Nights I Don't Sleep

There are nights, many nights, when I don't sleep.

I close my eyes, sometimes even drift off, but I never really rest. My brain never stops spinning. Instead, it's playing some new song, telling some new story, telling me to talk to my wife even though she's tired. Those are the good nights.

Some nights are spent thinking of what I've done, things I'd change, words I would unspeak. My mind gets made up: I'm a bad man who has done bad things. Not as bad of things as some. Not as many bad things as others. Sometimes, there are dark dreams, only dreams, but they seep out my ears so my head is empty when I pretend to wake up in the morning.

And the morning? I've taken advantage of staying awake. "I'm sorry, I didn't get enough sleep." is enough to draw out an apology and a lighter workload, some days. Others, I know words are flying behind my back: "If he's so tired, why doesn't he sleep?"

I can't tell them that I've forgotten how, can't reveal that I've forgotten how it feels. Sometimes, I never know if I'm asleep at all.

Me: A Musical History

I love music.

I was a latecomer, not really developing an interest until I was in my early teens, and until I left for college, I listened to very little that didn't come from the radio or thrift store tapes of artists I'd heard on my favorite station.

When I was 17, I left for college, and there came in contact with my first high-speed internet connection. I'd discovered Napster far earlier, but there was no comparison between picking one or two songs, waiting all night for them to download and then deleting them when it turned out they were just Donald Duck farting, and having the entire musical world at my fingertips.

My preferred poison was Audiogalaxy, where you could queue up entire discographies and wait for them to become available. Audiogalaxy was also my introduction to musical criticism, with articles posted several times a week about whatever album was tickling the editor's fancy. I learned about Sigur Ros and their towering soundscapes, Neutral Milk Hotel's lo-fi maximalism, and Okkervil River's emotion-first approach to writing and recording. Okkervil's Will Scheff was even a contributor.

File sharing wasn't all that was broadening my horizons though. After reading a fawning review in USA Today, I went to Circuit City (RIP) and purchased Radiohead's Kid A, which I hated and proceeded to skip through looking for "real songs". I forced myself to listen to the album ten times in a row--after all, I'd paid for it--and had probably the biggest musical conversion of my life. After that, the radio and its band weren't enough. I sought out music blogs, and discovered The Mountain Goats and Bright Eyes by reading Mitch Clem's webcomic, Nothing Nice to Say. I made friends based on our shared musical tastes, including the co-founder of Fifty Books Project, Chris.

When I graduated from college, I found myself in a funk, stuck in a small town with all friends hours away. I started a job and my coworker, Eric, showed me his own music site, the now sadly defunct Firesideometer. This was a whole new approach: not only could I listen to music, I could get it for free, meet the bands, and be thanked for it. Eric, bless his objectivist heart, eventually handed the reigns of the site to me, and, along with a few other contributors, we resurrected the site, increasing its traffic 10x and discovering, and frequently meeting, lots of great bands who were and remain under the radar. Eventually, the grind of writing multiple reviews every week along with the time investment of sifting through the garbage for the gems led the site into hiatus, where it remained until our domain lapsed and the site was bought out from under us.

After the Ometer phase ended, I found myself with less time to listen to music. A girlfriend who eventually became my wife changed my life for the better, and now I've got a daughter, who I who I can guide through the musical landscape gracefully, and music became something to put on while I worked. Shows became largely a thing of the past, and I haven't reviewed a record in years.

In spite of life and its crazy twists and turns, there is still, inside of me, a place that only music can touch. I can't help but air guitar when listening to Dismemberment Plan's Emergency and I, I still cry sometimes at OK Computer. When things are bad, I can crank up Bright Eyes, Tim Hecker, or William Basinkski. Wilco's I'm the Man Who Loves You and Radiohead's Videotape will always be wedding songs for me, and Ben Fold's The Luckiest sincerely makes me remember how lucky I am. Air's Talkie Walkie never fails to calm me, and remind me of the time I listened to it on repeat while on a nighttime bus ride in the Philippines. Nick Drake plays guitar how I wish I could. And if none of these ring your bell, there are thousands of others, songs I have loved and forgotten, songs I have hated and still remember. I still get a chill when I hear something new, still a little buzz of being in the inner circle when a no name band surprises me with brilliance. Music is no longer the only thing in my life, but there is very little of my life without music in it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

This Needs to Stop. Yes, This. It Needs to Stop. Stop.

There is something happening in the world of print. I see it everywhere. Whether I am reading about religion, social issues or technology, it is there. It is especially prevalent in books and blog posts that aim for the heart. This technique is apparently a shortcut to humankind’s emotional core.

What is this technique?

Well, what is it? Would you like me to share it?

I want to tell you, reader, what it is.

I truly do.

I mean that sincerely. I wish you would hear me.

Please, hear this.

Come on, aren’t you listening? Why don’t you listen?

Fine. If you won’t listen, I won’t share it.

I won’t.

It’s probably not that important…

…but it is.

It’s a small thing. Very small.

Miniscule, in fact.

Basically, it is this, and this only:

There is no need to turn every.

Single.

Sentence.

Into.

A.

Paragraph.

It doesn’t make reading easier.

It just makes it more annoying.

Thanks.

Three Weeks Wisdom: What I’ve Learned About Being a Dad and What’s Left

Three weeks ago today, my wife Liz did an amazing thing: she somehow managed to produce a baby while lying in a tub of water, with nothing more to dull her pain than some gritted teeth and the distractions provided by a willing-but-helpless husband—that would be me. After nine months of watching her growing in Liz’s belly, Clemence took only three hours to make her appearance, gray-smeared and screaming, into the world, and things changed. In between the dirty diapers and late-night wake ups, this is what I’ve learned.

No one can tell you what it feels like to hold your baby for the first time.
That isn’t to say they won’t try—a dozen or more people, all quaver-voiced and well-meaning, told me that when baby Clem was placed in my arms, my heart would explode with love like an overfilled water balloon and the residue from this explosion would cascade over all my internal organs, filling me enough compassion and adoration for this little person. When she popped out, I felt… surprised and relieved. It turns out that I wasn’t broken after all—as time has passed, I’ve grown to love my little girl more and more. I’ve yet to experience the heart explosion and that’s ok.

You can never know everything…
Upon finding out that we were having a baby, Liz and I (but especially Liz—sorry, honey) began doing heavy duty research on child-rearing. Sleep schedules, feeding plans, diaper-free training, and baby-led weaning became part of our everyday vocabulary. We talked about them until we knew them inside and out, which, of course, led to a very smooth and easy three weeks, during which we hardly even realized we had a baby. And that sentence is a lie. For all the reading and talking we did, the first few weeks of parenthood have been full of exhausting, stressful, confusing times. We’ve frequently felt disconnected, irritable, worried—these last three weeks have been among the most challenging of our marriage. Learning to balance work, wife and baby has been tough, and there’s still so much to learn.

…but that doesn’t mean you should go into it blind.
I’d like to preface this section by saying that everyone prepares for children in their own way, and I don’t intend in any way to disparage parents who handled things differently than we have thus far. With that said, if we hadn’t done our homework, things would be way harder. When we shared our parenting (and birthing) ideas pre-birth, it was amazing how many people told us not worry about it, to just do our best and things would all work out. Being unwilling to do less preparation for a baby than we would for a job interview, we did our homework anyway. Guess what? Reading all those books and having all those talks really helped. They alerted us to issues that could (and sometimes do) arise, and assured us that we weren’t bad parents just because we didn’t know why our baby was crying or how to keep her awake to feed. The time spent reading and discussing was time well-spent. Without it, I’d probably be dictating this post from a padded cell.

Having a baby has shown me what an amazing woman I married.
Obviously, I think my wife is fantastic. I wouldn’t have married her otherwise. But this whole baby thing has helped me to realize that she’s actually some sort of superhuman. First, after discussion, she decided to do a natural childbirth at a birthing center with no epidural, something I was not even 100% sure was possible anymore, and, of course, she kicked labor’s butt. After the birth, theoretically the most intense experience of her life, I was the one who collapsed on the bed while she nursed the baby and greeted our visitors. After we got home, her ability to nurse every few hours day and night made me wonder if she was an elf of some sort. She’s frequently tired, but apparently no longer actually needs sleep—it’s a luxury she’s willing to do without if it’s time for a feeding, or if Clem is just feeling a little sad. She cleans the house, makes meals, says crazy things to our baby, and essentially holds things together while her innards are, medically speaking, being completely restructured. She pulls energy from reserves I’m pretty sure she doesn’t actually have. Every day, I’m literally in awe.

Babies throw schedules off…
I thought I’d be back at peak productivity the Monday after Clem was born. I was wrong.

…but it’s a fair trade.
Having a child is amazing. Sometimes it’s exhausting, sometimes confusing, sometimes even mundane, but when I look at her and she’s smiling—she has beautiful gums—I smile too. When I see her make an expression I recognize, I inwardly (and sometimes outwardly) rejoice. I tell Liz about everything novel thing I see, and she graciously pretends she hasn’t seen it all while putting in her several hours a day of nursing. Clem has crazy hair, loves to pucker, sometimes tosses her head back like a snob, rarely cries, makes noises like a velociraptor, sleeps well sometimes, is capable shooting feces several feet, has no idea what’s going on but sometimes gives me a grumpy look anyway, knows nothing about the world and I wish I could keep it that way. There’s just no way to express it. Having a baby isn’t an explosion—it’s a series of incremental but permanent shifts that never stop and never slow down, every one of which shapes this little human who will someday be an adult. And it’s only been three weeks.