My True Love

It is always unpleasantly surprising how willing I am to push aside my true love for menial, meaningless things. I get so wrapped up in the woes, travails, joys and drivel of my own life and completely disregard the one thing that has always gotten me through everything -- writing.

Lately, I've been full of regret, thinking back to a well-publicized time of my life (and by that, I mean that most everyone knows about it). A few years ago, during one of my last semesters of university, I had a pretty massive nervous breakdown in which I was sure that nothing I could do would ever be meaningful; nothing I could do would ever have any sort of impact on anyone, including myself. So, I threw away everything I created -- all my drawings, all my sketches, my paintings, my songs, my poems, all of the essays I had written for class -- everything. A few charcoal drawings survived the breakdown, but only because they were at my dad's house. Now, of course, I cherish those couple of drawings -- one of them even hangs in a frame -- because it reminds me of a time when I truly believed in what I did.

It's a drawing I titled "Spirit," maybe for obvious reasons. It's a constant reminder that, once upon a time, I allowed the spirit to move in me and, with its help, created.

I suppose it's a true statement that familiarity breeds complacency. I had been published a few times for poetry and photography, I won a couple poetry competitions, I had been told over and over again that my writings were of above average quality -- all of that affirmation gave me a pillow to rest on, and that pillow created a comfort about my work that I never should have allowed for. That pillow led me to become lax, lethargic and complacent about my work -- particularly my writing. And when I lost my zeal for writing, I lost my zeal for life -- my raison d'etre.

And I always come up with these feckless goals and resolutions, like "I'm going to write everyday. I'm going to write at least SOMETHING every single day." I go strong for about five minutes, then pick up a book or pop a Scrubs DVD in and sit in front of the television for the rest of the night. How much more could I get done if it weren't for these stupid, little things that, in reality, don't mean much of anything to me?

My New Song

For the past four months, I have been wanting to write a song for Megan. I finally did it, but it was a long, painful process. I've discovered that writing a song FOR someone is a lot different than writing a song ABOUT someone, or even TO someone.

The most obvious reason is that when you're writing a song FOR someone, you want the song to be its absolute best for the person you are writing it for. You're giving that person your song as a gift, so you want it to be its best and as meaningful as possible (as is the case with Elton John's "Your Song"). When you're writing a song ABOUT someone, all you're really doing is using lyrics to describe the person's attitude or behaviour or your feelings towards the person. You're not really writing to impress anyone, except maybe your audience, because you don't really care what the person you're writing about thinks about your song (as is the case with Peter Gabriel's "Biko"). Then there's writing a song TO someone (which can be mistaken for writing a song for someone) -- the key difference between these two prepositions, TO and FOR, is that one is simply an address and the other implies a gifting. When you're writing a song TO someone, you're just making sure they got the message -- you're not trying to impress or please or shame them, you're just sending them a message (as is the case with Graham Nash's "Immigration Man").

I really wanted to impress Megan with this song that I wanted to write for her, but I struggled all the way through it. In fact, in an effort to write a meaningful song for her, I squeaked out a poppy ukulele song simply called "I Like You" -- deep, sentimental, meaningful? Probably not. Fun, upbeat and catchy? Most definitely.

So, for four months, this song became my labor of love. I sweated and toiled over it day and night, using alternate tunings and rhyming dictionaries and a thesaurus to come up with the most beautiful song ever written. Then I listened to Ben Folds' "The Luckiest" one day and after paying more attention to the lyrics than I ever have before, I realized that sometimes the most beautiful songs can be the simplest and most straightforward -- that maybe I didn't need to use a lot of flash and pizzazz; that maybe I could just say how I feel.

I asked myself "What do you really want to say to Megan? How do you really feel about her?" And the only answer I could come up with was "I want her to be near me."

And so I wrote "Champagne Eyes:"

I wish you here with me
I wish you by my side
And even if you can't be
I wish you to be my bride

How long will it take?
How long will you stay far from me?
How long must I wait?
How long will I be without you?

So, lay here by my side
And I'll watch the sun rise in your champagne eyes

I wish you here with me
I wish you by my side
And even if you can't be
I wish you to share my life

How long will it take?
How long will you stay far from me?
How long must I wait?
How long will I be without you?

Although the song isn't completely finished (I'd like to add drums), the demo is available for download at www.myspace.com/drewmoodymusic.

My Inability to Write

I wrote a prologue for the book I'm working on today.

As some of you may recall, I had a bit of a near-death experience about a month ago that involved being asphyxiated by natural gas leaking in my bedroom. While passed out, I had a series of visions, memories of specific moments in my life that spurred me to wake up and I was able to drag myself outside where I gasped for air for an hour or so and I realized that all of the moments make life worth living.

The next day, I decided that would be good fodder for a memoir.

So I've been organizing my thoughts, trying to decide a good direction to go in (especially regarding the visions sequence -- do I wrote personal essays from each memory or do I try to a Joycean, stream of consciousness style of writing of every memory randomly?) ever since. While writing the prologue tonight (which will actually just be an excerpt from the third part of the book (in which I wake up and drag myself to safety)), I realized that I'm entirely incapable of writing anything meaningful or with any substance simply because of the fact that it has been so long since I last did.

The last time I wrote a personal essay was last summer, when I was considering applying for Roosevelt University's MFA In Nonfiction program. It was called "Brown and Gold Shag Carpet" and it can actually be found on this blog if you scroll back far enough. It was a tremendous essay and, thus far, I've considered it my grand opus. And, like the terrible writer I am, I didn't put my Golden Rule of Writing into practice ("Write everyday regardless of content, style or worth!") and now I am scraping off the layers of dust and rust from my pens and struggling to come up with anything remotely worth reading.

It's a shame how my greatest passion in life has become such a frustrating chore.

At any rate, here's what I have so far:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I shot up, out from under the covers, and took a deep breath, frantically scanning the room for my escape. I lost myself in the darkness and wondered whether I had opened my eyes at all--if I was even awake or still dreaming. My body tingled, too numb to help me tell the difference. The whirring of the fan in the corner and the warmth of my blankets were the only indicators of my location.

I must be awake.

I forced my right leg out of the bed and felt the fibers of the Berber carpet scratching the bottom of my foot. After planting it there firmly, I swung the rest of my body in that direction, planted my left foot next to its counterpart and straightened my back. Under any other circumstance, getting out of bed is never this much of an ordeal; but, in my condition, fighting dizziness and the loss of feeling in all of my extremities, I needed to be absolutely sure of my every move.

I slid myself off the bed slowly, easing all of my weight onto my sea legs, stood up, tall and erect, shuffled my right forward, my left, my right. After a few of these baby steps, I was overcome yet again by a fit of dizziness and collapsed, in a heap, to the floor. I lay there, lifeless, gazing listlessly into the blackness and tried to breathe.

I must be dying. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

I lay there for a few minutes, a few years, in the fetal position, fighting the urge to fall asleep, fighting the blackness of the basement from enveloping me and swallowing me whole. I rolled over onto my belly and, with every last bitter ounce of energy in me, dragged myself across the floor, with my forearms, to the stairs that led to my redemption. Very slowly, I dragged my lifeless body up the stairs, step by step, never pausing to catch my breath. The fear coursing through my veins, consuming my entire being, produced just enough adrenaline to give me the strength necessary to pull my weight up each stair. The small sliver of light shining through the crack under the door was my goal.

I must go toward the light.

At the top of the stairs, I reached up, fumbled in the dark for the doorknob and, upon finding it, gave it a weak turn and pushed the door open with my forehead, collapsing again onto the hardwood floor in the hallway. Again, I laid still for a few moments and collected my thoughts. To my left I could see the door to the backyard. My blood boiled in my veins and caused me to sweat profusely. I pushed myself up to all fours and crawled like a dog through the kitchen to the back door, pushed it open and was met by a cool breeze that felt even cooler on my hot, wet skin. A few dozen more feet to go and I'd be safe.

I crawled across the deck, past the grill and the patio table and collapsed into the grass; every blade tickled my back as feelings started to reappear and I laid there, lifeless and alone, gasping for air, savoring every molecule inflating my lungs. The breeze blew the clouds in my mind away and I gazed intently into the night sky. The stars were so clear, and so bright.

I must be alive.