Belated aspirations

I desperately want to be good at something. I mean VERY good, not just good. It’s a leftover feeling from long ago, I think. Something that was never addressed. There were times in my life when that feeling didn’t matter, when all that mattered was “romance.” I would want to be VERY good for that particular man in 1970, another particular man in 1981. But now it’s too late for that. I can be GOOD for my husband now without giving up anything, because there’s not much to give up. No job, no place. All that’s been gone for a while. I’ll never get back to Massachusetts. It’s too late, and too expensive.

I became pretty good at some things. I suppose I was a pretty good writer, at times. As a grad student in English Literature, I wrote some mean papers. There was a teacher to please, so I was motivated, even though I was in my fifties. Compared to how I feel now, I felt YOUNG back then, as if doing well in class would bode well for my “future.” Why didn’t I feel that when I was younger? Because I was too busy being an adult, trying to handle a middle-management job at a weekly newspaper. I thought I was a big shot, dealing with stuff moment-to-moment, which ruled out the idea of studying anything seriously (although I should have studied management techniques).

Music kept rearing its lovely head when I least expected it. I was no prodigy at the piano when I was a kid taking lessons, but I enjoyed any opportunity to compose. Of course, that was rare, and only one teacher indulged it. No one encouraged me to go to ANY college, let alone music school. I wound up in art school because a friend urged me to join her, and it was cheap. There, at Massachusetts College of Art, a major in filmmaking led to more writing. As an afterthought I improvised some music for one of my films (long since lost to the dustbin).

Now, a veteran of several bands and sporadic guitar and voice lessons over the years, I am trying to be a serious musician? It makes no sense. I laugh at myself, and yet I continue. But how will I know if I have succeeded? These days, there is no way to tell. I currently participate in (don’t laugh) a weekly ukulele open mic online (among a few other open mics online). The first few times I was clearly more “professional” than most of the other players on this particular open mic; but this last time (tonight) I was not perfect. Now I’m feeling like shit. My weakness is not hitting the right vocal note when changing keys. I guess I should work on that. It’s all about working on stuff. Working and working and working. I am supposed to be retired! I’m 71 years old, for crissakes! Good thing we’re in the middle of a COVID resurgence! I have an excuse for always being in my chair, at the computer, with my ukulele in hand.

I keep writing songs, they do keep coming if I pay attention and, again, keep working, working working. But, what happens then? Except for the ones I recently recorded (which might as well be buried in an old mine, since nothing’s happening regarding completing what’s called “production,” and I’m too much of a wuss to nudge the person supposed to be doing that), my efforts are made in a vacuum. I can play them for one or two people, but that doesn’t satisfy me. At the same time, I’m very unsure of my worth in this area, and cannot bring myself to promote myself. It’s against my nature and nurture.

And now I can’t even bring myself to watch any songwriters playing their songs (especially if they are female) on YouTube or wherever. I don’t want to be distracted or influenced. Which tells me it’s really an EGO thing with me, and that I don’t really LOVE music as I should! If I did, I’d want to hear all of it, wouldn’t I? I remember failing an audition to get into a prestigious choral group in junior high. They asked for the Star Spangled Banner, or was it America the Beautiful? I can’t remember. My friend Caroline made it; I didn’t. At the time, I really didn’t care. I didn’t care about the music that group, called the Well-Wishers, was going to do. I liked folk and rock. I was happy playing that kind of song with my other girlfriend, Janice. As is the case (for me) now, we never played in front of anyone except a few friends. I don’t think Janice plays or sings at all now, although I have no evidence. I think she’s still alive, which is good. She’s probably a grandmother, or even a great-grandmother, roles I’ve not even considered for myself, since I don’t have kids.

I traded my first guitar, a classical, for some opium, back in 1967. Now I have three ukuleles, two guitars, a melodica, and eight harmonicas, and I’m about to finish a bottle of white wine. After which I will practice a song I just wrote called “Against Self-Examination.” There’s another open mic online tomorrow.