Wipe Out

I’ve had a tremendously difficult time writing lately. In any context. Creating. The closest thing to “art” (whatever that is) that I’ve produced in the past couple months are some DNA sequencing data that I’ve generated at work. Not creative, but pretty.


Well, I felt my frustration very tangibly when I wiped out on my bike last Saturday night. Pretty suddenly, I lost my footing and went down, digging my left side into the rocky pavement with a bit of force. Mostly confused and shaken, I lifted myself up and inspected my torn jeans, a bloodied knee, nothing too bad. But as I walked home to burn out my wounds with hydrogen peroxide, the pain set in. I spent an uncomfortable night and a generally frustrating week, canceling squash matches and recovering from this incredibly minor injury. Nonetheless, the feeling of being even slightly physically debilitated was humbling and gave me some perspective on my writer’s block.

Soothing the pain has been my recent infatuation with the Drive-By Truckers. There’s really no praise I can bestow upon them that hasn’t already been extensively outlined by plenty of glowing write-ups. But, simply put, this band can do no wrong by me. The three songwriters at the center of the band – at least until the most recent Brighter Than Creation’s Dark – are blessed with the ability to weave together sympathetic narratives to paint a picture of the South, ridden with pathos, that exudes as much character and dimension as Greg Dulli’s bedroom scenes or Matt Berninger’s collages of wanderings and murmurings. Needless to say, I’m smitten.

On the Truckers’ website, chief songwriter Patterson Hood posted a great background story to his song “Tornadoes,” about a sudden tornado (what else?) that ruined the triumphant homecoming show of his band at the time, leaving him in financial debt and deflating the band’s chance at major label dreams. Hood suggests he wrote the song in response to a cruel joke life played on him, trading hard times for humor, and spinning everything into an inspiring, swelling, cathartic jam. (I mean, dude, check out that foot-stomping at the climax.)

I’ve been thinking about my difficulty writing over the past few weeks. I realized that this month – this weekend, actually – marks the close of a major year in my life, one that has been incredibly tough and strange but also beautiful and productive in profound ways I really never expected.

Reading Hood’s essay and reflecting on the past twelve months, I’m reminded that nothing pretty comes easy. The quality of your art is proportional to the amount of blood you spill making it. So, as my knee scabs over and I start timidly riding my bike again, hopefully I can cull some redemption from my wounds.

- asher

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Links:
-Some Drive-By Truckers jams: Where the Devil Don't Stay, Heathens, Women Without Whiskey, Space City
-DNA Sequencing
-Art is Hard