Snap fingers, shoot rifle. Jump bridges, gaps in teeth like the accidentals, the black keys, the notes with sharps or the wayward blues, the notes defy grid of music key, unlock, unhinge the jaw, place words on the tongue so they dissolve without water, taste the B vitamins of nonsense here in this cymbal swelling, this sad knowledge of a five year thwarted path, pah!
I must’ve been 16 when I went to Berklee for a kind of summer camp, with a borrowed acoustic guitar (didn’t even have my own – there for the songwriting experience, for the jam basements, for the drum rooms and thrones and I touched the older kid’s drum kit more than once without finesse, he scolded me for insolence and I stopped forever.) Who was I, was no one, I wasn’t I yet. Still aren’t. Now I know music school would be nice, fulfilling, justifiable. Word school? Justifiable? Maybe. The jobs out there at a business start up, oh yeah, content writers for shit blogs, or dishwashers in the break rooms of the newspaper, or yeah yeah, using chemical smear to erase the graffiti in the bathrooms… yeah yeah yeah. the thwarted path of a musically trained individual. An on demand item for whoever, whatever. My angst uprooted this. I remember the Boston subway. Wandering near Fenway. I remember going to a music store – making better musicians laugh at my aloofness. I remember playing bass in the store and them saying I should focus on that. Huh? I’m a drummer! I probably exclaimed. Well, you sound good, natural. Not forced. Yeah, yeah. Pipe dreams. A wooden pipe from a canoe in Jamaican waters. Or haitian? or white privilege? Well, I wouldn’t have gone to school for bass guitar, that sounded and still sounds, ridiculous. Hobby – based. Pun! I would play the four string in a group if they needed it. I’m pretty good at that. Most bands played in with it. Never played guitar with other musicians in any serious setting. Other than a few open mic nights I guess. Still, seul. Alone. Alone. A stubborn musician. Unable to know what needs focus on what words works grammar and not feel so then sentence collapse cuz of a sudden carelessness a thwarted path. What the fuck am I studying a hobby for if it makes me harbor regrets for failing to study other hobbies? Well I want to study all my interests in great depth and be a mastermind artistic world domination and I will do something big with it all 23 years is a long time to materialize purpose when there are astronauts at age 5 shoe polishers at age 8 factory workers building iphones at age 11 wearing hardhats (protect your assets) and clocking in and out and probably smoking cigarettes. I want music. I want words. I want to make both constantly and efficiently and I want a community of others with a similar goal to drown myself among. Their glowing hearts.