“The first thing you will likely notice is this story has begun with a quotation mark and it is not a typo, which by no means is a statement of my adherence to or abhorrence for the rules of grammar. Rules and freedom are definitely not contraindicated and like everything in life, balance is the fulcrum, which keeps us from floating away from each other, not to mention ourselves
The last story I shared was very well received, at least for me. I was kind of surprised, because it didn’t seem all that different from many of my recent ones. For the reasons that likely have something to do with age and stupidity, I am not much of a student and have an inherent repulsion to learning anything new. However, I did really wonder about what it was in the last piece that seemed to resonate more than many of my others.
Well, it was personal, my own story visited and revisited on the same page. It reminded me of how I wrote my memoir for my too young, grandson, which sucked me into this word business nearly ten years ago. For all of us, our own stories are the ones we know best and staying close to them gets you closer to readers, assuming you give a shit about these matters, which I do.
Sometimes, I think I have already written the good stuff and there is nothing left. This is when I venture off into stories about the climate, income disparities, our mistreatment of each other, you name it. I have no idea why I think somebody will say to themselves, “I read that same damn story three months ago.”
A few nights ago, I got up around 3:30, an hour when vampires are likely putting on their tuxedos, while this neurotic, Jewish guy from Queens is looking for a shovel to bury himself alive in a ditch of distortions. I was worried about a physical issue and started thinking about the terror of spending the night alone in an ice-cold cadaver of a hospital ward. They would never find my veins, so they could stick me with needles, delivering stuff that would kill a canary. What about my computer? My cellphone? The 200 pills I take morning and night, guaranteed to deliver immortality? I need to trim my beard everyday and what about my long hair?
I got in and out of bed at least a half dozen times. I even opened my front door and stood outside for a few minutes. I don’t know what the hell I thought I’d find, but it was something to do, thinking it might break the rhythm and throttle me down to an imperceivable crawl, leading me back to the bed, looking like it had been occupied by a very troubled person. I swallowed an extra half of a chopped Valium, which laughed at me, wallowing in its fractured impotence. Finally, the sun came up, but there was no way I was going to do my 25 minute Zen sit. I went straight for the coffee. Mind you, in the midst of this mania, I am still thinking about why my last story seemed to resonate so well?
For the past couple of days, I’ve been thinking about all this, wondering what the hell I am going to say to you. Incidentally, actually, not so incidentally, that’s the reason for the opening quotation mark. I have always, always, felt that what I do is actually having a conversation with you, yes you. I am not writing, I’m talking, you just can’t hear my voice, but I swear it is closer than you can imagine. I am right here, just behind the screen. I see you and I am so glad to have your attention for these few minutes.
This morning, several days after prying open the darkened coffin of my rampant neurosis, I am fine. I live in mortal fear of coming off as an itinerant pedant, someone with razor sharp, all knowing answers. I’ll tell you what I do know for certain, all of our moods slide into our lives and slip away just as quickly. It’s funny, trying to push the unpleasant ones away, makes them linger longer. Too tight a grip on the sweet ones, sours them before you give yourself a chance to even inhale them, with the gentlest of embraces.
Well, the terrifying tumult of several dark nights ago, has given way to the weightlessness that always comes with the light. My mind was still tossing around how to deal with the last story, not wanting to sink into a boring treatise on why I write and all that bullshit. Like being tapped on the shoulder by an angel, Rhapsody in Blue, with Leonard Bernstein, my all time favorite piece of music, miraculously rifled through my tiny earbuds. All of sudden, I was in Carnegie Hall, my uncomfortable, ass grabbing, stationary bike seat, replaced by a red velvet throne. In those sixteen minutes, I smeared myself with the colors of every imaginable emotion from this priceless palette of sounds and rhythms. I felt it all, without a single thought to box this lightening.
It’s the damn stories that matter, because that is how we get to touch each other. So, I started this with a quotation mark, more as a reminder to myself to keep on talking to you about whatever may be going on in my life. I am so happy to have made your acquaintance and it is such a joy to talk with you this way. I know it’s a little screwed up, because it’s not like a real conversation. Just like you don’t need a ticket to listen to Leonard Bernstein conduct and play Rhapsody in Blue, just imagine we are talking to each other.
Thank you so much for listening and responding, even though I can’t quite hear you.”
My podcast: Mind and the Motorcyclehttps://www.buzzsprout.com/1292459
Foster and Feinstein on Youtubehttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCiKB7SheuTWKABYWRolop4g