Don't get me wrong, I'm no idiot. I can
do anything I set my mind at, and it's possible
that in a former life I even courted a theorem,
or two. But currently I'm working on this life,
and truth be told, in the weeks prior to this
event I'd already begun wondering if this was all
there was to living. Maybe it didn't show on my
face, but inside I'd become edgy, restless.
Existence as I knew it no longer sustained
me.
I'm told it's a familiar thirty-something
pang, to crave more, but it was harder for me
because at the time I couldn't articulate it. I
may be a peon by trade, but through my veins
courses the blood of a writer, and for a writer
to be at a loss for words, well, let's just say
cancer is a more desirable plague. Usually I
could write my way out of these episodes by
jumping back into any number of unfinished
projects: the novel about LA lowlifes; the
script about the little Italian boy and his
mountain; the gut-wrenching poem about body
waxing. But lately, even that usual diet of
dilemma wasn't catching.
There can be no greater pain that when your
craft fails you, so to keep from diving off the
nearest balcony, I decided to try things I'd
never considered before: things like yoga,
hiking, sewing, intensive boot camp classes at
the gym, asking men what's on their minds. You
know, crazy stuff. But once these challenges
were conquered (or in the latter case abandoned),
the longing would return and I would ache anew.
And while I admit at the time I was waiting for
the next distraction to present itself, I can
guarantee you improving my math skills was never
an option.
And so it was my state of mind when the
music began. A familiar chorus, instead of
wafting through the air and plucking me lightly
upside the head, this time it hit me like a semi
with its lights on. You know the tune of which I
speak. It's a private symphony, one we each
composed as kids. Some people like to call them
dreams. I call them songs. Doesn't matter if they
are heavy metal, classical, country or rap, as
kids we all wrote at least one ballad for
ourselves. But as we grow we are taught that it's
the rare among us who gets to make a show of
it.
Most of us believe the hype, and we wind up
spending our lives postponing our debut. We do
this by constantly changing lyrics, arranging and
rearranging our notes, and refusing to go on
until we've got it just right. We put it off and
put it off until one day we look up and find that
life has moved in on us, and we've lost our sheet
music amongst a heap of unpacked baggage.
go to part 3...
