It has been years – and I haven’t done a thing. Let me itemize: I have not penned a word, played a tune, chased a squirrel (believe me, central park has them by the hundreds), gotten hustled at Washington Square park in a chess game, slept under the open sky, appeared unannounced at a friend's door, had an impossible dream, woken up wanting to run, given up my train seat, held the door, smiled for no reason, stopped drinking while tipsy, read a book (damnit!), added a new movie, watched a documentary, called a friend, apologized to a lost friend for losing touch, prepared a signature meal, bought a funky t-shirt…
Last night, I was writing a note... to my horror, I realized I hadn’t handwritten anything in years. My handwriting looks like shit. Heck I had to pull down a notebook from years ago just to remind myself I have written in better script. And my prose is embarassing. I wrote better years ago. The words have stopped flowing. I feel like an old, rusty engine...
Then there's more - I find out where I was after looking at pictures from my friends’ walls, from my sisters’ posts, from an email… I honestly don’t fucking remember where I’ve been. In this loud, bustling town, my mind is saturated with silence. There is nothing in it… nothing. And unlike those bastards at fight club, there is no grand finale where everything comes together at the end. The clock ticks. The twilight approaches my window, the hours go by, and tomorrow, I will be older.
Dave Gilmour sang – “I took a heavenly ride though our silence. I knew the moment had arrived. For killing the past, and coming back to life.” Today is my day. This is my moment.
Richard Russell writes daily about investments and life – a depression baby, a war veteran, a motorcycle junkie, father of five children, two time stroke survivor, a cactus lover, a poodle herder, and he asked me if I had an identity? He shared his war stories, and I’ve read them by the tens over the months, but there is only one statement he made that I vividly remember… he says he wants his lost years back… he wants his youth back… the youth and years that the war took away from him. I examine myself and I wonder - what would he think if I told him I haven’t done anything in years? That the word “nothing” will describe the fruits of my youth.
I am ashamed... I will not betray my youth.
My guitar sits lonely in the corner - dusty and dirty from my neglect. Such a beautiful instrument, such beautiful sound - and it just sits in the corner, immobile, mute, as the world goes by it... It reminds me of my youth.
Heck, now I have a blog. And these were my first words in years.
I am going to bring that guitar to a mirror shine. When I look at it, shiny, touched, played, and alive tomorrow, I will remember that I sat down and played an old tune from so many years ago. And it will be my first, tangible memory - by the window, humming a soft melody with the strings I will sing to the youthood I refuse to lose.
