Hell to Home
a three season mix
gods I wish I were a musician
this past year has been one of striving, of getting beat down and climbing back up, of learning, of bleeding, of setting fire to one I love, of being set on fire, of ripping scabs off infected wounds, pouring hydrogen peroxide all over them and watching the bubbles fizz, of seeing myself in the mirror and losing my breath to horror… of remembering flight, and deep oceans. Of being embraced with immeasurable love and realizing I didn’t need to reject it, that maybe even I… well…
this past year has been one of finding home.
This year, I had three MRIs with contrast, hoping for no growth.
This year, I found a really skilled practitioner and went through an intensive new therapy process, hoping for growth.
This year I finished an excruciating, five thousand dollar, year-long process of dentistry school fuck-ups, extracting my four front teeth, shaving down to the literal nerve the two teeth on either side, having chunks of gum cut out and bone implanted (those who speak with dentists will have a corpse in their mouth), and finally getting an 8-point-bridge as a bulwark against gum problems I’ve been having for over 20 years.
This year, like the prior two years, I wrestled with senseless bureaucracies. They were simultaneously windmills, giants, and puffs of smoke that would materialize behind you to tie your shoelaces together while you weren’t looking. I did this to get healthcare and to pay for groceries; both resources will probably be gone by the end of the year.
You don’t get any treatments for the extreme amount of anxiety these bureaucracies intentionally produce. Neither, we are told, do teeth and gums count as a part of healthcare. I suppose when we flap our jaws, that entire section flies away from us, disembodied. Dealing with the complex trauma of an abusive childhood and the survival mechanisms that have become harmful for me and those close to me – this too is something other than health.
The MRIs, at least, were paid for.
This year, I spoke with my mom. Good and truly. About how we each lived through the violence, how it repercussed in our fractured connection. It’s a raw thing to do the hard work, the blood work, the ripping and stitching. It’s a beautiful thing to cry once you can imagine what healing might feel like. It’s indescribable, to find that someone who hurt you, someone you’ve decided to trust one last time, has been doing the same work these years past.
This year, for months at a time I worked 7 days a week, accelerating from unemployment to landscaping, then freelance writing and driving an old folks’ bus. And then a surprising job that has taken me far away: a month in, it has paid nothing, and the thousands of dollars in promised reimbursements for transportation costs and a new rent has not yet materialized. But the people are heartwarming, intelligent, sincere, thorough, and I trust we’ll overcome the anonymous accounting department ensconced at some unseen distance.
This year, after decades of adaptation to scarcity, I let myself wish for abundance, and build towards it.
This year, I got to sink my hands in the earth, to plant where I trust roots may take and blossoms bloom year after year, no landlord to come by with pesticides and a weedwhacker. I got to do this because someone I love could trust I’m still growing, because she made me hear myself, because she let me help her disentangle past narratives from the new stories we were writing. Because we were true in that early feeling that we were home. We just had no idea then, the paths we’d have to walk in order to find it.
So many times this year, when I’ve been broken, when I’ve been dancing, when I’ve been crying, when I’ve been joyful, when I’ve been lucky, when I’ve wanted death to find me quicker, when I’ve felt so full of love, when I couldn’t tell what the fuck I was feeling, I wished—so fervently—that I could sing. That I could make music. What a fucking curse, to have to kick these mute words about.
In a way, these are my songs, from the year going by.
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This is not a playlist. This is a mix. Apps can’t make mixes. AI can’t make mixes. If a robot tries to give you a mix, tell it to fuck itself. Only people who remember the days of cassette tapes, of rewinding and fastforwarding, or amongst the youngers condemned to inferior technologies, those who spend days anguishing over the transition from one song to the next, who would refuse to let an algorithm make that decision for them: only we can speak of mixes.
Mixes are acts of love, of care, they are hands held out by cultural elders inviting you to a shared world, they are suggestions of, let’s be besties, they are sure signs that, oh my gosh, this might be love. (And for oversharing, ineloquent writers, they’re just a window, a better way to share, to say, this is what I’ve been feeling, in case you’ve been feeling anything similar.)
I want to share it with you. It’s on my Spotify account, AlanLea, just search for the title of this newsletter. And, if you’re able to find songs independent of that wretched corporation, here’s the track list:
Radical Face, “Welcome Home, Son”
Indigo De Souza, “How I Get Myself Killed”
Metric, “Twilight Galaxy”
Alice Boman, “Waiting”
Neko Case, “I Wish I Was the Moon”
Bob Dylan, “Girl from the North Country”
Chicho Sánchez Ferlosio, “Canción de Soldados”
John Prine, “Paradise”
St. Vincent, “Fast Slow Disco”
The Postal Service, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight”
Mr Little Jeans, “The Suburbs”
Lorn, “Sega Sunset”
Oklou, Casey MQ, “Lurk”
Frédéric Chopin, Marizio Pollini, “Nocturne No.15 in F Minor, Op.55 No.1”
Sigrid, Four Tet, “Sucker Punch – Four Tet Remix”
Zammuto, “My Dog’s Eyes”
KNEECAP, “Sick in the Head”
James, “Laid”
Brooke Candy, Only Fire, “Yoga”
Rosalía, The Weeknd, “LA FAMA”
Cariño, “tamagotchi”
Zammuto, “It Can Feel So Good”
John Murphy, “Adagio in D Minor”
Ezra Collective, Yazmin Lacey, “God Gave Me Feet for Dancing”
Liz Phair, “Whip-Smart”
Other Lives, “As I Lay My Head Down”
This Is The Kit, “Birchwood Beaker”
Daughter, “Youth”
Hole, “Doll Parts”
The Weeknd, “The Hills”
Tegan and Sara, “Where Does the Good Go”
The Weakerthans, “Left and Leaving”
Jolie Holland, “I Wanna Die”
Labi Siffre, “Bless the Telephone”
First Aid Kit, “Emmylou”
The xx, “Angels”
Iron & Wine, “Each Coming Night”
Tim Curry, Richard O’Brien, “I’m Going Home”
Explosions In The Sky, “First Breath After Coma”
Big love from a fellow mix maker. And if you ever feel like creating an actually mixed version, meaning a .mp3-file that people can download (but probably won't, because spotify), i can give you some pointers on software, tricks and hosting. It's a lot of fun.
I love you. And you *can* sing!! 💓