Allowances
№53 — All Our Pain (demo)
organizing an accident is a once-weekly newsletter where I leak home demos of unreleased songs, first draft lyrics, thoughts on the creative process, and dispatches from music life in Paris.
Listen to “All Our Pain” (demo):
This song was written on October 22, 2019
I have not written one song since my mom died.
😑
In fact, I haven’t written much of anything. Just a few lines to accompany these song demos, and, with each passing week, their ever-aging time stamps are not lost on me at all.
When she died, nothing made sense for three days. My brain and body malfunctioned. With little warning, I would produce jarring, animalistic groans foreign to my ears. I was not liberated by this total loss of control; rather, in such a state, the stakes were only heightened due to the uncertainty of when my son would be born. It was three weeks before his due date. In Paris. I was going to New Jersey.
I left town immediately. Standing inside the entrance of Orly airport, its network of gates and checkpoints proved labyrinthine. The departures board read like a set of indecipherable code. The line for security was a conveyor belt to hell, where of course, they chose to take my baggage aside for inspection. But in about twelve hours, I would be reunited with my family. So I put my sunglasses on, glanced at my phone—37 unread messages—and slogged forward.
In the days and weeks that followed, creative expression was inconceivable. Fragile with beginner's grief, I felt as if my inner life force had been mildly electrocuted. Returning to Paris, I threw myself into busy work and focused on mentally and logistically preparing for the baby. When he was born, it was like being strapped with electrode pads, defibrillated by the attending nurses, and transported somewhere above the grief into that other, most all-encompassing emotional journey that a human can experience.
Now, three months on, obliterated by joy, I’m looking back from the other side of the longest break I’ve taken from writing music since I began two decades ago. In many ways, it’s been welcome. It has felt like being a dad is all I could do these last months, but more importantly, it's all I've wanted to do. Not that I’ve really had a choice. I’ve been quietly overthrown by a new, benevolent leader and the peaceful transfer of power has taken all of me.
I find myself writing this down not to excuse myself from the expectations of others, but from those within me. Insofar as songwriting has become my entire identity, this internal dialogue has at times been less amicable. Acknowledging in this moment that I prefer not to make music is antithetical to the lie I’ve sold myself over the years, of suffering always harder in pursuit of the art, when I probably could’ve used a breather.
I know it’s been less than one football season since the death of my mother and the birth of my first child. A one-year sabbatical from literally everything would be warranted. I like to imagine these first quiet days, holding Otto on the couch with a coffee or a book in my hand, lasting forever. Be that as it may, entangled within this sentiment is a growing restlessness. And personally, I like what that implies. Creative vagaries are beginning to infiltrate my nervous system. My mind is abuzz. However, this time around, I need to come to terms with the fact that it isn’t melody I’m hearing. The truth is, it may not be music alone that accompanies me through this new chapter of my life. And why must it be?
I’m making allowances for myself to settle longer into this wilderness. I’m prioritizing fatherhood, health, and uncharted creativity. Soon too, I’ll write new songs. I’ll also finally record that album I’ve been working on. But not today. ◍
From the vault
What I’m listening to this week
You can pay a visit to my previous demos and writing via the Substack archive + find my official music releases on Spotify, Apple, or your platform of choice. Stalk me across socials at @thisryanegan.
With love,
Ryan
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This is a really beautiful post, Ryan — I hope that you are able to find solace and rest in the pause. Don't beat yourself up about it — you're doing exactly what you need to be doing. You're refilling the cup. Sending you all my best.