For The Love of Word Gods
He buys a lot of CDs.
I didn't realize this until we moved in together. The collection grows as fast as the mold on our stash of leftover pizza.
We don't own enough holders for all of them, so they pile up in neat columns around and on top of the stereo and TV. And when those are full, the plastic cases strain from stereo speakers to reach the ceiling. About to topple, the chair next to the TV will eventually hold a few more, and finally the remaining displaced discs will creep onto the floor, begging for a home. These boogers find their way between books, old VCR tapes, worn porn mags and new DVDs. In his car, they make up most of the floor and are tucked away in every secret corner of the vehicle. This doesn't even take into account his personal CD player and holder, where there are hundreds more.
At first I was miffed he took up so much space. But when a mutual friend pointed out to me that he is always listening to music everywhere he goes, it hit me: My musician boyfriend gives to music as much as he takes from it.
When he's not listening to his CDs, he's playing his guitar or bass. Or he's at band practice. Or visiting local record stores. We have been together so long, I had forgotten how much he loves music.
So I have made a pledge I would consume as much or more written material than I produce. I should anyway, but I am lazy and believe reading a newspaper--and a bad one at that--should be enough to make the Word Gods satisfied. And maybe it does, but I am reminded of how I crave--no, desire--a well-written sentence, a crafted story, or even the right word choice. I deny myself that pleasure every day, until once every couple of weeks I run across something that reminds me of how hungry I am.
And it's no surprise he can write so much of his own music in a short period of time, while I sit and stare at a blank page, pretending to be a writer, pretending to play office. I have ideas, but they flutter away before I can catch them. And they come at horribly inopportune times: in the car, in line at the grocery, while I teach gymnastics. I can't write them down, I have no memory, and am only left with the hopeless, fleeting knowledge that I had a great idea, but it betrayed me. Too much pot? Too many grounded worries? The electric bill is due, the cat box needs to be cleaned, wet laundry needs to get transferred from the washer to the dryer. My car needs an oil change. Yard needs mowed. It's this list of duties, this endless, ongoing, ever-changing to-do list that keeps my weak brain occupied. I betray myself, and I know it.
While my boyfriend can watch the cat box become a poopie war zone, I must clean it. While he can sift through dirty T-shirts to find the least grimy one for that day, I must wash them. While a sacred circle of wrappers and dishes envelop the couch, he adds to it as I scuttle off the trash to it's proper home.
And maybe it's this, these obsessions of mine that keep me at arm's length from my genius. It's a battle that's only played out in my sleep and at my fingertips. At night, I torture myself with dreams of war, guts and guns, and in the day, I gnaw my fingernails to a sad state of affairs, as if to stop my fingers from writing the truth.
But what is the truth? That this is a ruse? Maybe. That I'll suck? Maybe. That'll it'll be great? Even worse.
It is this utter, outstanding concrete fear of greatness that lures my hand to my throat, trying to choke every last breath of truth as I unload the dishwasher. Realizing that being responsible to success is a far taller order than to face having the electricity turned off, I give in to my monster. So I continue to read the crappy newspaper and watch the reruns and punish the cat for throwing up.
But in this, I will know my greatness, just like yours, is at the end of my fingertips, lurking in between my gray, hollow duties and hiding in make-believe scary feelings. In time, I will find my muse, and she and I will be great friends. And until then, I will have a very clean house.