I thought tonight (or thereabouts) I would finally write about the beetus. I’ve written about it before: in scattered Facebook statuses, a blog post here and there on my long silent wordpress booper, and, of course, in the short story on my diagnosis. It’s there; I’ve not been avoiding writing about it. I guess I haven’t written about it on Medium, and so part of me feels like I’m hiding. I have to keep reminding myself that I am writing here every day for a year, and not having 365 days worth of traumatic, intensely vulnerable, ish to post is a) not equivalent to me hiding at all, and b) not a bad fucking deal, so how about I get over myself and write whatever the hell suits me.
In honor of my folks being in town for the next several days, here is a micro story about what they think spurred my interest in music.
I spent my toddler years (pre-younger brother) in a little apartment in Oak Park, IL. My folks are artsy, and, at my spawning, may or may not have been hippies. I’m unclear on exact definitions, but based on some vague summaries, I think maybe they might have been artsy hippies. OMFG THEY WERE THE ORIGINAL HIPSTERS oops the end now I need a time out.
Ok, no it’s ok, I’m fine now. So whatever, they had a turntable and tons of records. Like, a Beatles album bought in the 70s was pretty much the real deal. They had genres out the wazoo, too; classical, jazz, bluegrass; all sorts. Their collection piled high and was probably one of the few precious things they had during those way back years when our family was still becoming.
Based on stories, I glean that I was an articulate, moody, blerch of a baby. I mean, not much has changed. Haha? But, my shenanigans coupled with finding work, and actually working, and dealing with being artists -which is a full time disaster mess in and of itself, meant that they had little luck in the way of sleeping in.
I guess I’d had several days of predictable sleep, because one Saturday night, they tucked themselves in with the idea that they would sleep late the next morning. No alarm clocks! Things are finally solid! ALL PRAISE THE ELUSIVE FUCKWAD GODDESS OF SLEEP! Wait I mean whatever; something nice about the gods of sleep (please don’t pee directly on me, sleep gods!!! I’m sorry about the fuckwad thing!! Fml).
Somewhere in the not-quite-late hours of the morning, with noob sun streaks traipsing into the rooms and across the wooden floors, my parents awoke to utter quiet. Which; alarming. They yoinked themselves out of bed and scuttled to the hallway.
They stood in the entrance, listening to the faint crinkles and whooshes of their fantastic record collection, as they gazed upon their firstborn, sliding in the utter buff across the hallway on a fully stripped pile of their albums. They tell me to this day how joyful I was, smiles and brightness, whizzing naked across their apartment, their musical collection cracked and obliging beneath my bare bottom.
They insist this is where my love of music was born. I have no doubts.