Impermanent Things

How artists point us towards beauty beyond the mundane and the hardship of everyday living.

Photo by Олександр К on Unsplash

It’s hard for me to imagine that I wrote the song, Impermanent Things more than three decades ago. My wife and I were living in Santa Monica at the time, in a tiny bungalow not far from the ocean. Our son, Isaac, was born only months before, and as with many of the songs I’d been writing at the time, he was always in sight, ingesting both his mother’s milk and the entire world as I wrote and recorded each of my new songs on an aging boombox.

We had a small garden in a patch of ground no more than five or six feet long. Its verdancy was incredible. I’d step outside the door each morning and tend to the tomatoes and the zucchini. By late autumn, there was more produce than we could eat, and over lunch, my wife and I would decide which of our friends we’d bring the excess to. Little more than a year earlier, I’d been living in a bubble of self-absorption, thinking mostly about myself and my career. Now, as a newly minted husband and father, I was swept up in such an indescribable state of newness that I began to feel like a newborn myself. 

I mention this because one’s state of mind is as crucial to the success of a song as the rigid architecture that good songwriting—or any worthy creative endeavor—demands. Rather than being satisfied with learning the crucial technical components of songwriting, such as structure, melody, and chord progressions, a more important task for a person embarking on a creative career lies in constructing for him or herself a generous life—a way of moving through the world with an indomitable spirit of empathy. The best artists excel through their ability to listen intently, to intuit profoundly. The more sensitive their antennas of empathy are, the more of the world they allow inside themselves. 

Creativity is the ability to travel outside the boundaries of what we already know and accept. Whether it’s the assembly of words and music, forging new relationships, or envisioning a new enterprise, it’s appropriate to ask: ‘for what purpose am I engaged in this endeavor, who and what is being served through the fruits of my imagination?’ If I were ever asked, I’d probably say that the artist’s purpose is to point out the beauty that lies beyond the mundane and the hardship of everyday living.

***

When I set out to write a song—as I did with Impermanent Things back in 1989—I came without ideas. I mean that literally. I’ve found that the least propitious way to work creatively is to come with a set plan. What I find best is to allow a nascent idea to arise on its own. This may sound counterintuitive; after all, what could be limiting about “having a plan?” So many things in life require planning, the design of a home, for instance, or whether to buy life insurance. Yes, these are logical things that need serious consideration. But in some ways, even these “logical things” mirror the more ephemeral essence of things. Let me explain what I mean.

Prior to the design of a house or a deliberation over whether to buy life insurance, there’s a strongly felt impetus, a compelling and oftentimes purely emotional driving force. “I see myself living in a beautiful home where my family is happy and safe.” Or “I want to provide security for my loved ones should anything God forbid happen to me.” 

Those statements aren’t ideas or plans per se—they are emotions. And just a song must derive from a technical process; it must derive from an emotional process as well. And even though emotions are comprised of non-temporal things like joy, loss, fear, shame, love, and desire, they are potent catalysts of creativity. My desire to write has always been straightforward: “I want to connect.” But, in the case of Impermanent Things, I was seeking a connection to myself, a connection to something essential within me and about me. The song is a note to myself, and each chorus culminates with a question I continue to ask daily.

Why keep hanging on to things that never stay?

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My process, for lack of a better term, usually starts like this. 

I want to write. It’s a simple longing to create, to connect. The feeling “I want to write” is no more thought out than when hunger suddenly overtakes me. I have an urge, and I react to it. If the urge is strong enough, I’ll sit down with my guitar or at the piano and play a few chords. Then, I’ll start to sing a melody over the chords. It’s very meditative, and at this point, the lyrics won’t be formed at all. You wouldn’t be far off if you compared this part of the process to a child lying on her back in the grass, looking at the shapes of clouds and slowly seeing faces or animals materialize. I’m not intellectualizing, not thinking. I’m letting my mind drift, letting it become supple and yielding. This is a sensation that anyone creating anything is bound to have.

I don’t remember exactly how the opening phrase “all these things impermanent things” appeared. It just did. It’s like wondering how certain details of a dream appear. They just do. The more comfortable I’ve gotten with not knowing where and why things happen, the more easily the words and melodies tumble out. Once I stumbled upon the opening phrase, another one came on its heels: “Oh, how they fool me, dominate and rule me.” And then one more: “They keep me waiting here forever.” At that point, what had been amorphous, began to take shape. The moment of coaxing a vague bit of thought from ‘the darkness to the light’ is the most exciting moment in my experience of songwriting. It’s the split second when the seminal idea is on its way to becoming realized. 

For me, the creation of a song (or any imaginative work) is a metaphor for the three stages of coming into being: First is the conceptual stage, which is typically influenced by a powerful experience or something deeply considered or dreamed about. In the case of Impermanent Things, I was probably thinking…’there are so many things vying for my attention, so many irresistibly enticing things, and yet, so unworthy of my attention.’ Second is the gestational stage, where the unborn not-yet-an-idea lies unspoken, waiting. And finally, there’s the birth itself, where the budding insights begin to merge and then emerge as a unified whole.

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Among the many things I’ve been blessed with is my song, Impermanent Things. And, like a handful of my other songs, it seems to have written itself. I’m not sure if it’s my best, but I sure like to sing it. And sometimes, when I do, I’m back in our tiny bungalow in Santa Monica, far from the endless stream of things that ring hollow—things that, despite their powerful and (occasionally overpowering) allure—have not a trace of truth or beauty. 

Back in Santa Monica, in my first home as a grown man, the vegetables are taking root in sandy soil, my wife is reading nearby, and our infant son is cooing in utter amazement as a sliver of morning light brightens our small piece of the world.

All these impermanent things

Oh, how they fool me, dominate, and rule me

They keep me waiting here forever

All these impermanent things

Well, their beauty’s never aging, but their worthlessness’s enraging

You know we all stand alone when we’re together

Why keep hanging on

To things that never stay

Things that just keep stringin’ us along

From day to day

All these impermanent things

Present yet elusive, passive yet abusive

Tearing out the heart in utter silence

All these impermanent things

Well, they point in all directions, like secondhand reflections

And they’re leading us to subtle shades of violence

Why keep hanging on

To things that never stay

Things that just keep stringin’ us along

From day to day

All these impermanent things

Well, they’re trying to convince me, baptize my soul and rinse me

Purge my mind of honesty and fire

All these impermanent things

Well, they all add up to zero; they make-believe that they’re my hero

Then they fill my mind with doubt and false desires

Why keep hanging on

To things that never stay

Things that just keep stringin’ us along from day to day