Saturday, October 15, 2005
Sometimes There're Just Bad Days
As I watch the candle's slow flame, hovering mysteriously above the blackened wick of the tealight, I am aware of nothing. I am trying to force words from my brain, but they don't seem to come. I have lit the candle and burned the incense for inspiration, but I am not inspired. I am unsure of the reason for my lack of creativity that has come when I have needed most to express myself. It seems that I am missing pieces of my self that I can't find, and I am not depressed about it so much as I am worried that I might not be able to retrieve them.
Last night, as I lay in bed, a soft CD playing gentle neo-classical songs, I lifted my hands up, as I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and simply allowed my hands to conduct the music. What a free feeling that was, but a sad one. Perhaps I am in the midst of saying "goodbye" to my life of music. It is my dearest wish that something, anything, can replace that missing part of me. After that I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed that I was playing an invisible keyboard while my friends danced happily on a balcony, and neighbors listened in awe below. I dreamed that I was scattering around, playing rocks in a driveway as if they were piano keys, and I, only I, heard the music. To me the music was a tri-tone of windchimes, beautifully sung, leading me onward toward still more madness. Thankfully, those who witnessed my eccentric behavior understood, shaking their heads and mumbling amongst one another, "it's only Denise, driven mad by the music."
I want to play, and sing, and write. I want to have those moments of intense, pure joy that comes from expressing my inner self. The "daily grind" has sucked me dry, and I dread those hours of having to go back to work to earn my bread, bowing down to the "man", (or woman, in this case). They don't know me. Not the real me. The person my coworkers see is not who I am. If they saw the creative me, the me that sings and plays and writes; if they but glimpsed the part of me that does not stock shelves and soothe difficult customers; if they knew that my intellect lay far beyond the reaches of the gated front entrance of the store, would they treat me the same? Would they respect me?
As a child, I wished for fame and fortune. I have gained neither fame nor fortune from my life's experiences. My music never gave me what I asked it to, probably because I asked it to. My words fall on deaf ears. It is only when I write them that they mean anything to anyone. When my words come from my mouth, they are unpersuasive, exhausting, boorish and often wrong. But, when they come from my "pen", they express the deeper parts of me that most people never see. Parts that are hidden in the quiet corners that others don't notice. It is only when those written words are read by the unsuspecting that they come alive.
Last night, as I lay in bed, a soft CD playing gentle neo-classical songs, I lifted my hands up, as I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and simply allowed my hands to conduct the music. What a free feeling that was, but a sad one. Perhaps I am in the midst of saying "goodbye" to my life of music. It is my dearest wish that something, anything, can replace that missing part of me. After that I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed that I was playing an invisible keyboard while my friends danced happily on a balcony, and neighbors listened in awe below. I dreamed that I was scattering around, playing rocks in a driveway as if they were piano keys, and I, only I, heard the music. To me the music was a tri-tone of windchimes, beautifully sung, leading me onward toward still more madness. Thankfully, those who witnessed my eccentric behavior understood, shaking their heads and mumbling amongst one another, "it's only Denise, driven mad by the music."
I want to play, and sing, and write. I want to have those moments of intense, pure joy that comes from expressing my inner self. The "daily grind" has sucked me dry, and I dread those hours of having to go back to work to earn my bread, bowing down to the "man", (or woman, in this case). They don't know me. Not the real me. The person my coworkers see is not who I am. If they saw the creative me, the me that sings and plays and writes; if they but glimpsed the part of me that does not stock shelves and soothe difficult customers; if they knew that my intellect lay far beyond the reaches of the gated front entrance of the store, would they treat me the same? Would they respect me?
As a child, I wished for fame and fortune. I have gained neither fame nor fortune from my life's experiences. My music never gave me what I asked it to, probably because I asked it to. My words fall on deaf ears. It is only when I write them that they mean anything to anyone. When my words come from my mouth, they are unpersuasive, exhausting, boorish and often wrong. But, when they come from my "pen", they express the deeper parts of me that most people never see. Parts that are hidden in the quiet corners that others don't notice. It is only when those written words are read by the unsuspecting that they come alive.
