Ode to "Paul"

I open my phone into any app in my device that holds the minute-long pieces of my life and soul. This time it is a streaming app and the limits of music seem endless. There are alleys and tunnels that take you through clicks and likes and radios to the very corners of the stream.

They flow in the algo-rhythm.

I sometimes let the algo-rhythm do its thing. I hold on to the waves of the Wi-Fi and let my headphones sail into the depths of the currents, and the more alternatives. I claim I like them “indie”. The algo-rhythm is often smooth and while I write or handle whatever task I must at a given time, the smoothness of the tracks is the perfect background to slide.

Other times, I am an active holder of my device. I skip and move the little white ball back and forth in its line, if my ear is feeling impatient.

I hate skipping and trimming my experience of songs this way, but with a sense of little time and little storage, sometimes I channel an attitude of rationalization. I don’t really like it when my mind and earbuds are in the mood of cutting such experience short.

My relationship with music tracks is one of duality where some make me think and feel, and others do the exact opposite. These latter examples let me be in a different way, which is also important. Some of my songs I let float free within my saved, and some also have the privilege of holding a spot in a playlist, for easy access. My playlists are all made up of fifty songs, different genres. As a playlist advances, often so does my life.

This playlist organization gives me the power of holding a perfect number of moods, usually held in a period of 3-6 weeks. It freezes this time in the songs selected, and together as a pack, they are lived and then revisited. After some time goes by, I try to recall who I was when I saved these songs. I try to remember how they saved me.

This is a difficult exercise, for an evolving self often implies impermanence, and imperfection can include the judging of a past self. Other times, it listens in embrace and compliance. Sometimes in forgiveness, and others in pride. Also, in simple acknowledgement.

In the brisk of a new playlist birth, I am still engaging with the pieces I chose this time. The new fifty are still earning their permanence. I was watching a movie today when a song of these came to mind in an exquisite way. Its name was simply “Paul”.

Paul is a boy in the most mundane of ways. He is the singer’s love interest and he sounds sweet. One of those creatures that makes your chest sigh in both wonder and guilt, for he projects a kind of pureness. He is painfully dreamy.

“Paul” is less about Paul than it is about the singer’s character in the song's story. It is star-cross chaos.

“Paul” is slow, and its sound is swift. It talks about insecurity and vulnerability. In its crescendos, it unravels the anxiety of closeness and opening-up. It approaches with unease the comfort of settling down.

The song is musical glitter in the corner of a make-down eye (as supposed to up). It is like freshly cut old grass in the front lawn of a suburb. It is walking on the curves of a vinyl. It is a song that stripped from the pain of lyrics leaves the clarity of emotion. It is one that makes me wonder away, and I picture holding my boyfriend in his old living room as we dance with our eyes closed. With feet gently tumbling and lips magnetically close. Bodies in slow motion and faces in delight.

It is a piece for tears I want to enjoy because it reminds me of my fragility, of my humanity. It reminds me of love, of trust, and their whirl. It reminds me of how deep I can delve into just one of the fifty pieces of my self this month, and just three minutes of my own timelessness. It is delicious to catch a song out of the blue and feel it all like velvet in the skin again.

I had a moment, 30 minutes into January 7th when the sounds of Big Thief rocked me to wokeness. I heard the pain in the vocals struggling to open-up, even vocalize sometimes, and her stubborn belief that no one can “kiss away [her] shit”.

“But let Paul help you”, I thought. My Paul helped me.

I was overthrown with a deep nostalgia and sympathy. A long time ago, I would’ve said kisses are but airy gestures of confusion. At that time, I’d say that Paul would only hurt himself by holding on to a hand that does not want to be held, and he is naïve to act oblivious to the pain he’ll be inflicted by a conflicted someone, regardless of fascination.

Today, in bed, holding my phone, reading the lyrics in the screen through the twinkle of my water droplets, I took in the tragedy of not wanting to be loved for fear of hurting ourselves and others. As I inhaled, I felt the pain of pushing a loving someone away for their protection, attempting to save a gentle soul like Paul from getting hurt. I felt the bittersweet feeling that comes with letting go of a person so determined to love, only to keep one’s mess in our own fenced yard.

Today, I think of my Paul and how the only way of keeping him out of that mess, is to let go of my yard fence and let him help me pick the shit up.

I think of my Paul and how I’ve told him that closeness is both my thrill and nightmare. Of how the beauty of this song is tainted with the ghosts of my fears. I think of his beauty and the pureness of his love, but also of my internal struggle in letting myself be loved this way.

A long time ago, I would’ve skipped this song. Too painful. Listen to something new. I would keep swimming in the stream avoiding the algo-rhythm that so desperately wants me to face my inner duel through indie music. So many other songs, different lyrics, different melodies that will better flow and make me forget.

Today, I faced this song with open earbuds and an open heart. I delved into the lyrics after feeling its melody transmitting a certain yearn (for love) but could not escape the pain of commitment. I could feel the voice scared, although she did not quiver. She was mourning a love she pushed away: “And I've been burning for you baby since the minute I left”.

Today I thought of my Paul in the most beautiful sense. In love and gratitude. I wiped my face with my blanket, and after writing a bit of this piece in my Notes app I texted him about my moment. I was proud of letting him in.