Of Wounded Body And Heart

I'm writing this with two missing fingertips.

Now, it's nothing as dramatic as you may think. I'm not pounding on the keys with bloody stumps, pouring blood all over my desk. I'm not in need of stitches or hefty medications (though I will accept donations.) I've got a small bit of scab and some missing skin. Nothing major.

"So Boogie," you may ask, "How'd you lose the fingertips?" Well...

Here's what I'm telling folks:

It was a dark night, I remember the light of the streetlamp reflecting off the glass. I stared for a few moments before returning my attention back to the television. MTV was on, at least I think it was. It may very well have been VH-1. Either way, it was painful. Artist after artist, a constant feed of bland and generic songs being pumped through the speakers. These singers and players of instruments were completely uninspired, playing through the same notes and lyrics that have been done so many times before. It doesn't matter to them that their latest single sounds exactly like the artist played just eight minutes ago. So long as their hair looks good, and the camera man puts just enough leg on camera. Angle is key, if they want to look slutty without looking trashy. Music is secondary in this day and age.

Normally, I can ignore it, but not on a night like tonight. Not after the heaping amounts of failure I've endured. I tried, I really tried to compose tonight. I stared at the computer screen for hours, instrument in hand, trying to write magic. Idea after idea, riff after riff, all of it ended up being deleted. There was just no spark to what I was doing. It sounded decent, I truly believe it did. But it had no fire. It was heartless, as heartless as everything I was watching now. I admit it, I was uninspired. I could go through the motions on any instrument, hell I could even make it sound halfway decent. But it was nothing great, nothing I felt good about attaching my name to.

This is why I started watching television. Not too long ago, I could watch the insipid artists and the lackluster songs, and grow angry from the overdose. The lack of genuine artistry was enough to make me stand up, and say "I am better than this, and I can do better than this!" And I would run towards the studio with fury, committed to making something great. I was counting on that fury tonight, but it never came. No, all I got on this night was the truth. On that night, I realized how futile this all was.

I had invested so much time, space, and energy into this music, that there were days I could think of nothing else. I had given large quantities of the limited amount of time I had in this life to sitting in dark rooms playing music. It was not just a big part of my life, it was my life incarnate. I was a dedicated disciple of music, and had moved forward on the idea that all it took was a few good melodies and a lot of sincerity. This was my code, and I fought with it on my shield for all these years.

And now, here I sit, older and tired. What have I accomplished? Nothing. My hard work was meaningless in the eyes of the world. I was worth nothing more than a few quick glances on Myspace. My color selections were more interesting to the average person than anything I had actually worked on. My music was meaningless. It touched no one. All that heart and soul, time burnt away to nothingness, money and sweat poured into honesty and truth, all for nothing. Music was dead, and I had died along with it.

With this realization came the pain. I screamed long and hard into the night, the reverberation of my own voice bouncing off the cheap walls of the basement. I couldn't do this anymore. I didn't want to lose another night's sleep pondering chord changes or lyrics to songs no one would listen to. It was too heartbreaking, and I didn't need any more heartbreak.

I vowed in that instant, to never play music again. I never wanted to lay my hand on strings or lose myself in a riff again. But I knew the pull would be too great. After years and years of playing and performing, I knew that no matter how hard I tried to walk away, it would eventually pull me back. I needed an act, something so extreme and absolute, that it would keep me from music forever. I needed a sacrifice.

I ran into the toolshed and grabbed the sharpest heaviest thing I could find, a hatchet. With tears in my eyes, I wept as my resolve become absolute. This was the only way to find peace. I placed my hand on the table and raised the hatchet over my head. This would only hurt for an instant, and then I would feel nothing ever again.

The hatchet came down with a resounding thud. I squealed in pain, and then again in delight. The tips of my fingers lay on the other side of the blade, forever removed from me. My hand trembled, and I fell to my knees. I wept for what I had lost, wept for what I would never have again. But I was free, finally free to walk away. To not see the world in shades of sound and rhythm. I picked up my wounded hand and walked into the bathroom, a new man. Reborn into reality, and free of the everlasting dream.

What really happened:

My new kitchen knife came in the mail today. I was overly exicted, and was chopping potatoes a little too fast when WHOOSH, I chopped the fuckers right off. My bad