Trudge

After a while, I get to thinking all that has come to pass. I get this way when I walk. A sort of locomotive thought unable to stop once the resolve to just take the stride and the feet kept switching places before one another, towards any destination I have in mind.

  • This or maybe I just don’t have enough money for a bus fare. Which work both ways since at these times I do a lot of pondering.

Like turning your head from whence you came but moving forward:

The love and affection, freely given,

  • This often starts then whole thought engine revving.

The songs sung with wanton sincerity,

The capturing of life and ideas into detailed ink depictions on paper,

  • Of course I have decided on this long ago but took some time taking off, what, with all the financial inadequacies that has befallen my so-called artistic career.

The hurt sustained by those we love,

The pain we gained from those we loved,

  • Truth is, up until now I still think I was adopted, even with all the evident hereditary characteristics present in me as by my siblings, still I feel very different from my brothers. I even feel that I share a kind of Thor-Loki relationship with one, but I’m not sure which one- the brute or the prankster.

The trust professed and destroyed,

All the trappings of a feeling human whom we pictured ourselves to be, those whose beliefs in a higher power, whom we are supposed to follow without questions, but whose wrath may soon come upon us in fiery brimstone and searing horror. The sainthood our forbears tried to instill on our childish minds, feeble thoughts of tne afterlife may be a reward for our suffering…

  • And the idea of worshipping a wrathful, vengeful godhead is absurd. If that is true, then by no means the devil is much more agreeable.

Yet…

We suffer for our passion, we suffer for our art.

I have longed to sing my own songs, even though it still gives me great pleasure and release to match rhythm for rhythm, word for word the music that defined my living. To recreate what has been created, but with my own hands and imagination, a sad copy of the master’s brush and stroke, thinking it would honor the work.

All the lies we said, all the things that went between relationships,  misbegotten affections, arguments, jealousy, rage, friendships built,  bridges burnt, these are patches of lines,cross hatchings  and blacks that make up what has become my own crusade – to a musician is to cover a song and make it his own or move forward and write his own. To an artist, to tell the story drawn from my own, a chimera that may strike fear or loathing, or just annoy the living, but mine nonetheless.

P1330258

  • Long walks like this tend to cause the mind to meander. Which is by no means, no different from what real life is.

For it has been tiresome to sing someone else’s songs, to draw someone else’s creations. But the stories behind have been there for generations, and every story, legend or myth deserves embellishment, however  farfetched and irreverent , as long as the storytelling is and was felt before being told.

So I stand to create my own, digging into the depths of my misspent childhood, the decadence of puberty, the stolen moments of pure hedonism of the young adult, masked by innocence and the lore that kept my imagination wandering the places only I could get to in my mind. The naivete has always been there, even when I challenged morality at some point, and the utter helplessness fought with anger, only to realize  . . .

Me Culpa.

Even wizards endure the desolation for  their talent and skill . . .

Elementals  are reduced to merely observe, for fear of changing the course of human existence . . .

Faeries are often wont  of human interaction . . .

  • By this time the locomotive that is my thought has accelerated and the riding ideas and memories become a throng of shrieking passengers, either thrilled or scared to death.

And I, in my anonymity, like the multitude of carpenters, stagehands, riggers, writers, artisans, understudies, makeup artists, photographers, linemen, plumbers, volunteers, cooks, masons and blacksmiths, hold a certain significance in the world we are in –

We continue to create, build, write, sing, dance, serve, to entertain, even  for just a fleeting moment of triumph that we, the nameless, has done something that affects the human experience.

Even if our names are just some on a long list of end credits.

We  do what we do for those who care to read the those names at the end of a movie.

The musicians mentioned only on the inner sleeves of a vinyl record or CD.

The road crew who build it up ,only take it down and move on to te next gig.

The bartender who serves you the best drink in the house and offers solace to the bedraggled and harassed after work.

The artist who can draw, paint, design what was needed.

And I need to tell the story in my own terms.

  • After some abandoned me in my hour of need, a few turned their backs, yet there are still some – family, friends who are there to take my hand after fallingdown, bent on my knees, with my face muddy and wet with tears. I may have questioned the authority of any divine being over me, but my belief in people still hold  true.

The people I meet, the events that happened, joyful and sad, triumphant and pitifully frustrating, are the fuel  for the stories I wantto tell with pen, brush and ink, from the tales of hundreds of authors who have come before me, who taught me what no school can, and the life that is never fair, keeps the pen firm on my hand, and the dream in my heart.

Which way the path leads, I trudge.

  •  And eventually, I’ll get there . . .

Even long winding roads lead somewhere . . .

 

 

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