the absence of my presence.

it's a fairly common observation among my clan that sometimes, when i am performing, i seem very far away; this one in particular is consistently telling me to just forget about the technical, to just tell the damn story when i'm singing.

just tell the story.

and realistically, telling the story is something i have immense difficulty with. for a while i wasn't wholly sure why, but it's undeniable: when i'm on stage, i have a worrying tendency to go on to autopilot. for ages i thought it had to do with my concerns over my guitar-playing abilities, and the startling consistency with which my performance suffers if i start to think too much about what i'm doing--overthinking makes already clumsy fingers clumsier. recently, however, i'm thinking a little differently about it; right now, i'm starting to realize that a certain amount of absence on stage is a defense mechanism, self-defense against a vulnerability that i've masked over the years with big words and catchy choruses. against the fact that when i sing my songs, i offer the world my heart on a platter. and it scares the living fuck out of me.

the penny dropped last night, when a friend asked that i play a few songs for him. i ran through some of the slow songs, the ones that still sound good when it's just girl and guitar. i sang some of my best-loved pieces, realizing with each passing song that it was getting harder and harder to look him in the eye. that i was growing increasingly mortified by my own music, by these shimmering melodies that held the perfect crystallization of my feelings. by these things i was so proud of, that had helped me so much as i wrote them.

i didn't have words to express how uncomfortable i grew in the course of my little concert, as the realization dawned that he was really listening to the songs, that he was following the stories and could see the scars they'd left. that through them he could see what i really am, what i've been through. and it was jarring in the extreme.

that, i suppose, is the great contradiction. i hang my horrors out for everyone to see, distilling wrenching emotions down to 200 proof, but i can't stand to really consider the fact that they're being scrutinized; i can't bear to deliver the item i've so lovingly crafted, because you might see it. and in turn see me. i'm thinking this is why it must sometimes seem that i'm in another room when i'm performing. because it scares me too much to really be there.

the irony of this all being, of course, that the major reason people seem to respond to my music is because it's so honest. it is my feelings, my heart, my twisted soul, held up for your scrutiny. for your recognition as something you've been through, too.

i wish i could ask you to listen, but not to look.