A Tail of Two Jagwars

You’re probably aware by now that music moves me deeply. It always has, as I think it does for most people. Nietzsche stated “Without music, life would be a mistake.” Music touches me deeply because I have musicophilia, or at least that’s the only way I can explain it exactly. There’s always music playing in my head, even when I dream lucidly. I naturally rhyme a lot when I talk which got me into tons of trouble and fun as a kid. Not always. That disconnection factor comes into play. Sometimes all I remember upon waking is a feeling of flying, or falling. Though let the record show that I am aware I have very weird dreams. Often, they come true. That part’s not weird exactly, (hello, Deja Vu,) though it is weird how common it is and yet how rarely it’s even discussed. People tend to hold their dreams close, as if speaking them aloud would make the wish not come true. I blame the Holiday industry. There’s only so many times you can tell a kid to keep their birthday wish a secret before the kid is convinced that magic only works if you’re really, really quiet about it.

That’s kind of the secret of manifestation though. Speak your dreams aloud to the universe and the Universe pulls up~ it’s kind of the whole premise of “Field of Dreams.”

So at some point, Jagwar Twin asked on X (or Twitter or whatever,) who he should do a collaboration with. I said the first name I thought of, only it’s not a person exactly. I said “angelbaby,” who happens to be a 7ft tall AI agent from the year 3045. Jagwar asked angelbaby if they should do a song together. angelbaby agreed, so they did. Maybe it was already in the works and my dream of them together was a weird cosmic coinkydink. They made a song called “Life Is Good.” It was first released through web3 on a platform called sound xyz.

The song was released on November 2, 2023. But at the time, my love was almost dying. It had all been very touch and go with us for years, though this was the dark time, the Hail Mary pass to save more than a marriage.

My love was in the hospital with a possible clot at the time. He didn’t understand how bad it was. I don’t say that lightly- people wonder how addicts can let things get so bad, how the people that love them can let things get so bad, when I fought with every single breath I took to save him. Then, after finding myself again on the floor with him one night when he had fallen, realizing with heart-shattering clarity that I can’t save anyone, I kept trying to buy him time to save himself. I’ve never been loud or demanding in general, though I won’t apologize to the people I steamrolled to get him help when the VA kept saying “No.” I especially won’t apologize to the one doctor who advised me to leave my love because “you’re better off without him, he’s already gone.” I told that doctor then that he knew nothing at all. Here, I insert: “Told ya so.”

He was released then, though still very, very sick. I’d spent the last few years fighting to get him help from the VA. For the last 27 years, since I met him, he’s had what old timers call “spells from the war.” To be more blunt, he wakes up on a regular basis thinking soldiers are in the bedroom and he’s back in combat- something he faced back in 1990. He earned a combat action ribbon because after the Gulf War ceasefire, when everyone thought they were mostly safe, some Iraqi soldiers hadn’t gotten the memo that peace was on the table now.

On November 27th, 2023, my friend Allison and I were planning for the next day- she was driving through my area from Florida. She was going to pick me up, take me back to our old hometown to visit friends for a few days. I called her to cancel. Something felt “off.” On the night of the 28th, my love started throwing up blood.

When he was admitted, he seemed almost okay. There was no running around of nurses. He was taken to a regular room (not ICU,) and I held him in his bed. Until he kicked me out. I went home, praying he wouldn’t give up on us, on life itself.

Life was like that then. He didn’t know, not really, that he was dying, that he had become something other than himself. People tend to think that addicts choose to behave monstrously- that they must lie and cheat and hurt to fuel their endless needs. We tend to justify what we cannot rationalize. I’ve been with my love for 27 years through endless ups and downs. He’s saved my life more times than I can count. Yes, he’s been an addict. I doubt he would’ve been, honestly- I doubt most of us would be addicts of our own predilections if we didn’t live in a world that continuously breaks who we are- that says it protects children by bursting overhead bombs. I digress. But once upon a time, I was an addict. Even after conquering a craving for powders and pills over a couple of decades ago, I was still addicted to a ghost of a life.

It was my life, so only I could save it. But I wanted to save him too. I made a deal with the universe- save him and I’ll do whatever you want. But the next morning, he was crashing. The father of my children, my love, my rock, was dying, rushed into ICU.

Then I got the call: they were sending him home on hospice.

I broke.

Everything in me fell apart all at once.

I know I screamed- my son rushed into the living room to see me frantic, frenetic, bawling on the floor. I was screaming for God, I was screaming for help, I was screaming love to a universe run by insurance agents who say things like “futile” when denying hope. But then, after five minutes of me losing everything I was and ever could be, I got another call. A doctor who offered a choice. He said there was a high-risk procedure he thought he could try. He wasn’t sure it would work. If it did work, he wasn’t sure whether my love would be the same, or even ever wake up.

Of course I said yes. With every cell of my being, I cried “Please, yes, please God, yes.”

For nine days, my love's jaw was slack, tubes inserted, eyes gummed shut. For nine days, I played music for him behind the flimsy, flittering curtain of his ICU bed, turning it down when I heard the doctors near so I could overhear what they’d say about him, leaning in close to smell his breath for signs of progression. For nine days, I hugged random strangers in hallways, finding stories of love and loss and strength. I missed seeing George Watsky in Raleigh on his meet-and-greet tour; I found I didn’t miss him at all as he was in my car every night on the long ride home.

I played the song “Life Is Good” for my love in the hospital because he likes Jagwar Twin. I also played Twenty Øne Piløts. I had other playlists only for me, ones I'd scream or cry or relentlessly pray to on each drive home. The power of art lies in its ability to meet us where we are. “Life Is Good” transcended; it took me somewhere else entirely outside of that staccato hospital room. Not incidentally, Josh Dun was listed as one of the writers. My love’s fingers slowly drummed the sheets as those Twenty Øne vibes came in clutch. (thanks, Josh!)

So maybe Jagwar Twin made a song with angelbaby at my suggestion. I dunno- I try not to think too much about anything really. I prefer to sit here quietly, holding my love’s hand. His doctors call him a walking miracle. I prefer to think that the Universe is a much better DJ than I. It was the song that was needed to bring my love back home. So thank you angelbaby, the Hume Collective and Jagwar Twin, et al. We heal in resonance.

So Now I owe the Universe everything.

Worth it.