Rock and Roll Dreams¹

adventures of the everyday

My son has always been into music.  I sang to him in utero endlessly; traditional lullabies, TV theme songs, Night Vale weather reports, musical theatre standards.  He came out with an innate sense of rhythm (unlike his father or I) and an eclectic musical taste.

In the last year or two, he has become obsessed with “writing” his own songs, and has recently formed his own band – Fire on the Loose – whose members include, at any given time, himself and any adult he can rope into it (his Grandpapa seems to be a favorite).

I’ve got no musical inclination – I love music, but I have no innate talent, and don’t have the ability to juggle the pursuit in tandem with my art, writing, and language learning – but I try to encourage Bear as much as I can.  He has cymbals, maracas, triangles, recorders, tambourines, and a keyboard, and after an afternoon of playing an “writing” songs, he decided to make a poster for his band:
67569551_10156497754724352_1316584901322997760_oWritten independently by Bear, including spelling.  Honestly, I was impressed.

So of course, I shared my enthusiasm with Facebook, because in some ways, I am very much a Millennial Mom.  While most friends offered encouragement or amusement, my cousin decided to stir up repressed memories.

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We eventually coaxed from the depths of our collective consciousness that someone’s name was Sour Apple Spice, at which point I think we all had a painful, full-body shudder and decided to leave well enough alone.  Literally none of us could so much as pluck out a tune, and we had a band??  Come on.

But I came back to the conversation later, re-read it, and realized how much and how painfully I missed that time in my life.

Because we weren’t completely oblivious — we knew none of us could actually play music.  But what we could do was come up with a band name, write song lyrics, put together costumes and personas, create posters and back stories — and that?  That is creating a narrative.

That is storytelling.

I started thinking about all the other geeky shit that we got up to during those summers when we were all in junior high and high school, and my cousin Nikki all but lived at our house: the videos we made on my uncle’s old camcorder, staging talk shows and performing skits to send to penpals; piecing together costumes from old clothes, thrift store finds, and vintage costume jewelry to stage photo shoots; keeping notebooks full of handwritten, free-form role playing games, some spilling over online and encompassing a dozen people, some just between the three of us; writing elaborate self-insert fanfics and illustrating them for each other in Painter.

Those summer nights, we were costume designers, choreographers, writers, artists, photographers, models.

It was the silliest shit in the world, but it was freeing, and fun, and undoubtedly an exercise in unbridled creativity.  It was something that, in a lot of ways, I would spend the rest of my life (thus far) chasing and never quite finding again.

I miss those nights.  I miss that time with my sister and my cousin, huddled sleeplessly in front of the TV, re-watching out latest raw footage, or passing our roleplay notebooks back and forth.  Those are nights I’m never going to get back.

But I see my son scribbling out his band poster, which is now hanging on his wall, and I am so, so happy that he still has so many of those nights to look forward to.


¹Literally apropos of nothing, but I was struggling to title this entry, finally stumbling on “Rock and Roll Dreams,” and then was fucking bowled over with a powerful wave of nostalgia for this song:

Happy Fall (I’m Back)

Happy Fall!.png

I know, I  know; it’s not, like, technically Fall yet.  I’ve been sitting on this post literally since September 3rd, the day my son started school, which felt more than ever like the irrevocable end of summer, but then my schedule went haywire, my brain short-circuited, and I more or less shut down.

Which sounds hella dramatic.  It wasn’t. I’ve just been utterly exhausted and overwhelmed, which meant something had to fall by the wayside, and my creative endeavors — basically everything not absolutely essential for the functioning of my household and family — came to a grinding halt.

At this point, it is, actually, almost Fall — the leaves are changing, the morning air has a chill to it, and the calendar is nearly in agreement with me on this point.  So why not wait?

Because I am ready now, and waiting longer is just going to delay the momentum.  

I have a schedule at work again — more over, I have the schedule I had anticipated going into this year (with one tweak which, truth be told, I’m happy about) — and am told it should be “permanent.”¹ For the first time in weeks, my husband has his normal weekly schedule again, which means he can do the mid-week chores and I can get my house back on track, and my son has settled into — and really loves — school.  I still have a growing backlog of ideas for paintings and creative projects that I have been aching to work on, and am finally feeling emotionally ready to get started on them.

In short, things have taken a turn, and it feels like things are changing.  I thought it was time to celebrate the transition.

For my fellow creative folks, please remember that October means OctPoWriMo or Inktober (though if you’re a glutton for punishment like me, it means both), and November of course brings with it NaNoWriMo, which I am definitely doing, though I’m unsure of what my project will be yet — I guess I should add “Preptober” to next month’s schedule, huh?

I am, as promised, back.  I hope you all have been well, and if not, well, I hope you find your turning point soon, too.


¹Nothing in my line of work is truly permanent.  I’ve been shuffled around from program to program over the last nearly-fifteen years, and while I’m not complaining (I appreciate the experiences), I can certainly speak with authority on the ephemeral nature of my job’s sense of “permanence.”

adventures of the everydayMy wedding anniversary was last week, on the 17th — nine years married, can you believe?  Not bad for the couple who each thought they were never gonna get married, and never had any real ambition to do so.  Our marriage was very much of the, “this feels right for our situation” variety, rather than “marriage is a de facto life goal, so we gotta do it” variety.

I give my husband a lot of shit — mostly playfully, mostly jokingly — and this week has been no exception.  I’d been working on a painting that overall turned out really well, but with which I had a hell of a rough patch earlier this week.  It’s another portrait of sorts, and noses and midlines continue to be the bane of my existence (hence why I continue to paint them, over and over again).¹

I have a habit of talking, half to myself and half to whoever is un/fortunate enough to be present during my diatribes, while I work on a piece.  This meant that during the hours which I was working, my husband had to listen to what probably amounted to a litany of, “is this the color I was using?  Yeah, ok.  What would happen if I — oh, there we go, that’s pretty.  Should I do an extra layer of highlights?  Ooh, I should have put a wash down before I started this detail.  Does this look bad?  How does this look?  Andy?  Andy???”

Now, I get that given my penchant for rambling mostly to myself, it doesn’t bother me that he’s not poised to answer my every beck and call when I eventually address him directly; like, if I had to actively listen to someone go on the kind of tangents I do on the off-chance that maybe they’ll actually try to engage me, I’d go bonkers.  Like, it would just literally be impossible to get anything done, because I wouldn’t have the mental time and space to focus on anything except their tirades.  So it’s not that he isn’t automatically in active listening mode that bothered me.  It is, as I often tell him, that he “doesn’t care.”

And he doesn’t.  Like, he doesn’t care about painting.  At all.  And yes, it sometimes annoys me.  It’s sometimes disheartening that I can’t really have a meaningful conversation about something that has caught my interest with one of the most important people in my life.  And I’m willing to bet their are a lot of people who feel the same way about their partners’ interest — or lack there of — in their hobbies.

And honestly, I am going to continue to stand up and assert that I would like for him to exhibit a little more interest in my hobby, at least to the point of giving me honest feedback when I ask him for it, or giving me a candid opinion (because they whole, “I don’t know, I don’t know art” does not cut it; like, bitch, I know you’re not an artist, I live with you.  I’m still asking your opinion as my husband.  I have “Art” friends to get “art” opinions from if and when I need them).

But.  But but but.  I am also going to stand up and assert that I, and probably a lot of people, need to really examine the ways our partners interact with our passions and assess whether it’s really lack of support or lack of interest, because while one might be nice, the other is absolutely essential.

Much as I’d love for him to be interested in painting, or crafting, or art, he doesn’t owe me interest in any particular subject, and honestly, fair.  Because it’s not like I go out of my way to learn the ins and outs and intricacies of any of his games (video or tabletop), and I show about as much overall interest in his games themselves as he shows in my art (the real difference being that he doesn’t reach out and try to talk to me about his games with nearly as much ferventness or frequency as I do my art).

But while he show no interest in art, he show interest in my interest in art.  He shows support.

He comes home from the store with interestingly sized canvases for me.  He randomly stocks up on sketch books and notebooks when he goes out to do the grocery shopping.  He walks with me through galleries that I know are snorefests for him.  He points out cool colored paints that he thinks I’d like to experiment with.  He spends inordinate time holding various shopping baskets for me while I comb through the shelves in any craft aisle we go through.  When I’m on the fence about an art-related expense, he tells me to go for it, and more than once when I’ve ruled it as too much, he’s gone out after me and made the purchase himself.  

He doesn’t care that I came up with a new acryllic technique, except for the fact that I’m pleased with myself.  He doesn’t care that, hey, I finally painted a nose I’m happy with, save for the fact that I’m happy.

Yeah, I’d like him to actually be into the art.  But I can’t force him to love what I love.  I don’t intimately enjoy all of his hobbies, and he doesn’t expect me to, so it’s unfair to ask him to feign that enjoyment for me.

But he cares that I care.  He’s happy that I’m happy, and encourages me to pursue the hobbies that foster that happiness.

That’s a pretty good rule in a marriage, I think.  That’s pretty fucking important.


¹ “Sucking at something is the first step to becoming sorta good at something.” –Jake, Adventure Time (look,  in this house, we take in wisdom where we find it).  I figure the more I force myself to paint something I suck at (instead of avoiding it, as is my instinct), I might actually improve my technique and grow from it.  Wild, right?