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July 30, 2004 Thinking... out loud Life, and all it means, rather inconsequential or consequential, large or small, grandiose or modest, is hard. I have learned through countless lessons that the good things in life are always difficult, always laborious.However, in writing this down I realize that the opposite is also true. Meeting Melissa, falling blessedly in love (the only thing I can truly call "spiritual"), living with her, being with her, feeling her breath and life and affection fill my lungs like sweet air, like the perfume of baking cakes, like the comforting, sheltering aroma of brewing coffee in the morning light, was all but effortless. If anything, I was the one who made it difficult and hard with all my insecurities and weaknesses cropping up at the most inopportune times. Learning to master the drums… that was for me, painless. I love playing the drums; always have, always will. When I was first learning I would practice, yes, but not to the great degree that some of my friends would practice. A roll or lick I might be working on may confound me one day, and then, as if through some latent memory or gift I was blissfully unaware of, the next day I would have it; miraculously interwoven into my, dare I say, humbly impressive repertoire of licks, and rolls, and fills. This writing. This thing that I love to do more than any other thing in my life (except of course, linger in the warm bath and mystery that is my beauteous Mel), admittedly, and at times, it is hard, but I could never call it difficult. It is, in fact, pure, unadulterated joy. A base, all encompassing passion that I cling to, even as wall after wall after wall in the publishing and film industry seems intent upon rising before me, jagged, red bricks crumbling and flaking with flecks colored like rusted iron and dead leaves, flittering into the stifling air, burning my eyes, stinging my nostrils and blistering my lungs, coloring my sight until all I can see is blood… disallowing me the validation, the verification, of any modicum of writing talent I have. Therefore, as I totally and irrevocably contradict myself, maybe it is not that life is wholly, or even, overly difficult (but for the fact of what "others" have coined my "pessimistic realism", I still believe we, as human beings, can overcome just about anything). However, it may be that what I want to do is, most especially, difficult. I think I find it hard because what I want to do, what I must do, what I am compelled to do, inevitably involves people other than myself. At my core, I trust me, and not many others: there is my wonderful family whom I trust, and some gracious friends, Mel, and her family, but more often than not I find that I depend solely on me. When I look at a mountain and say to myself, "I will climb that", I trust and depend that this statement is not just a dream, but a goal, that I will, no matter how long or painful, in the end, achieve. When I strove to reach for my first belt in the Martial Arts, there was no one else who could do that… except for me. And that's the way it should be. That is the way it has always been. It is, in fact, the way of the warrior. It may seem solitary. It may seem selfish, or arrogant, or negative, but it is the truth. Only you, and you alone, can reach your goals. No one else. To publish… to sell, anything… anything at all, I must put my trust and dependence in the will and drive of others. Something, that until I know a person for a number of years, I am, admittedly, reluctant to do. And yet, despite everything, I shall do this, repeatedly, until I either find the person who warrants such deep trust and utter dependence, or die. It is not that I do not trust; it is just that I know that people are selfish and lazy (as am I), and I know that my ardor to publish or sell may or may not be their ardor. It is a question of faith, faith in the human heart and the honest, sincere mind, albeit I am somewhat uncomfortable with the prospect of putting my faith in another; which, in essence, is something I must do to finally achieve my goals. Mel and I have discussed this many, many times. In addition, do forgive me if it sounds as if I am whining. That is not my intention. My intent is to put a face onto what I do, an open heart, and a forthright mind, to lather the pages of any text, any computer screen, any square inch of film with the blood and the meat of my zeal… always. As I was saying, I have discussed this many times with Mel. She counts me lucky and gifted- knowing what I want… knowing always, ever since I was little boy, what it is that fuels the fire that burns brightly inside of me. Mel herself is still searching for that light, for that flame. And I, in my maudlin dolor and arrogantly artistic brood, wonder if it's worse to know what it is- exactly- that you want, and then never be allowed to achieve it. Moreover, I listen to Mel, who tells me, rationally and logically, that I AM doing what I want, which is, of course, writing. The publishing, the selling… that will come. Whether I'm alive or not, I will publish or sell. What I must realize and cherish is the fact that I continually act out and do that which I love to do. A simple process really: sitting in front of a computer screen, staring at the empty pages within Microsoft Word, as white as unfiltered cigarettes, banging on the keyboard as I used to bang on my drums, and open, with a blade as sharp as a laser of light and as imaginary as the characters on the page, a vein, bleeding my red-running desires and wants into the formless void of my mind and my story, until I am spent, bled dry… dead. Until the next idea, the next story raises me up again, resurrecting my imagination, breathing the will and the discipline, the strength and the effort, for me to repeat the process, and do it all over again. Those are the days I live for. Those are the days I feel the sanest, the most complete. And neither selling nor publishing will change that. [Add Comment] [View Comment] |
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