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chapbook by damien jordanLoading...
Copyright © CHS Chapbooks 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without permission from the author.Loading...
All photos from the National Geographic ArchivesLoading...
"I don't know how to function without music. When I'm not making it, I'm listening to it. It gives me courage and takes care of my mind."
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- billie eilishpreface
in may of 2019, i went to a songwriting workshop, and the first thing they asked us was why we wrote songs. they encouraged us to answer, out loud or in our notebooks. just to “get the creative juices flowing”.
ninth grade me thought it was very lame, and did not care at all. i guess it worked though because here i am writing this chapbook about it.
so what is songwriting to me? why do i do this to myself?
is it because i crave torment via abelton live’s completely incomprehensible interface?
potentially.
or perhaps it’s because i wish to bathe in the material wealth that comes with industry success?
once again, maybe.
but i think it’s an outlet. actually, i know it’s an outlet. like a verbal tear duct or something, where i can wash out all my thoughts into the vacuum of space.
it’s about feelings, figuring things out, dreams, and memories.
jump. gravity. escape. return.
ninth grade me thought it was very lame, and did not care at all. i guess it worked though because here i am writing this chapbook about it.
so what is songwriting to me? why do i do this to myself?
is it because i crave torment via abelton live’s completely incomprehensible interface?
potentially.
or perhaps it’s because i wish to bathe in the material wealth that comes with industry success?
once again, maybe.
but i think it’s an outlet. actually, i know it’s an outlet. like a verbal tear duct or something, where i can wash out all my thoughts into the vacuum of space.
it’s about feelings, figuring things out, dreams, and memories.
jump. gravity. escape. return.
In the room.
it's white. when he opens his eyes, and he's standing in the room.
an emptiness so bright yet so suffocating that it tugs on his lungs as the light drowns the caves of his pupils.
in the room he thinks.
the walls don't reach him, and his thoughts can't reach them, so the stalemate hangs him in limbo. is it limbo? he thinks but the answer is too quick to catch.
some things are best left unknown.
an emptiness so bright yet so suffocating that it tugs on his lungs as the light drowns the caves of his pupils.
in the room he thinks.
the walls don't reach him, and his thoughts can't reach them, so the stalemate hangs him in limbo. is it limbo? he thinks but the answer is too quick to catch.
some things are best left unknown.
1
in the room he sits. sometimes he stands, but today he sits, and limbo hands him a model train, with which he traces scars while he sits. he can't see the floor. but he can see his hands, and they spin the miniature wheels across his forearms.
in the room he walks.
there are no trails or paths or walkways. so he walks for days; no floor, no ceiling, just his hands and his feet and his arms and his legs and he can't see his face. he walks anyways.
sometimes the silence makes his ears bleed.
sometimes it lets him sleep.
in the room he exists.
he knows there's a door. every night he steps through it, and it's yellow, six panelled, white trimmed. every night it's not there behind him.
sometimes he stands in the doorway. in the room, he puts one foot. on the dirt, the other. and sometimes he stands like this for hours in a trade of one limbo for another.
in the room he stares. out, into the void. limbo watches him, studies him, and hands him back a notebook filled with lines. up and down. left and right. in and out. he writes to a blank page that he won't be back tomorrow.
he is.
in the room he walks.
there are no trails or paths or walkways. so he walks for days; no floor, no ceiling, just his hands and his feet and his arms and his legs and he can't see his face. he walks anyways.
sometimes the silence makes his ears bleed.
sometimes it lets him sleep.
in the room he exists.
he knows there's a door. every night he steps through it, and it's yellow, six panelled, white trimmed. every night it's not there behind him.
sometimes he stands in the doorway. in the room, he puts one foot. on the dirt, the other. and sometimes he stands like this for hours in a trade of one limbo for another.
in the room he stares. out, into the void. limbo watches him, studies him, and hands him back a notebook filled with lines. up and down. left and right. in and out. he writes to a blank page that he won't be back tomorrow.
he is.
2
cityscape
mid october
fogged up glasses and empty buses
chocolate stains and moving boxes
piled up against my wall
i could never quite
pinpoint the moment when i
decided here was where i
wanted to stay, in your arms
past november
the lanterns rot into december
covering the decent weather
with snow and mistletoe above
smoke and static
empty cups up in your attic
sense regret before i have it
just want to be all alone
in the dark
in my dreams i see
the neon signs of city life and freedom
in my hopes i’ve got
a map pinned on the wall
growing up,
like having spiders in your blood
and a photo of a loved one on the table
grey obsessions
messed up hopes and moral lessons
losing words to my confessions
pushing back against it all
fogged up glasses and empty buses
chocolate stains and moving boxes
piled up against my wall
i could never quite
pinpoint the moment when i
decided here was where i
wanted to stay, in your arms
past november
the lanterns rot into december
covering the decent weather
with snow and mistletoe above
smoke and static
empty cups up in your attic
sense regret before i have it
just want to be all alone
in the dark
in my dreams i see
the neon signs of city life and freedom
in my hopes i’ve got
a map pinned on the wall
growing up,
like having spiders in your blood
and a photo of a loved one on the table
grey obsessions
messed up hopes and moral lessons
losing words to my confessions
pushing back against it all
3