I am here, because you are there.
Piercing probing is disturbing.
Prove to me I'm not worth knowing.
Skinny Puppy, 'Sleeping Beast'
There are few things in this world that I believe that I can do well. I'm not especially smart - just an aptitude for colourful smoke and well-polished mirrors - and Lord knows I'm nothing that resembles athletic, unless the definition of the word has recently changed to "somebody whose heart is still beating in spite of himself."
But I can sing. I've made rooms go silent, smiles widen and eyes shine with tears, and all of it done with my voice. My voice. Have you ever felt anything so remarkable as that moment where you know that people are feeling the way they do - joyous, devastated, enraptured - as a direct result of something that you have done? That's a gift from the gods, as beautiful as it is dangerous, and proof enough to me that they exist. If I can't sing, then I can't live, and it really is as simple as that. I love to sing, but more importantly, I need to sing.
Ever since I was young, however, I have always wanted to write music. More importantly, I wanted to triumph with music that I had written, to be remembed, like Beethoven, my musical idol. Over the years I've dabbled, with limited success. I wrote a song for my estranged when we were first getting to know each other, hundreds of kilometers and time zones apart, which I am thinking of pulling out again, dusting off and seeing if there is something to it; over the years, I've been fortunate enough to get a few songs completed and at least one of them performed; and recently I have been scheming about getting a brief piece for string quartet performed, a birthday gift for someone who has been nothing less than dazzling/inspiring to me. Lately, I've had songs filling my head, ideas almost fully mapped out in my mind - time, tempo, key signatures and instruments. I've been far too lazy when it comes to writing them down, though, and if I keep that up I am going to pay for my sins. And I was working on a Requiem before my files were lost, proof that my ego knows no bounds, a means of ostensibly dealing with my necrophobia, but in reality an attempt at finding a way of never dying. (obvious, really, classic textbook case).
But do I really have anything worth saying? Are the things I write actually good? And is it up to me to make that decision? Maybe I'm missing the point when I'm asking that question. I had read recently that we hold certain works of art to be essential and worthwhile, not necessarily because they are good, but because we love them. Is that how it works? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?
I've lived with so many self-imposed pretentions when it comes to music: what is good, what is bad, and so on, etc.; it was all around me, so I figured that this was just how things were. What if I've been looking at this from the wrong angle? Instead of me worrying about writing good music, perhaps I should instead be focussing on writing music that is beautiful. Not necessarily pretty, although that has its place as well, but music that speaks to something deeper, something that touches the bones. Even dissonance is beautiful, when used properly.
I need to discipline myself to write more - good and bad, long and short; structured and chaotic, everything and anything, just as long as I am writing. Like now, for instance. If I don't get it done, then I have nobody to blame for myself.