Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a showboat at heart. Get me tipsy or get me happy and relaxed, and I’m likely to goof in a seriously dramatic fashion. Such was the case this Sunday as I tore up James Brown’s Sex Machine on Rock Band 2. And I don’t mind saying, I tore that fucker up. I didn’t go into it reserved, bashful, or experimental—I was in it, and pretty well. I had fun with it, and the gang had fun with me, throwing the towel over my shoulders and all. That’s what good entertaining is about–using what you got, and getting other people in on the fun.
I love that stuff also because I like to think I’ve got soul. I love me some Motown, I love singing, and I love the passion that goes with it. Soul encapsulates raw feelings and moments in life. It’s not hard to get–in fact, that’s against the grain of soul. Soul music is something that everyone gets, because you feel it in your soul. Since I’ve always felt like I’ve led with my heart in life, I’ve always resonated with that kind of music.
Nights like tonight, I don’t particularly feel like I’ve got soul. I feel cold inside: distant. Conversation runs dry, connections feel withered, and I frankly try to remember what made me feel good before. All my mistakes, all my unresolved conflicts, and all the frustrations of life leave me in a stone shell thick enough to dull anything coming through or going out. It’s like a bomb shelter for negative emotions. Bitterness gets to have a chat with Rage, while Despair hides in the corner and sips on a Caprisun. It’s a sucky way to live.
Some of it comes from the daily situations I deal with, but ultimately, the issue is with me. I’ve lived with a lot of this crap all my life. My childhood was so solitary that no one saw me long enough to know these sorts of things went on, or else they dismissed it as part of growing up. During undergrad the feelings got blamed on a bad relationship. After that the things to blame started running out. I remember sitting in my apartment in 2000 in a virtual fugue. I had no direction, little happiness, and was cruising on momentum. I had no clue what to do to make myself get up and go.
Life’s come a long way since then, but nights like this make me wonder what the Hell I’m doing, and what kind of guy I am that swings from soul to shell in less than a week. Hell, maybe it’s just part of growing up, and being an older man. You just don’t burn like you did when you were younger–which is good, because that is a hot and inconsistent flame. But I don’t want to be cold, either. I think coming to keys and writing what I do is my method of stoking the flame, but not too hot. After all, our passions—not the raw passions, but our motivations—are what keep us warm at night, what get us up in the morning, what get us through the day. They are the fires that we keep to stay warm, and that we learn to keep the right size, for fear of burning down the wooden scaffold we call our lives.
I just need some wood.
