The Art

I think I'm going to cry.

And it makes me doubly sad, because I would have rushed right on past. I don't have an ear for music, despite the five years of piano lessons, the experience with a cappella singing in college. I listen to rap and R&B in the car, derided by many as the cesspool of music. I like music from the sixties (Motown and the Beatles), and snippets of song lyrics revolve around my mind all day long. Still, if I hear him playing, I roll right on past to try not to be late.

Is my soul eroding, in favor of chasing the Yankee dollar?

***

As a child, I played the piano for five years. This was the big reason I didn't listen to music in any fashion until college. Today, I secretly love listening to any music that utilizes the piano, either as the main instrument, or as a backup. I can still sort of pick out the melody line with my right hand, guess at the accompaniment with my left, and finger the imaginary ivories on the nearest horizontal flat surface. My parents were right (for once), I do regret not following through, though my skills lie in a more literary direction.

In middle school, I remember thinking that it would be kind of cool to become a Shakespearean actor. This, despite not having ever read Shakespeare. Despite the closest my having come to Shakespearean acting was watching one Patrick Stewart on Star Trek. At least now, I am qualified to act stupid.

In high school, C.G. and S.K. combined to put on a play called "The Mouse that Roared." I wanted to be a part of that, be an actor in that. Unfortunately, working at the S.G. mental asylum/institution after school precluded me from doing so. (Disclaimer: I know asylum is a politically incorrect statement, but just like saying that I was in an asylum. At least now when I say it, it isn't a joke.) I did go to opening night, and fell asleep because I was exhausted after working at S.G.

Back in freshman year at UMCP, myself, maybe M.W., possibly A.A., planned to perform a one-act play on the mall. Not that we'd had anything picked out, or planned, or were going to advertise it. It would have the end effects of a flash mob, wherein we'd show up, do our thing, and leave as if nothing happened. I was really excited about that for some reason, some ineffable reason within me. We always joked about it, and ultimately, nothing ever came of it.

One time, me and A.W. were going to spend a summer in the O.C. (MD version), go out to the boardwalk every day, and become a comedy duo, in the vein of Laurel and Hardy, Burns and Allen, Turner and Hooch. I'd written up some great skits, which incorporated his juggling, and our comedic timing. Even practiced the timing. There was one skit wherein I played a marionette and he the puppet master, and I was proud of that. My jerky, unnatural motions, combined with A.W.'s straight-man timing, would've made it a hit. I got so busy with classes that the idea slid into limbo.

Throughout college, I'd wanted to read my short stories at an open mic night. Maybe even some of my shitty poetry, malformed lumps of afterbirth extolling the virtues of love-that-wasn't. I was so afraid of getting rejected (by complete strangers!) that I couldn't do it. Even now, I'm afraid to tell people about this blog because of that fear of rejection (over the internet! sometimes by complete strangers!).

In law school, I had dreams of taking a keyboard to the courtyard in the law school and playing during lunchtime (and playing well), if only because we were all dying slow, meaningless deaths within the context of the law. Then I turned my head from the window, reached for the bag of chips, and continued reading about whatever.

***

I wrote my life story at five, on a single piece of paper. I remember my life's goal was to complete our reading textbook, Sunshine Day. I read it before my class. I was smiling, and I think the teachers might have been a little shocked. That was one of my only memories from elementary school, and the first time I knew that I wanted to be a writer.

I read comic books a lot in middle school, more for the words than the pictures. It was from them I learned that we all know more or less how things are, but it takes a lot more to understand what might be. Yes, it's good to be practical, but all the same, it's sometimes necessary to be idealistic. Maybe that's why a lot of my writing incorporates comic book-esque themes.

It was around this time I wrote my first novel. A horrible pastiche of stereotypes, overused themes, poor dialogue, and generally mistake upon mistake. (Side Note: Things have changed a lot, haven't they?) I was so proud, but not a single person read it, even though I asked everyone I knew.

The second came about during college. The one comment that I remember from those few people that did read it came from S.P., who told me that it was "boring." That hit hard. Only much later did J.D. remind me that S.P. doesn't "read," and there may have been nothing wrong with it, other than it had nothing to do with sports, and was longer than three computer screens. By that time, I couldn't find it.

The third came about during my year off between college and law school. I've read through it, and it is awful. This is not me being my own worst critic, this is me reading it for what it is: A good first, serious effort, but a first effort nonetheless. Plus, there are several basic guidelines about electricity and electron flow that would need to be worked out before I continue with it.

I've written a few short stories over the past few months, and have two ideas for a fourth novel. One involves a fantastical universe in which magic is based upon your ability to sing. The protagonist is the executioner-in-training, pushed into his role, and learning how to sing people to death. The other involves a magic realism world where cartoons and humans exist side-by-side (think Who Framed Roger Rabbit?). Here, our protagonist is a 'toon private investigator trying to chase down his counterpart, a human assassin who keeps showing up when he is at his lowest.

***

Is my soul eroding, in favor of chasing the Yankee dollar? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I always knew who I was, and never listened to myself.