We’re not cynics, we just don’t believe a word you say. We’re not critics, we just hate it all anyway.
Cynics and critics - Icon for Hire
I miss my dad.
His being-gone still feels weird. One moment he was here, teaching me German and the way of life, and on the other one…pooof! He was gone, he was turned into ashes, and then suddenly the car doesn’t smell like his perfume anymore, and I don’t get to wake up on week days to the sound of his voice calling, or on weekeds to the sound of him playing the piano.
It’s like someone ripped out a piece of my heart all of sudden.
Back in 2010, in August, dad was diagnosed with thrombosis on his right leg. He went to the doctor for some check up, and came out of the hospital in wheel chairs, because he could barely move his leg. My family and I moved into his mom’s house (my grandma’s), since ours is outside of town, and the treatment began. Doctors, medicines, pills, needles..
I turned 15 in September, and we all went to a fancy restaurant to celebrate, because dad didn’t want me to miss my birthday due to his illness. He smiled, he was happy.
He got worse…
And the doctors started fucking the diagnosis up. One after the other. He ended up having to deal with super strong chemotherapy sessions, even though he was already very, VERY, weak.
The doctors prescribed a medicine that made his intestin stop working. They didn’t tell dad to take another medicine to make it work. Dad got worse.
I still remember his pain cries in the middle of the night, mom waking up trying to give him a massage, trying to ease that suffering, trying to help him, anyway, anyhow.
I’d go to school, and when I got back I’d sit beside dad, talk to him about my day and all, like I used to, but he barely could answer. He barely could breathe. Unlike always. Yet, he still showed presence. He tried to keep up the conversation, he was always interested and
it seems that i’ll never see the end of this post, which i started writing last year, right after dad passed
i miss dad
i miss my dad
i cant handle this
I have so much to spill out right now that I don’t even know where to start… Maybe I’ll just sit and wait for these feelings of unease to pass.
I miss the rain.
The doctors couldn’t prescribe
from the medicine shelf
Oh, cure thyself
Sunlight warm on exposed skin
I just want to soak you in.
Where I end and you begin
I just want to soak you in.
I have no idea who I am trying to be. I know I have artists who I look up to but no one that I can say “I want to be just like…” I think it’s difficult when you don’t know what you’re striving for. There’s a beauty in striving to be like someone else, who you consider greater than yourself, and then you turn out nothing like them, just something awesome, unique and yourself. It worries me that I feel like I’m like inspiration and role models. Am I full of myself? Do I think I know everything? No. None of that here. I’m not sure why I’m so disinterested in other artsits. Heck I don’t even hang out or connect with a lot of musicians anymore. I find that a little bizarre, as I usually love musicians, they are my people. Except it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
I think for me music isn’t a lifestyle, it’s a reflex. I was scanning through songs I’ve written recently, some just chicken scratch demos. I put very little thought into the writing of the songs, yet I am happy with them. I have friends who spend a lot of time carefully crafting melody, structure and words. These are talented people and I am always in awe of their patience and craft. But I am not one of those people.
I only pick up the guitar when I want to write or if I am performing. Otherwise, I have no interest in it. So my doubt as a musician is true, because I’m a writer and music is my conduit. I love doing what I do with music. I’m learning a lot about myself as an artist. I consider myself the curator or conductor of being onemusicgurl. I put things into motion and see it through. I’m the captain of this ship but I like to think I’m articulate enough to know not to spread my efforts thin.
But back to the writing part, it really just happens. You’ll hear other artists talking about a creative spirit or force moving through them, and it’s true. It just hits, all this beautiful junk falls out of us, whether it be through a guitar, a paint brush, a spray can, our hands.. it just happens. It hits and if we are prepared we catch it and do what good with it we want.
I just sit down and all these songs emerge. It sounds really pretentious I know. But I don’t do it often, and I guess it all just builds up. It doesn’t mean all this junk is beautiful, good, or re-hashable. All I can tell you is the type of artist I am now. I’m in this and after it for my own heart. I’m often just writing to get things out. It’s like that line from Magnolia, post frog apocalypse: “I have all this love, I just don’t know where to put it.” It’s kind of like that.
Music is my way of placing things that can’t be placed.
I think that’s what art is: Placing the unplaceable.
All those lost pieces, they usually end up to be the most significant ones.
So I’m going to keep doing that.
One piece at a time.
Happy birthday, dad. Wherever you are. #RIP <3