death cab for cutie: the lullaby that soothed me and kept me safe (new recording 21, 11/9 5:27 pm est - diary under construction)

I’ve added a recording. Death Cab matters just as much as Phoebe and Claire.

The following was written in a state of sadness. Now I have overcome that sadness: I see death cab for cutie in their full radiance. Death cab for cutie kept me safe and watched over me as I recovered from fundamentalism, dreamed about a better life, and traveled the world. A diary to do them justice is to come; for now please listen to the recording for an update on my love for them. I love you death cab. ❤️ you complete the trifecta that saved me.

I often noticed the echoes of your music in Phoebe’s ❤️

---

Death cab for cutie was my favorite band for years: I listened to them relentlessly, from the moment I stopped being a fundamentalist Christian at the end of 2004 toward the moment I left DC in 2012, and then they began to fade away, creeping most forcefully into my ears in Berlin July 2011, India November 2014, and sometimes when I would be on plane rides across the ocean, which is too many times to count. Transatlanticism matters to me.

I can’t write about it.

I just think about a girl who maybe doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore — the only person with whom I ever truly shared their music, gone, because of me.

And I just think about how I listened to death cab when I was scared of the dark and couldn’t fall asleep; when I was dreaming about romance I couldn’t find; when I was yearning for heartbreak that I didn’t understand; when I was alone for countless hours in my bedroom at home, where my parents never asked me a single question about my musical interests, where I tried to learn piano and gave up.

I wish that was it.

There’s a worse memory now, the trifecta is complete: another girl, I met her during one of the worst weeks of my life, the week before Charm by Clairo released.

That week, I was at a wedding, and I was completely terrified of everything and everyone. I looked handsome in my suit; I hated myself. My hair was long and pretty; I felt a necessity to maintain it within neat masculine bounds and I didn’t even have a fucking scrunchie. What about my family? I was too scared to talk to anyone but my wife and sister-in-law.

Repeatedly throughout the night, people came up to me and tried to be friendly. They asked me questions. They gave me compliments. They smiled.

And every single time, I walked away.

Literally: they smiled at me, and I walked away until no one dared smile at me again.

I sat in groups dead silent, knowing for a fact that I’d hate myself the moment I opened my mouth.

And then, at the very end of the night, a blonde girl who had smiled at me so many times finally told me:

“Death Cab for cutie was my favorite band in college.”

Immediately, for the first time that night, I smiled genuinely at a stranger

Then she left: it was time to watch football with her husband.

For the rest of the night,

I was miserable:

Connection, lost.

butterfly rising #3: fuck israel, fuck the new york times, fuck fundamentalist "christianity", and FREE PALESTINE