Music is like water. James tries to teach me the guitar, but I'm not sure he knows how to teach it, and after years of not practicing, I am doubting my capacity to learn. I pick up the guitar every other day or so and practice a little, but to be honest, it's become more pain than pleasure.
Music is like water. James said that to me a couple of weeks ago, but it has stayed in my head. This calm gentle man, he plays lounge music in the lobby, and the music, maybe, sounds washed up too. They go together. I think that James really understands the guitar and he plays it like a part of himself. He's waiting for retirement.
Life is like water too. Always flowing. Inevitable. I imagine my hairline is receding and the lines of my face are coming in clear. As if I can feel my youth slipping away and looking over at James's face, feeling his spirit drifting idly at sea, I can understand that. Too well. If life went in different directions James and I could stand up and switch chairs. I'd be him and he'd be me. I would twirl back my long hair and say "Come on James it's easy. You tell me anyone can do it." And James would pluck a few ungodly sounding chords and pronounce, "Damn you Dave! Damn you to hell!" Then we would laugh deeply about how silly the whole life thing is.
But we can't do that. Life is too simple to work that way. There's a synapse in my brain that is firing wildly "Now David, Now. You don't get a second chance." It doesn't fire all the time, but when it does it jolts the hell out of me. I feel a profound sense of place and a sense of purpose – a taste of dreams. It's just a little electrical connection between a couple of neurons in my brain that, truth be told, I have had all my life. I remember instances. This synapse cannot go on firing at such a heavy rate forever. Its already quite painful and I know that if this, well if anything for that matter, goes on unrequited too long, the pain becomes greater than the diminishing returns.
I imagine the life of a washed up filmmaker is comparable to the life of a washed up musician. It's not so silly then.
Gayla sings at the piano bar every night except Wednesday. She's asked me to help her make a demo video so I'm filming her. When I finish it's late, but I hang around and throw a few back. She sings all of the best of them: Piano Man, Fire and Rain – during my request, Tiny Dancer, (she didn't know "I guess that's why they call it the blues", but she's going to learn if for me). She throws me this knowing look and my eyes start to water and I look away. It's such a beautiful song, but I'll blame it on the alcohol.
That look that she gave me, the one that got to me, I won't believe it wasn't authentic, but that's her work. That's what we try to capture on video, the way she works the crowd. "I don't like that one shot," she tells me when she views my cut. "The close up? Why? What's wrong with it?" "Oh, I don't know, I'm too self critical." But finally, "It's been a long contract."
Gayla turns to cough. She's still recovering from a respiratory illness. They finally made the piano bar nonsmoking, but a little too late. "They're probably worried about liability," she says. "They should be," I say. We talk awhile. She's trying to make it through the contract. "Oh I'll go back to Ohio. My agent says maybe Cancun, but I really have no idea where I'll wind up."
I know the feeling. I don't have any certainties. I often feel I don't have anything to hold on to, but I try to just put one foot in front of the other in a direction that seems good. One day, the day will come.
Until then, I'm grateful to those who read me and keep me sparking.
-DSM
P.S. So I'm changing rooms. They are running out of rooms so they are giving me a luxury suite! Tune in next week to find out if I'm telling the truth and for pictures of my new room!
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