the day the music died...there was no american pie

Once upon a time, there was a boy. He was of no particular upbringing that made him anything special. Though privileged in comparison to so many in the world, he had no set direction in life, no lofty unattainable standards to meet. As the last of three children, he always aspired to be different. One day, he came to meet a young man who was just a year older than him. There was nothing peculiar about the meeting, but something about the encounter would change his life forever.

The older boy gave the young boy a ride home one night, and playing in his car was a kind of music, of which the other boy was unfamiliar. The music filled the night air of loud brass and heart-wrenching strings. It was nothing like the music boys their age typically listened to, and provoked a pain and agony that caught the boy’s attention like nothing had done before. It was the music of Mahler, of Shostakovich, of Stravinsky; romantic composers not yet heard of by the ears of a young, curious 15-year-old child. Though unknown to the effects of the music at the time, the young man would come to find that this one moment in his life would define him in a way that was unimaginable.

The young boy was an active member of the high school band and had both a brother and a sister go through long seasons of marching band and other related activities before him. For his age, he was already a pretty good trombonist. He practiced daily, took lessons here and there, and showed a commitment to excellence in his craft even before the life-altering moment. The music he heard that night was but a doorway to a world that would consume him. He began to purchase the works of these romantic composers and stayed up long nights listening to their masterpieces. While everyone else was blasting Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys from their fancy car speakers in the high school parking lot, the young boy was shunning teenage conformity by blasting Mahler’s 6th Symphony and Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite from the feeble stock speakers of his hand-me-down Ford Taurus. The music inspired him. It moved him like nothing had done before. He had been to Christian youth rallies, to Dave Matthews concerts; He even thought he had been in love, but none of it compared to the music that screamed through his car and his veins. No baptism could compare with the soul-piercing feeling the music invoked in him.

At times, he tried to push it aside. He pursued love, like all teenagers, but when all else failed, he could fall back on the music. He tried to be like everyone else when moments called for it, but when it was needed, the music was there. Finally, he gave in to its call. He forsook his future plans of pursuing a business degree at his hometown college and tested the waters of a new path. He began to dream of playing in a real Symphony Orchestra. He had tasted it only briefly as a member of the area’s Youth Symphony and loved every moment. He imagined a life where the “everyday grind” was simply to perfect all-important excerpts of his favorite symphonies. It was late in the game to change his college plans, but he was able to audition for a more renowned institution that was out-of-state and in his mind, a better, more prestigious place to pursue his dreams. Perhaps his pride led him away from his home, or maybe it was just in the cards for him. Nevertheless, it caused his parents much sorrow and cost them even more while ostracizing a number of his friends. Though he appeared recognized the price, none of it mattered or could possibly stand in the way of his dream…

Fast-forward nine years… The young man is now without a dream. He is but a passionless drone trying to find meaning in the muck of it all. It’s uncertain what all happened to him in that span of time, but what you’ll find is a shell of what he once was. Was it burn out? Was it heartbreak? Was it homesickness? Perhaps all three? It only took a year for the boy to retreat, to give up on the one thing that was in tune with his soul. Long ago, he packed up his collection of classical recordings, his trombones, and his sheet music. Fortunately his love of music didn't completely subside. He pursued meaning in other genres of music, but none could capture his soul like the one discovered in what seemed so long ago to him now. He is but a critic, a connoisseur, an appreciator, not the performer and creator that he once was. So many things have happened in his life since those early days, instances of beauty and moments of sadness that may have forever swallowed that side of him. Will he ever rediscover the passion he once had?

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Talk about over dramatizing things, right? Honestly though, I’m not so sure. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the paths I’ve taken in my life. I have often made impulsive decisions that I look back on in scorn and embarrassment. Were they the right decisions? Were they somehow “meant to be”? If so, then were the things I chickened out on somehow predestined as well? Phooey. I often think I’ve made a right mess of my life, but then again who hasn’t?

Someone recently asked me if I was happy. Most of the time people answer this question as they do any other obsequious banter, but I take all questions like this quite seriously. I suppose I just got so tired of enduring my mother’s meaningless chitchat growing up that I have to rebel in the other direction. Nevertheless, the question is quite a loaded one and I answered as best I could at the time. I’ve been stewing over it ever since. “Am I happy?” I’m not unhappy, but I’m certainly not as happy as I could be, or have been in the past. That’s where that whole above post came from. After reconnecting with a couple old friends from the high school days, I started to reminisce on times when I truly could say I was happy. I don’t know if my memories of being involved in music have since been glorified or possibly misremembered, but I want to say that I was different back then; Still a cynical asshole and all, but I had a passion and drive to be better at something.

Since school let out for the summer, I have been extremely restless and antsy to get back on the road and travel. Most of my days are spent reading and watching movies with little human interaction. This undoubtedly produces all sorts of crazy psychobabble, overly analytical thoughts, and pounding headaches. I’m not really even sure why I’m posting this for all eyes to see, considering I have no idea who all may be stalking me out there, and due to its rather personal nature, but I am certain Chase would want to read these thoughts. So here you go man…