleviate that stress weighing on your brain and strengthening that pressure pushing down from a place unseen. This seems to be the elemental basis for addiction, whether it be to drugs or beauty or success or anything else. They all appear born of the idea that acquisition or achievement of some formless, yet theoretically attainable, thing will take away the “bad stuff” i.e. the generalized anxiety associated with just being alive.

The catch of course is that if a little is good, then more must be better. And so we overdose. We want so desperately to relieve that near constant anxiety associated with not feeling good that we cease to even let the uncertainty enter our lives by developing habitual coping mechanisms. We get high. We apply makeup. We work to exhaustion. We check our phones incessantly, hoping for communication from a friend/acquaintance/news source/etc. We make sure the boogiemen of doubt and depression don’t creep into our minds by making sure every crevice is filled with entertainment or consumption or communication. We are constantly doing regardless of what is being done. Some may say we do these things to feel good, but it seems more likely we do them to not feel so bad. And there is a difference.

This magazine itself probably started as a way to relieve some anxieties we hadn’t wanted to face yet. Anxieties about achievement and value and creativity and success and death. The fear that we were just floating through life thoughtlessly, consuming without creating and, thus, feeling empty and unsatisfied. A looming uneasiness that we were stagnant, being pushed in directions we didn’t want to go because we were ourselves directionless. Neither of us had dreams of starting a literary magazine. This isn’t a career move or a resume builder. This isn’t about social capital or appearing intelligent to our peers. This isn’t self-worship. This is two lost people on a park bench. This is sure why not. This is screaming into the void.  This is the need to do something.

The pieces of writing included in this issue are great examples of why we chose literature as our something rather than another medium. They make us feel connected to the authors, the world around us, and ourselves. They are nuanced and subtle yet moving, just as the more vivid parts of life often are. They relieve some of our own existential anxieties by giving us proof that people are finding ways to live despite the ever-present pressures. They inspire us to try and do the same.

Above all, they make us feel human and unalone. We hope they do the same for you.

Kathy Klimentowski/Nick Rossi
Chicago/Nashville, October 2015″

Sobotka Issue 3 Editors' Note

Lexi Jackson’s “Earthquake Lungs”

Standard

The following is an excerpt from Lexi Jackson’s story “Earthquake Lungs” forthcoming in Issue 3.

“I can only imagine what was going on in his head. A loud roar like a train moving past, on and on and on and on until his head hurt? Or utter silence, as if he’d been ejected into space with no helmet? A string of if-only’s he was trying to walk through but each word catching him like thorns on wild rosebushes, tearing his clothes, scratching his ankles, piercing the very fabric of his being? Didn’t I love him enough?”

Jackson’s piece focuses on the fallout for friends and family after a suicide. With its straight forwardness and stark prose, the story captures beautifully the suffocating questions and confusion that surround loved ones left behind. Find the complete work in Issue 3.

Lexi Jackson Earthquake Lungs