Pen as a Knife
I am a huge fan of Deftones. There is something raw and primal about Chino’s voice – he can go from a soft whisper to a thunderous growl to a haunting cry in a single song, and end the track screaming like a demonic banshee clawing its way out of hell. And let’s face it, Deftones is pure sex rock.
One of my favorite tracks, Knife Party, has been hinted at being an allusion to heroin use. Others have pointed out it might have no specific meaning at all. The official story, from Chino himself, is that the drummer, Abe Cunningham, collected all sorts of knives, and during a drunken night in the tour bus, he handed his collection out to everyone, and they all danced with knives in their hands.
I have a new interpretation. And the beauty of art is that you can take away any interpretation you like, as long as you’re able to ride it down the line to its logical end.
So hear me out: Knife Party is a song for writers, by writers. It’s a call to action.
“My knife, it's sharp and chrome”
The knife is the writer’s pen. It’s sharp, able to carve out truths and delineate lies, and it’s chrome, a shining beacon in the darkness.
“Come see inside my bones”
To see inside one’s bones is to see their soul laid bare. It’s an invitation to the reader - see me! Understand me! Taste my triumphs, my failures, my glory, my ache!
“All the fiends are on the block”
Every writer is chasing that blissful euphoria of being in the zone. That endless moment when pain and fear and hate and anger are brought in as offerings, burned before the writing gods, and the heady fumes inhaled for courage and madness in the face of the blank page.
“I'm the new king, I'll take the queen”
This is about claiming what is yours. Your voice. Your place in the universe. Your corner of the literary world. Your station in social circles. It’s about not settling for less than exactly what you’ve worked so hard for - you’re the new king, why not take the queen?
“'Cause in here, we are all anemic
In here, anemic and sweet, so…”
Writing is draining work. I bleed for my art. Every writer – hell, every creative – does. But there’s a sweetness to it, too, like the afterglow of a tattoo session. You might be a little raw, but you have something to show for it.
“(Go get your knife, go get your knife)
And come in
(Go get your knife, go get your knife)
And lay down
(Go get your knife, go get your knife)
Now kiss me”
Once you have your pen in hand, you can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Whether you lay down and let this bowl you over, or you fucking take the universe by the hips and raw dog it, the result is the same..
“I can float here forever
In this room, we can't touch the floor”
Ah, the elusive, difficult-to-maintain flow state. The ultimate high. Better than drugs. Better than sex. Possibly even better than being in love. It’s the moment of minor ego death when you transcend yourself and become lost in the work. Time becomes meaningless. Outside factors become muted and distance. Bodily functions cease to take precedence. You stop being YOU and become something far greater.
If you’re lucky, you can knock out a couple thousand words before your magic star fades out and you become mortal again.
So go get your knife and join me, and together we’ll never touch the floor again.
