I keep scribbling things I want to say in the back of my work notebook — and now there are enough to put together a “hot dog sausage” of an entry :)
I had this dream a few weeks back that I couldn’t shake for a couple of days. I was revisiting my high school jazz ensemble, a close-knit group of people into which I didn’t quite fit. (Well, that’s a bit harsh, I guess I fit with them more than anyone else back then, but I was definitely a loner.) Somehow, I ended up spilling my guts about all the things I’ve done wrong over the past 10 years, the choices I’ve made, and confessed that I was a failure. Then Matt Lewis, trumpeter and brother of my fellow piano player Ben Lewis and 1999-2000 Kennedy Center Jazz Ambassadors, told me it was all right and that no matter what I did, if I was happy, I’d be ok. I burst into violent, refreshing tears, tears so strong that they woke me up. I cuddled my gf closer and nuzzled softly, thoroughly confusing her in the process.
I searched the web for Ben and Matt’s recent work, and I continue to be humbled by my classmates’ successes. I have this tendency to expect way too much from myself, and I know it’s because way too much was expected of me as a kid. I’ve internalized it, and cause myself to get very depressed when I don’t live up to what I expect, no matter how unreasonable it is. What a struggle it’s been to get rid of that baggage (and yes, I wholly blame my parents for giving it to me). Each time I feel like it’s gone, it resurfaces — looking at my gf’s beauty and feeling unsure of my own looks has been my latest trick. Yet it’s not jealousy: I don’t want her looks, I don’t want their jazz talents, I want my own abilities and capabilities to be respected and loved. It doesn’t help when I can’t kick my ass into action on some things (when was the last time my dimply thighs saw a gym?!?!!) but I’m trying my hardest to shore up my self-esteem.
Some random bits before I’m swept off to lunch:
- What does it say about me that I no longer have any sort of UNIX or PC machine at home, just my Mac, which I barely use for more than a few web page accesses?
- Why must I take all my important revelations of what’s wrong with me as a person and just “shovel them underground?”
- And why must I replay my personal mistakes over and over in my head, torturing myself infinitely for a nasty thing I said to my jazz band leader in 1989 (for instance)?
- Why do I, a headstrong and upstanding person, sometimes just let myself be controlled by silly things I could fix with a few strokes of a pen or a simple phone call?