Loaded Guns: Some Thoughts on Vulnerability

It is fall and cold and numb and unproductive and lonely and drifting. Sometimes I am able to romanticize this and for an hour, life has potential--even in this Blah-Dee-Blah--this cloud soaked ceiling and grey floor, I can hear a sweet red secret leaving lips and I think--yes--I think there is something pressing in with fire in his hands.



I am listening to Damien Rice, one of my new favorite fall-ish musicians. My recent favorite has been the song, "Dogs," because I fantacise about being the beloved girl who does yoga. But today, it is, "9 Crimes." I never understand the lyrics entirely. It seems to be about cheating on a spouse or partner who really isn't there anyway. The chorus is beautiful and strong and the words are, "It's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is it alright, yeah, to give my gun away when it's loaded? If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it? That alright? Yeah, with you."



I'm always fascinated by the inclusion of a loaded gun. I was taking a bath the other day, submerging myself in warm water, because the house was too cold, and sometimes a bath, making myself stay there with music and no other sounds, bubbles cracking at the air, the occasional re-situation of water around the body, can pull my mind back down into my bones, into the organic thing I am, the organic reality of my life I so often forget about, when I jump all the way to my forehead and run frantically in that space for weeks. I was listening to this song, as a part of a playlist, and I kept trying to figure it out.



Of course, the gun could be sexual. And that's probably part of it. Maybe. But today, I happen to be thinking about vulnerability, of laying cards out on a table, or stepping forward not taking into account anything, just reaching from the gut and not stopping that soft hand from grasping. A gun is dangerous, something to be held carefully, cautiously. It can destroy, easily, simply. And in a way, it could be fragile, it has the potential of indicating the fragility of whatever it is aimed at.

I think about relationships, such as the one exhibited in this song, and how, when you hand your loaded gun to someone, you're giving them power, you are entrusting them with something, and in essence, you want them to shoot it, to make you that fragile thing, that rests entirely in their arms. It may not be as unhealthy as it sounds, as in, the person you choose to take you out, take you as their, "kill," I guess, to put it as cheesily as possible, should be trustworthy. And it sounds like in this relationship, each has this loaded gun that they have given to the other, but the other doesn't seem interested in owning or declaring or committing to the relationship. If they shoot that gun, they're in it. They've chosen something.

Terrifying. But, in essence, lovely. I admire those who can hand over their loaded guns, who are smart enough to know who to hand them to and when, or eventually take the risk despite not knowing fully. I know a few success stories, and hope, someday, to be among them. To be a part of the brave fold, the hardest working fold, I know.