According to a certain singer/songwriter who was quite successful in the 1960's, happiness is a track and field star who apparently loves canons. And on most days, I'm apt to agree with him. But on other days, like the days I've been having recently, happiness seems more like the depiction of a certain legendary leader when facing a certain Leporidae in a certain movie by a certain comedy troupe.
Happiness runs, alright.
I know that this is what is at the core of my most recent funk.
How has happiness become such a focal point for me of late? What has caused such a drastic shift of perspective of my personal happiness?
It all started a little over a month ago and has slowly boiled, with unknowing stirs of the pot by friends and acquaintances. (That post pretty much sums up everything I've been told over the past month by people.)
What stings about it all is that they're right. I am most happy ... truly not-a-care-in-the-world happy ... only when on a stage with a microphone in my hand. I feel the change; it's transforming; I'm a different person for those brief moments. My first real taste was when my best friend in high school, Steven Benton, and I performed our first original song, Higher Ground at our high school baccalaureate in front of our graduating class, friends, and families. It gets renewed every time someone asks me if I'm a professional singer.
I'm not. And therein lies the issue.
Well, do something about it, moron.
Start with a demo CD.
With what money? Do you know how long a demo CD is? About five songs long. Each song recording, at the bare-bones minimum, will run about two hours apiece. Do you know much that will cost? Twelve years ago, it was about $300 an hour. Adjust for inflation and do the math.
It's only been a problem lately because of what happened in July. And because I have no boyfriend or spouse to fret over. And because I haven't felt a fulfillment of any sort in a few years, until that fateful night in July.
That night on that stage in front of those people, I felt something. It was intoxicating. It was right.
Um ... yeah. Did you miss the point about you being a moron?
I know. And I'm a self-defeatist. I think it runs in my family. Good things just don't happen to me; instead, life likes to empty its bowels on my head.
Except, for one night, a good thing did happen. And it gave me a spark of hope that more similar good things can also happen. And it also gave me a deep, unshakeable sadness that maybe ... perhaps ... I have wasted the last nineteen years of my life in the daily grind of simply getting by.