Readers, I had planned a weekend wrap-up for you today. I’m not sure how to approach it, though. Christmas? House painting? House painting-induced nose bleeds? Goth scene laments? How bout we do none of the above? You ain’t getting out of all those topics…I’m just gonna hang onto them and make them into entire posts. Mwahaha.
As I sat at goth night last night, missing the buds and wondering why Hobby Lobby Vampire felt the need in stare at me and invade my personal space (perhaps he’s found out that I refer to him as Hobby Lobby Vampire?), I did what I know how to do. I sat and scribbled crap in my little notebook with a extra-fine Sharpie, wishing I’d remembered to bring some Scatterplot cards with me. Yep, I’m still doing those, but they’re still just for the deep darks. The less deep darks, strangely, started forming freeverse poetry.
I know, right? What am I? 15? Poetry? It gets worse. Songs.
My songs were worse than my poetry, which is why I stopped writing them in the first place. “You play the piano? How come you don’t write?” “Because there are enough people writing crappy songs.” Then my weapon of choice stopped being a piano and started being a computer. I became someone else. Now that I once again have a place to play, I have gone back to Euclid. I have forgotten an embarrassingly large quantity of what I knew, but I can get it back…and this time, my brain has brought friends.
It’s like not talking to your ex for a while so that you can start all over again as friends. I am no longer the girl who would feel crappy about herself for missing a note, constantly trying to work in a funky key signature or weird chord inversion just to prove that I was competent enough to be in the room. Art school, strangely, beat that out of me. One of the things you learn there is that sometimes complete failure is exactly what a situation requires. You have to go big, and if everything ends up being full of fail, then at least you know that you really DID whatever you were trying to do, even if it didn’t work out. Or, as my middle school choir teacher said, “if you’re going to sing a wrong note, really SING that wrong note.” His point being that, if you do it like you mean it, you need to put some air behind it.
So there it is. Realizing that one needn’t have a single weapon of choice. In fact, small females should have as many weapons as possible (even if some of those need to be concealed for carry). Sometimes the mission dictates the weapon, and sometimes the weapon needs to be a piano. Sometimes the weapon is a computer. Sometimes the weapon is a bottle of bleach and a stick of gum…but only if you’re MacGyver.