November 1, 2015
October 28 was supposed to be one of the best nights of my 2015. I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned it here before, but I was supposed to have a gig that night at Checkpoint. It was to be my first gig of the year. My first actual gig. One that’s not an open mic or just random jam.
I’d already invited everyone. Friends, family, strangers. People already bookmarked the date on their calendars. People were coming from up North just to watch me.
It was a night that was supposed to be my sort of comeback to music/performing. But then I had to back out the day before.
There was a flu that was going around. Unfortunately, I wasn’t immune to it. It became a full blown fever. Perhaps, the haze the Metro was experiencing the weekend before was to blame. My sordid mind took that unfortunate event as a sign that maybe I am supposed to quit music.
I’ve had my place in the sun. I’ve lived that dream. As short as the time I lived it was, I still lived it. It still brought me happiness. True happiness. Is this resignation, then? Have I resigned to the fact that it’s never going to happen to me again?
All signs point to giving it up. I haven’t written a song in almost a year. Not that I am lacking in inspiration. There were moments this year when I was inspired. As I’ve mentioned before, my focus has shifted to music photography, of which I’m taking a month long break from.
I’ve brought that up on my Facebook page, that I couldn’t do music because of the shift in focus. Friends say that I can do both. Lots of people are multi-talented. They can do music and photography and various art forms all at the same time. I am not one of those people. I have a pretty one track mind. I can only focus on one thing and excel in that, lest I compromise my own definition of the substance of the art form if I do multiple things at once.
Before this, I could argue that perhaps the reason for that targeted accuracy is my current mental distress. That the shitstorm in my head is preventing me from doing many things at once. After all, I was working on that fiction I wrote earlier this year. I even got to finish it. That was an accomplishment in itself as, prior to that, I’ve had three unfinished stories.
In hindsight, the only reason I managed to finish that was because I wasn’t doing music photography full time. I didn’t have the opportunities I have now (Checkpoint photo gig, Reese Intern gig, etc.) I wasn’t getting my name out there yet. I haven’t christened myself as “Infinity Blues” yet. Now that my name is out there, now that people know me as a music photographer, it seems to me that that is now who I am.
One of many many issues is that I don’t know myself. I don’t know who I am. An identity crisis at thirty years old…that’s cause for concern. I’ve defined myself as the things I do. Singer/songwriter. Photographer. Writer. At least I thought I did.
In actuality, I define myself the way people see me. Singer/songwriter. Photographer. Writer. It’s like I have to live up to how I’m seen as. Like I have to live that identity, regardless if it makes me happy or not.
It’s wrong, I’m aware. But I can’t help it. That shit’s hardwired to my brain.
Anyway, I have one more singing gig lined up this year. December. I’m currently considering that performance as my last.
Had another meltdown when I got home from a Halloween party Saturday morning. Ugly cries mixed with heinous laughter. I was crying and my brain was screaming “why the fuck are you crying? That shit’s nothing to cry about! Stop crying, you fucktwat.” I don’t even know why I was crying. As far as I knew, nothing triggered it. I was enjoying the night. It just came out. I was drunk, by the way. These days, the only times that I get to feel anything is when I’m drunk.
Emotional wreck? Yep. Internal conflict? Yep. Hopeless? Hope not. I want to live.