To keep my butt in the chair while I’m writing, I’ve tried coffee, gummy worms, and a good pen. Most important, though, is a haunting memory. It could haunt me because it’s sorrowful or scary, joyous or hilarious, but if I don’t have that memory, no amount of extra dark roast will do.
That memory is usually messy and embarrassing—which is why it haunts. It’s a challenge to work with, making me so uncomfortable I’m tempted to put down my pen. But I must write; I must tell the story.
Believe it or not, Willie Nelson helped me understand a few things about memories and stories. The night I went to see him receive the Gershwin Prize for Popular Song given by the Library of Congress, ol’ Willie taught me a thing or two about storytelling.
Sing, Dance, Clap
Neil Young and his buddies opened with Willie’s song “Whiskey River.” They called for whiskey to do its thing, borrowing Willie’s line about not letting memory “torture” him. They sang while strumming on guitars and stomping their boots. Young wore a suede duster, and the fringe would swing to the beat of the music. Watching him, I wondered whether dancing to a strong beat helped lessen the torture of a haunting memory. Sitting in the audience, stomping my feet and bopping my head, I thought maybe it could.
Young and his friends sang the invitation to stay, to stay all night. They moved across the stage, huddled almost, each man taking a turn on his guitar while the others seemed to protectively riff along with him—more quietly so the guy who was playing would shine, but loud enough he was supported. They strummed their guitars, sharing what messed with their hearts while crafting with friends something fun and beautiful.
That memory still might torture us, but we can clap along to it.
The boys on stage inspired Senators and Congressman to dance in the aisles—I’d never seen so many Type A-ers do-si-doing in their Capitol Hill wear. One woman who’d wrapped her mate’s red tie around her head shouted, “Willie Nelson fans are crazy!”
Imperfection
Willie says, “My kind of singing isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to reflect the imperfections of a human being, like me.” I thought about his song, “Always on My Mind.” Here’s a narrator basically apologizing for all the things he’s done wrong to a loved one, but saying she was always on his mind. Then he asks her to tell him her sweet love hasn’t died. This song was #5 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1980. It was the Song of the Year in 1983, and won a Grammy for best male country vocal performance in 1982.
Sitting down to write about doing wrong by someone I adore, then making it public, makes me more uncomfortable than being chased by a yellow jacket. But this song sets out to do what Willie says about storytelling: reflect our imperfections. Perhaps reflecting our imperfections is the only storytelling that matters.
The Raw Poetry of Storytelling
Singers the likes of Edie Brickell, Alison Krause, and Jamey Johnson sang Willie’s songs as he sat off to the left of the stage at the DAR Constitution Hall and listened to accolade after accolade. I have forgotten who said it, but during the praises someone mentioned that Willie was willing to “wander through the raw poetry of time.” I scribbled that down.
I skimmed through his songs on the concert’s brochure. “Georgia on my Mind, ” “Let It Be Me, ” and “On the Road Again” were just a slice of titles on a long list. I wondered how these songs started out, and what Willie decided to wander through to write them.
After a while, Willie walked on stage to receive his award. With a seating capacity of 3, 702, the concert hall was not large; I had a good view of the man I’d always thought was a little freaky with his long blond-white braids and red bandanna. This concert, though, changed the way I thought of him. In a short time, I’d grown attached to his story and his music, and watching him walk on stage made me nervous—for Pete’s sake, the man’s in his late 80s.
When he spoke, he sounded frail and a little overwhelmed. I wondered whether that weakness came from age, or from all those stories—all that raw poetry. I’ve had a few of my essays out in the world, and while I love hearing that my work resonates with others, I’m also exhausted when a story spreads its wings and tries to fly. It’s not just wandering through raw poetry that is work—it’s sitting with it, turning it over, pushing and pulling it, thumbing dents in it until it becomes something that leaves us, and leaves us breathless.
A Storyteller in His Element
Willie thanked the audience, thanked the singers for their performance, thanked the appropriate DCers for the award. It was a short speech, and I thought, “Oh gosh, he needs to get to bed.” Then he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to play for a while.” And with the agility of Michael Jordan when he flew through the air, tongue out, ready to slam dunk, Willie pivoted, grabbed Trigger, his guitar, and transformed. Watching his fingers picking at the strings, I knew I was watching a legend.
Accepting our imperfections and sharing them—whatever they are, and whatever shape we are in—as gifts, as offerings, is hard work. Maybe we need more than a swig of java to get through it—maybe a shot or two of whiskey really does help with this process. Whiskey, and some good music.
That night in the DAR Constitution Hall on D Street, old Willie Nelson showed me you can have a sorrowful, shameful, sad, haunting memory and still stomp your boots, wiggle your hips, and clap to the beat of that memory’s music. And sing. Yes, you can sing.
Photo by Photo4jenifer, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.
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L. L. Barkat says
In the midst of all the fun words here and the colorful descriptions, this just seemed to stand out as something timeless and time-arresting:
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to play for a while.”
That. Let’s do just that.
Callie Feyen says
I suppose I sound melodramatic when I write this, but when he said that I felt a shift; like I was on the brink of something magical. It’s probably because I really hadn’t paid any mind to him before that night. I think learning about his work, and hearing him being celebrated made the anticipation of him playing that much sweeter.
Yes, I think play for a while is exactly the thing we ought to do.
Ann Kroeker says
You know I believe in the power of play!
Callie Feyen says
Girl, I know you do! And I am so thankful to have joined in on this. What’s on the docket for March? 🙂
Sandra Heska King says
“When he spoke, he sounded frail and a little overwhelmed. I wondered whether that weakness came from age, or from all those stories—all that raw poetry.”
“Accepting our imperfections and sharing them—whatever they are, and whatever shape we are in—as gifts, as offerings, is hard work.”
Mulling over these sentences. And I’m all for playing.
(Willie was supposed to play here a couple years ago to benefit the local senior center in this little town. The center advertised widely and sold out tickets. But then… Willie had a shoulder problem or something so it was rescheduled for several months later. And then cancelled. He never played here.)
Callie Feyen says
Hi Sandra,
I’m very interested (concerned?) in the toll telling stories takes on our souls. It’s a good toll, don’t you think? I think though, that walking through them, then crafting them into something shareable is tough work. I’m thankful for the work, but I think I’m beginning to understand what it means to offer them to others.
I’m sorry to hear he couldn’t play that day. I hope you cross paths again. 🙂
Donna says
I love love LOVE this, Callie, and I’ve got goosebumps to prove it.
It is what he GIVES that brings people to him and his music over and over again – his raw self, it seems – go all in or go home, right? Wow, did you capture that! Just beautiful.
Callie Feyen says
Donna, I’m so glad you liked it, and I consider a reader getting goosebumps the highest of compliments. Thank you!
Yes, go all in or go home. I’d like to be all in.
Bethany Rohde says
“Most important, though, is a haunting memory. It could haunt me because it’s sorrowful or scary, joyous or hilarious, but if I don’t have that memory, no amount of extra dark roast will do.”
I’m intrigued by how your “haunting memories” can come from both negative and positive experiences. It’s a new angle on those moments that have stuck emotionally. I’m going to ruminate on that a bit. Thanks, Callie.
Callie Feyen says
Hi Bethany,
I’d say I’m still pretty new at this writing thing, but when I first started trying to do this seriously, I had a terrible time writing conflict. I wanted to tie everything up in a nice, neat bow. What a bore my stories were! So I had this great mentor, Paula Huston, who would say as aggressively gentle as possible, “SAY IT, CALLIE! JUST SAY IT!” She showed me that when I did say the thing I was afraid to say (or write, in this case), I could see there was much than just the sad or the scary.
So I try to apply that to the happy and the funny. I suppose I try to make those memories haunt me in a “Casper the friendly ghost” sort of way. They linger in a bittersweet sort of way.
Bethany says
Thanks for the thoughtful reply, Callie. I chuckled at the “aggressively gentle” description. Yes, I like the encouragement to go ahead and write that fuller perspective: how things really are/feel. They’re not usually tidy. That is something I want to remember in my writing too.
Megan Willome says
I grew up on Willie (I’m from Austin). Went to many a Fourth of July picnic. Still listen to his newer stuff. His guitar, Trigger, is a living testimony to the beauty of imperfection, with that big ol’ hole adding to the tone.
I think my favorite Willie song is “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain,” although the guitar intro to “Angel Flying too Close to the Ground” slays me.
Callie Feyen says
“living testimony to the beauty of imperfection.” I love that. Are you a poet? You must be a poet.
I agree with you on the guitar intro to “Angel Flying too Close to the Ground.” It slays me, too. Although, so does the title.
Megan Willome says
Am I poet? Well, I write some poetry. And yes, the title alone on that song.
In his later years, he’s been doing lots of collaborations, and I love those. Especially a big fan of “Two Men With the Blues” with Wynton Marsalis.
Rick Maxson says
Raw Poetry is this essay, Callie Feyen! With your words and reflections you say as much about yourself as you do Willie Nelson. This is so many things: moving, informative, entertaining. You took us there as only the best writing can do.
Thanks you for writing this real story.
Callie Feyen says
Hi Rick,
Thank you so much for your kind words! I am thrilled to learn that what I wrote is “raw poetry.” Your words really encouraged me, and will stay with me for a long time.
Thank you for reading it!
-Callie
Tania Runyan says
Callie, I turned on a Willie station then saw this link in my Every Day Poems email. Perfect timing, and wonderful work! I am just now discovering the magic of this kind of music after a lifetime of snobbery. I’m so glad I “discovered” it!
Katie says
Callie,
I learned so much from this post!
“But this song [Always On My Mind] sets out to do what Willie says about storytelling: reflect our imperfections. Perhaps reflecting our imperfections is the only storytelling that matters.”
I know I will often be reflecting on this bit of wisdom.
Gratefully,
Katie