Fingers Do Not Lie
I considered the implementation of a short, frequent thought-piece series to my routine. I thought more frequent short pieces might coax casual readers into a shallow dependence, making them unable to resist reading the entirety of longer posts. Some of my longer entries have uncoiled like juvenile anacondas pushing apart the glass of a cheap terrarium: they really are beautiful and cuddly when you get to know them.
My semi-profound thoughts are more manageable-- like ball pythons. Given millennial attention spans, it will have to be these brave little seeds that germinate into my career as a writer. This is usually the part of a given piece where I take take out the figurative turkey-baster and try to apply a marinade of profundity to my musings yet, alas, sometimes the raw material loses some natural flavor. I usually would not mention, for example, that a useful thought plunked out of me while on the toilet. Hypothetically, because that would highlight base qualities of my life that distract from my genius.
Enjoying James Thurber in a favorite reading spot, I realized that I was not a writer. This was surprisingly un-shocking, though I did literally poo a brick (well, on second-thought...). Thurber expands upon his experiences with writers at parties in "The Porcupines in the Artichokes", which is a lovely read if you want to hear why you should never invite writers into your house in a number greater than ... one at a time. I would find myself out of place with Thurber's gang of word-wizards, considering that I do not recognize even half of the authors lampooned nor a quarter of the book titles alluded to and I would not care to read a line of Tennyson, much less harp someone else for misquoting him. What I might do is explain why "Kathy's Waltz" is BRILLIANT for the way that Dave Brubeck and Joe Morello phase into differing time-signatures (...imagine the mental discipline!) or be caught backing-up and replaying Josh Groban tracks until I can play them by heart.
It may be that I am a musician, which comes as some relief. I am close to the median of musicians, in the grander scheme, and I will not be tempted to stake my career on the pursuit. Instead, I am going to stake my career on writing and the unlikely prospect of being a free-lancer. To be more accurate, pose as a free-lancer. I am, after all, a musician. My self-esteem is well invested in the pursuit because I do not need an audience to feel validated as a musician. My fingers do that for me when they correct a series of notes by working the valves of my trumpet without my mental permission, as if to say "no: you meant to do it this way...". Last night, I was making another feeble attempt at playing the bass, concentrating on making my right-hand fingers work . As I relaxed and began to jam, I noticed my left hand slide up on the neck as if to say "this is the note you were looking for... you're welcome". I could write quite a bit about being a musician...
...well... isn't that ironic?
Toward the end of Thurber's essay, the point at which he addresses the hypothetical hostess of a party, he touches upon the only way to put an axe into writers' bickering. Fittingly, it is to bring a piano into the equation:
"The thing to do in mixed company is play "Dear Old Girl"...
...and every guy between eighteen and eighty would lean on the piano and join the chorus. That undying song...
...naturally leads into "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," "I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl," "Down by the Old Millstream," and all rest, with no space for rock'n'roll or rockers and rollers, or for voices of writers raised in argument instead of melody." (emphasis mine).
James, my boy, this is one instance where you have dated yourself, both by the sheerly unrecognizable song titles and by your inability to anticipate that there is always room for rock'n'roll. I will raise my voice! I will raise my voice to quote the great philosopher who said:
"Sing us a song! You're the piano-man! Sing us a song tonight! Well... we're all in the mood for a melody! And you've got us feeling alright!"
The same icon who also said:
"Hot funk, cool punk, (even if it's old junk) It's still rock and roll to me."
~Billy Joel
While you're at it, "Don't Stop Believ'n" readers...
My semi-profound thoughts are more manageable-- like ball pythons. Given millennial attention spans, it will have to be these brave little seeds that germinate into my career as a writer. This is usually the part of a given piece where I take take out the figurative turkey-baster and try to apply a marinade of profundity to my musings yet, alas, sometimes the raw material loses some natural flavor. I usually would not mention, for example, that a useful thought plunked out of me while on the toilet. Hypothetically, because that would highlight base qualities of my life that distract from my genius.
Enjoying James Thurber in a favorite reading spot, I realized that I was not a writer. This was surprisingly un-shocking, though I did literally poo a brick (well, on second-thought...). Thurber expands upon his experiences with writers at parties in "The Porcupines in the Artichokes", which is a lovely read if you want to hear why you should never invite writers into your house in a number greater than ... one at a time. I would find myself out of place with Thurber's gang of word-wizards, considering that I do not recognize even half of the authors lampooned nor a quarter of the book titles alluded to and I would not care to read a line of Tennyson, much less harp someone else for misquoting him. What I might do is explain why "Kathy's Waltz" is BRILLIANT for the way that Dave Brubeck and Joe Morello phase into differing time-signatures (...imagine the mental discipline!) or be caught backing-up and replaying Josh Groban tracks until I can play them by heart.
It may be that I am a musician, which comes as some relief. I am close to the median of musicians, in the grander scheme, and I will not be tempted to stake my career on the pursuit. Instead, I am going to stake my career on writing and the unlikely prospect of being a free-lancer. To be more accurate, pose as a free-lancer. I am, after all, a musician. My self-esteem is well invested in the pursuit because I do not need an audience to feel validated as a musician. My fingers do that for me when they correct a series of notes by working the valves of my trumpet without my mental permission, as if to say "no: you meant to do it this way...". Last night, I was making another feeble attempt at playing the bass, concentrating on making my right-hand fingers work . As I relaxed and began to jam, I noticed my left hand slide up on the neck as if to say "this is the note you were looking for... you're welcome". I could write quite a bit about being a musician...
...well... isn't that ironic?
Toward the end of Thurber's essay, the point at which he addresses the hypothetical hostess of a party, he touches upon the only way to put an axe into writers' bickering. Fittingly, it is to bring a piano into the equation:
"The thing to do in mixed company is play "Dear Old Girl"...
...and every guy between eighteen and eighty would lean on the piano and join the chorus. That undying song...
...naturally leads into "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," "I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl," "Down by the Old Millstream," and all rest, with no space for rock'n'roll or rockers and rollers, or for voices of writers raised in argument instead of melody." (emphasis mine).
James, my boy, this is one instance where you have dated yourself, both by the sheerly unrecognizable song titles and by your inability to anticipate that there is always room for rock'n'roll. I will raise my voice! I will raise my voice to quote the great philosopher who said:
"Sing us a song! You're the piano-man! Sing us a song tonight! Well... we're all in the mood for a melody! And you've got us feeling alright!"
The same icon who also said:
"Hot funk, cool punk, (even if it's old junk) It's still rock and roll to me."
~Billy Joel
While you're at it, "Don't Stop Believ'n" readers...