The Space named College

Image by Pensiero via FlickrAs I sit here waiting for my instructor to reach some point of stability- bless her heart- I find myself missing high school.
If you knew me, you’d know me saying this means that flying pigs have frozen hell.
I hated high school. I hated being trapped in a fascist society and being stuck in detention by the Gestapo’s hand. I dreaded getting up in the morning, and I ran to my car when the last bell rang faster than any track runner.
But now I miss my friends. Now I miss the laughs, and I miss the tears. Now I miss seeing my girlfriend and showing her off, hand-in-hand down the halls.
I even miss the rules.
The rules, I thought, were holding me back. I thought of myself as above school law. That I was too smart and clever to be punished the same as an illiterate football jock.
Now I know the rules held a floor under me and roof above. It held its own stability, and now I’m having to float through empty space.
Without anyone holding my hand.

On Performing

Image by euripedies via FlickrI realized, as most people do after a chapter has turned in their lives, that I miss being on stage. I miss sharing my music with whoever happened to be ear- shot. I miss hearing applaud and satisfaction from fans, and I even miss the smart-alek remarks by arrogant nobodies.
And to think I used to hate it.
My band always had to pep talk me into my performance. They would promise me the three things every man strives for: money, glory, and girls. But I’d still groan and moan as they dragged me on stage.
I’d like to say I didn’t want to perform because I wanted my music to stay idiosyncratic and unscathed by any criticism, or something that’d show ingenuity. But, the simple truth is I had stage freight.
My blues licks in practice could split hairs, but on stage sounded like the drunken slurs of a cow. Sitting in my room, chords would flow through the air like a bag of feathers would float through space, but on stage my notes spilled on the air like vomit.
Knowing this, I always found people’s positive feedback as pity, or sometimes even sarcasm. Sometimes though, in the deep it of my heart of hearts, I knew that my music had a message and that message was my own.

The Hero

Image via WikipediaMy father is a man of many faces. When I was a boy, I looked up to him like any boy would to their hero. It never really fazed me when my parents filed for divorce, it just gave my father more of a hero presence; flew in from a hidden far-away place to save the day.
My mother stood as the villain in my eyes. He divorce had left her in a morose and cold depression, with only a seven-year-old boy to find any solace in. She saw that I loved my father. She saw me running to the ringing phone to tell him about my day. He’d tell me that he’s “on the road,” but he’d come see me the next chance he could.
I always thought that he was living in a serene beach, smoking his pipe in one hand and fishing with the other.
One night, after a quick conversation with my father, my mother was sitting in my room wearing a smirk.
“You think your father is living in some mansion, or something?” she asked.
“No…” I knew what she was like when she got like this, and I knew there was nothing I could do but stay quiet.
“Well, HE’S NOT! HE’S LIVING IN HIS CAR IN SOME EMPTY PARKING LOT! THAT’S WHERE YOUR FATHER IS! THAT’S WHERE YOU’LL BE TOO IF-“
I slammed the door shut and climbed out of my window. It was just part of the routine, she’d go crazy and I’d go to the park.
I felt that life had tilted slightly, and the comic book atmosphere was leading into another dramatic plot. In all of it, the only truth I knew was that I just missed my dad.

After the Hurricane

Image by noamgalai via FlickrAfter tossing and turning in the eerie, humid night, I awoke to the aftermath of the storm. I was too inland to face anything more than harsh winds and blistering rain, but my gut still set uneasy. I walked outside to find leaves covering the ground, almost covering the pavement. I pulled the bent Marlboro box out of my pocket.
“Only two left,” I said to myself as I grabbed a cigarette as an old man would to his cane.
As I stood and watched smoke drift aimlessly with the wind, I noticed a CD was left face up on my driveway. It was only by a mixture of my curiosity and luck that led to me to picking the CD up.
It was mine.
And it was supposed to be in my car.
My “locked” car.
As the cigarette fell from my lip, I rushed to my car. The door opened with ease, and my stomach dropped to my feet. My stereo was ripped out of its place, leaving behind a tangled mesh of plastic. Everything in my glove compartment was thrown around my interior, just like the leaves on the street. The thieves had decided to leave my books, leaving me to guess that illiteracy is a trait that most thieves carry.
As I tried to collect myself, a single thought shot through my mind:
The trunk.
I flew to my dash and pulled the trunk release, dashed to the cargo door, and stood in awe.
There, in all of its own melancholy greatness, stood empty space. It was hard to imagine that two-thousand dollars worth of guitar equipment once sat in what now didn’t even carry a spec of dust.
If it were a diamond, or even a briefcase full of cash, I wouldn’t have been left in such despair. Every piece of guitar equipment in my trunk was given to me by someone I love.
The wah pedal was from my grandmother, who bravely treaded into unfamiliar territory while boldly stating that she needed a crybaby, and “boy, I sure hope it’s not a doll.”
Even the tuner was gift from my father.
So I stood as my fallen cigarette blazed on the wet cement in silence.

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