baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Leonard Nimoy Doesn't Host This Episode So, I'm finally get some privacy. Thank to lord all mighty. I suppose this affinity for solitude may not be a good sign considering that, historically, I almost always prefer the company of folk rather than the company of self. But, lately, I've been making a habit of retracting my thoughts and tucking them into my own private corner. The catalyst for this behavior is multi-faceted. And my patience for typing is much too short for deep analysis. So, I suppose i shall get on with things and expound other cooler and much more giddy-like matters. Like, for example, that I'm being interviewed by two newspapers about my music. That's purty darn cool Maynard. And last weekend, the band played to an all-teenage audience and absolutely flew like you wouldn't believe. At first, I was apprehensive-I question the validity of my music in the ears of a teen. But, to my surprise, they drank it up like wine and showed their appreciation in the coolest of ways. It's funny how I assume that the people who would be most appreciative of personal creativity would be the ones that know the author. By that I mean friends. But, actually, most of the folks who know me well enough to know my history with music and have heard my many attempts at composing have little to say. They appreciate it I believe. And they may even like it (it's hard for me to recognize sincerity at times. It's a weakness, I know.) But, I fear most of them just file it away in the "oh, here's another song from him category." They offer the usual platitudes and walk on their merry way. But, that's OK. I realize that friendships exist on many levels. And being friends with someone doesn't neccesarily mean that they'll appreciate your artistic endevours. What fills the void is the appreciation of strangers-people who aren't intimate at all with the history and baggage that weighs down the author, or rather in this case, composer. They hear pure music and not much more. And for all the times I've played to a distracted audience who couldn't care less about the secrets being spilled on stage, there's the few times where music and listener connect that make it worthwhile. I live for those times; those moments when a bridge appears out of nowhere and communication simply occurs. And, since we're on the subject of communication, I must write about my right ear. Not the left. The left is fine. It's my right ear that deserves some attention. It refused to work last weekend. Flat out said "fuck you, dude" to my brain and refused to, well, listen. Put your finger over your right ear and plug it up. That's what the damn thing did-but only worse. So, I stumbled over to Chinatown, where it seems all the restaurants get a "B" instead of an "A" (and hardly anybody accepts credit cards), and ask for the kind doctor to please, give me back my hearing. You see, I knew the problem. I wear snazzy musician's earplugs. They work wonders when playing at loud, manly volumes. But, they prevent the ear for cleaning itself out. And eventually, the wax which would flake it's merry way out of my ear if it weren't quarantined to my ear canal by a piece of custom-fitted silicon, decides to kick it's waxy feet up and hang out. If you've ever had your ear irrigated, then you know what it feels to have a stream of water injected at high pressure in your ear to force the wax out. The shit hurts. And it's annoying. And the doctor for whatever reason, likes to show you the wax that was evicted from the ear. I mean-do I really want to see this, doctor? First, I haven't had lunch, and all the restaurants around here only have a rating of "B" and now you want to show me the wax that my earplugs have stored in my ear? "Yul eal vely dilty," the doctor says to me. "Uhh, yeah, that's why I'm here," I say looking at him in amazement because he looks like a younger version of my Dad. So, with my right ear working, I stumbled back to work and went about my merry way. In search of as much giddy as possible in between Los Angeles and my house. 10:47 a.m. - 2002-08-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||