A Work Dream and an Iggy Pop Song with a Shared Single Interpretation

I don’t remember the last time a dream was such a clear personal metaphor. And I’ve never had one kick my ass.

Last night’s dream was nearly a nightmare, despite being free from threats of violence or grisly horror scenes. It sewed deep discomfort through spare details and a twisted fish-out-of-water setting. It was my first day with a new employer, I was working in an office again, and no one had a computer at their desk.

If there’d been an orientation or training, it was in a previous, forgotten dream installment. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. I sat at my desk, surrounded by other desks and employees (in dreaded “open workspace” arrangement), and snuck glances at my neighbors for clues on what action items I should be actioning on. No one offered to help me settle in. No one looked at me. 

A coffee-table-sized book lay open before me. I flipped its pages back and forth, seeking some context for my job duties. The words and paragraphs meant nothing to me.

I searched the desktop for anything familiar—a pen, a notebook, a coffee cup—but there was only my large book. I tried to study its blocks of copy but could glean nothing. Needles of panic began stabbing me.

I turned to the person stationed to my right and dared a question: “Is reading this book my job?”

The other employee, a nondescript man, shot me an impatient look and turned back to his book. He also said something—his mouth clearly carved the words—but I heard no voice. He spoke again while turning a page, but made no sound.

Across the room, someone walked between workstations with their big book clutched like a satchel. I debated going to them and asking the same question. Then two others: Where’s my computer? Shouldn’t I be writing something? But my panic was now immobilizing, its needles pinning me to my chair.

Then I woke up.

---

I've thought a lot about work lately. About what I’m contributing. How I’m growing professionally (or not). What I’m writing. What I’m not. How my career trajectory looks.

I could rhapsodize on these topics, but there’s no need now. My dream made it undeniable: I’m feeling lost and useless. I have to wake up and find my way, find intention. I have to find the words that can lead me to more writing, more work. (And income, can’t forget that minor point.)

Fittingly, writing the words above brought to mind a few lines penned and sung-spoken by Iggy Pop in “Paraguay,” off his 2016 Queens of the Stone Age collaboration Post Pop Depression:

There’s nothing awesome here

Not a damn thing, there’s nothing new

Just a bunch of people scared

Everybody’s fucking scared

Fear eats all the souls at once

Iggy paints a pretty nightmarish picture here, and his brushstrokes only get darker, and snarlier, as the song chugs to its furious shouted conclusion. 

Like my dream, there’s a single clear message in “Paraguay.” The dreamer/writer/character in both worlds needs to take action, to grow. To get hustling. Iggy’s solution is to literally walk away from everything and find solace and direction elsewhere—“I’m gonna go heal myself now.”

My solution? TBD, but waking up is an essential part of the equation. Here’s to 2025.

Remembering (My Interview with) Chris Cornell and His Creative Aspiration

On April 27, 2009, I met Chris Cornell in his downtown Seattle Four Seasons suite. His decidedly non-rock record Scream had recently been released and I was there to talk with him about artistry and expectations.

The meeting was a big deal; the publication was small and Cornell was famous. Timbaland had produced him. Trent Reznor had publicly dissed him. Millions had opinions on his chest and his past hairstyles. He had a beefy bodyguard who met me in the well-appointed hotel lobby. He had a handler who hashed out the logistics with me by phone. (This was, endearingly and surprisingly, his wife.)  

Cornell was a bona fide rock star, a one percenter even among his elite peers.  

And, yes, I was a fan.

Soundgarden and Singles and Euphoria Morning (the known spelling of the time) fandom didn't factor into my experience or interview with Cornell, though. He was one of my musical heroes, yes, but I didn't want to be that guy. I doubt he or his wife or bodyguard would have appreciated it, either.

So his muscle and his spouse stepped out and Cornell and I sat, me facing a wide expanse of Puget Sound mirroring a mostly clear sky, he facing the room perpendicular to me, and talked. He wore a t-shirt and jeans and black, loose-topped boots. He ran a hand through his (again long) hair occasionally. He cordially offered me a bottled water, answered questions, and let his eyes continually sink to the floor.

I was boring the guy. My agreed-upon time allotment was shrinking. Aside from personal, mind-blown awe at the circumstances, I wasn't getting much juice. I hadn't asked anything to elicit a thoughtful, sincere, weighty response from an artist whose gravitas and voice alone had helped change the world.

Not exactly diverging from my planned questions but jumping forward without a graceful segue, I said something about how Scream and Euphoria Morning were alike in that they took you somewhere you didn't expect Chris Cornell to take you. He looked up. He leaned forward from his reclined (disinterested?) pose on the sofa. His eyes widened and locked on mine. The energy in the big, quiet room suddenly zagged like a gull—many of which circled and darted beyond the long wall of windows—spotting a potential snack.  

Cornell was engaged.

We talked. He had a lot to say then, and all of it, as far as I could tell, was thoughtful and sincere.

My allotted time vaporized and we continued talking. His bodyguard returned from a side door and we continued talking. Finally, his wife stepped in from an adjoining room and, after we talked for a minute or two longer, she politely sent me on my way. But not before noting that she knew we'd had a good conversation simply because I was still there.

I gathered my notes and things. I shared my gratitude. I left the suite after shooting a last surreptitious look back through the door at Cornell, whom I'd not asked to sign anything, whom I'd not admitted any allegiance to. He was already face-down in his phone, on to the next thing, or maybe just seeking.  

When Cornell died in 2017, I couldn't help but think about my 75 minutes or so with the man. How he was clearly driven to create and expand. How he hadn't aimed for surprise but for enrichment, hadn't been trying to prove anything to anyone other than himself. How acknowledging that allowed for a solid, albeit brief, connection to the artist. For precious few moments, we'd seen each other.

The music Chris Cornell left behind—all of it—is timeless. The impression he left on me, not so much. Though that's only because I have an eventual end date just like he did. In the meantime, I'll think about him often. Not just when I hear his voice napalming from a speaker, but whenever I consider the act of creation itself. Whenever I talk with my son about being true to himself.

Whenever I write.

Creating (or Not) in the Time of COVID

I haven’t written much lately. Not for work, not for myself. My son’s few paragraph-long stories for school have eclipsed my output of the last month, probably. Aside from a freelance gig and proofing my 33 1/3 book, I just haven’t been feeling it. Despite being home all the time, despite staring at the computer much of the time. And with each passing day, the not-feeling-it feeling has grown stronger.

This stalling out is a byproduct of the current state of things—all the things—without question. I’ve allowed myself that excuse for some time. But that permission hasn’t made my lack of interest any less frustrating... or pervasive. I cut myself slack, I feel guilty, I rinse and repeat. And I’m sure I’m not alone.

Yesterday, though, something changed. It was as sudden as it was unexpected. It was Jason Isbell talking about what his and Amanda Shires’ life looks like these days during an NPR Tiny Desk (Home) Concert.

“It’s been a little difficult,” Isbell said of staying at home through this pandemic. “We haven’t gotten to do the thing that we feel like we were born to do.”

Whoa. I paused the video at that point and let the performer’s words sink in. On the surface, Isbell’s statement was simple and straightforward. He and his wife (Shires) haven’t been playing with fellow musicians or performing for live audiences. For people who do that kind of thing for a living, that must indeed be difficult. It also isn’t unlike millions of other peoples’ situations right now—they’re out of work, or can’t work, or just can’t focus on any single thing for more than two minutes. (Raise your hand if you’re like me and two or three of those cases apply.) I get it.

But Isbell’s sentiment went much deeper than that, went far beyond not being able to take a stage outside of he and his wife’s barn or in an empty auditorium. He said that they can’t do what “we were born to do.” They can’t do the one thing they believe they are on this planet to do. They can’t fulfill their purpose. (Not counting parenting, of course.)

Right! He put words to the creeping, tide-like malaise I’ve felt through these months of epic weirdness and isolation. The one thing I do well, the one thing I love to do, the one thing I can contribute to the world—can’t do it. For different reasons, of course, but the bottom line is the same: the audience isn’t there. (In my case, that’s an employer, its brand, its audience.)

Isbell went on to say that one thing he’s doing regularly instead of performing before crowds is sitting on the floor and playing guitar. “It makes me happy,” he said. “It keeps me sane.”

That honest statement illuminated our divergent paths. Isbell and Shires have kept at their crafts (with the latter even learning how to record using Pro Tools); I’ve found other things to do. (Thank you, MLB TV.) They’ve continued to play instruments, to sing, to write songs; I’ve ignored the complete novel that needs another read-through. They’re doing regular streaming performances, releasing sets digitally, actively putting work out there. (Shires’ latest song, “The Problem,” is a philanthropic effort. Proceeds from purchasing the track, a difficult and touching exchange—with Isbell—about abortion, benefit reproductive justice organization The Yellowhammer Fund.) I’m indulging every distraction. They’re creating. I’m not.

Well. Isbell’s words jarred me awake.

Writing makes me happy. Writing keeps me sane. (Or at least I hope it will. Because things aren’t going to morph, suddenly or gradually, into some semblance of what they were anytime soon.) Why the hell am I not doing the one thing I can with that kind of steadying, restorative power? Why have I wallowed in despair—that’s an overstatement, but I haven’t exactly been surfing a rising tide of optimism—and repeatedly ignored or quashed a low-level urge to return to the page?

Well, no more. I was born to do this. Not doing it won’t help me improve. Not doing it won’t keep me sane.

Thanks for the motivation, Jason and Amanda. Keep the music coming. People need it.

Note to Self (and Maybe Other Writers): Know Your Voice

I write a lot. For work, for fun, for somewhere in between. Marketing. Fiction. Journalism. Employing different voices for different outlets. Tuning tone one way and another like the knob some of us used to twist on the stereo. For nearly a dozen years I’ve been at it, growing more adept at that twisting and shifting, feeling increasingly better about my work.

Clearly I have a handle on my own voice, then, right? Well, turns out no. I hadn’t put a lot of conscious thought into that until, in a recent job interview, I was asked the question directly: How would you describe your writing voice, Clint?

Oh, damn.

I nearly began this paragraph with “Needless to say…,” but the fact that I’m writing this ditty proves that it does need to be said. (Speaking for myself, anyway.) We writers aren’t just magical passive conduits who channel words from some other plane. Rather, we’ve already collected the words, we keep them within arm’s length, and, blessedly, somehow string them together to fit the right place at the right time. But we each do that differently, don’t we?

The way I’d write about a smartphone, an investing method, a musician, myself, or your standard toothpick likely wouldn’t read anything like your piece. We might choose completely different adjectives and verbs. You’d emphasize one aspect while I highlighted another. Our sentence structures wouldn’t align. Our punctuation would be a Rorschach study in placement (and I’d use more em dashes). Your work would be memorable and persuasive, and hopefully so would mine. For, most likely, very different reasons.

That’s the beauty of writing: there’s no singular perfect way to compose any given headline or ad or email or story. There are best practices and proven approaches, of course. But being a successful writer requires a unique application of those ground rules, a distinctive fruition of education and instinct. In short, being good at it requires having a solid voice. A voice you can describe, refine, and describe again. A voice you can be proud of.

So. Excellent question, interviewer. Next time I get it, I’ll have an answer as well thought-out as everything that I write.

Vintage knob image from w2dtc.com.