On Writing

Socrates dismisses writing as having no legitimacy and being nothing more than an aide to memory, but no more. Of course, I spent half my time at a school that has more writers than ‘The Odyssey’ has ‘e’s. (Sure…we’ll go with that.) So when I say that writing isn’t as ‘real’ as the spoken word, I get yelled at. But I say it, and I believe it.

It is said that we live in a written culture and that the oral (or aural?) world no longer exists, but I beg to differ. In fact, I would say that I live, at least partially, in an oral/aural culture. Being in the jazz world, sound is more important than writing. In fact, writing is inaccurate and every transcription or handout I’ve ever given or received has had the disclaimer that “all rhythms are approximate” since nothing can compare to the ‘spoken’ (instrumental) word.

(A fun ‘case-study’, shall we call it, to prove my point. I’ve been in Jazz classes where music is played, with no visual aids, handouts, or professorial interruption, for 20 minutes, and everyone is intently listening, hanging on every note. I’ve also been in a liberal arts class, about radio, where there have been 20 uninterrupted minutes of audio – both spoken word and instrumental, and of the 17 people in class, I was the only one hanging on every word. This is highly unscientific and could have other factors, too, but for now, I’ll go with the aural/oral-culture vs. written-culture thing.)

But back to where I was going with this…to me, writing isn’t as ‘real’ as the spoken word. What do I mean by this? Well, there are some things I won’t say aloud, but have no problem writing, either in email, instant message, hand written letter (or note in class), that I will not say aloud. And it has nothing to do with being embarrassed by the words. It is a sense of real.

As long as it’s on paper, to me, it is still in my control. Sure, it could be posted on my website or my blog, but once I say it vocally, it’s out in the air, free for the world to take.

Yes sound dies quickly and the written word can be read over and over again, but there’s something about the malleability that the written word has that makes it less scary to me. This is what I mean when I say it isn’t as ‘real’ as the spoken word.

In the music world, this principle is a driving force, at least personally. I guess that’s why I’m a composer. As a composer, I can shape and fix and reform ideas and sentences over and over and decide exactly what I want to come out. But when an improviser says what he says, it is out there. Yes, improvisers (I am one of those, too, but not as much as I used to be…hell, I essentially gave up the instrument seriously over a year ago) practice hard at their craft to make sure that they can say whatever they want to say when they are called upon to say it, but it is a lot more raw and, frankly, scary.

I realize I may have just illegitimated my own craft, which I work so hard at, by essentially calling myself a musical wimp, but it was to illustrate my point – and I am not sure that I would disagree with one who calls me a wimp for being a composer. In fact, I’d probably be the first to call myself a wimp.

As a high school student, I was a speech-geek, on my competitive speaking team, doing extemporaneous speech. Essentially, I would pick a question out of an envelope, and then I had 30 minutes to prepare a 7 minute speech which I would then recite (no notes in front of me) in front of judges, doing my best to answer the question. Is this more legitimate of an art than, say, writing a 5-page essay answering the same question? It certainly is more candid and there is less of a chance of me stealing my words from elsewhere, since I wouldn’t have time to do enough research to steal…perhaps…

But let’s compare the old-style Lincoln-Douglas presidential debates to today’s. Yes those were highly prepared and the candidates were well-informed (I am speaking specifically about Lincoln and Douglas, not necessarily those who have come after), but they did not have speeches prepared. They listened and actually responded to what the other candidate said. Now? Regardless of the question, you get the feeling that the candidates are reading off a cheat-sheet prepared by a speech writer and a staff of unpaid interns and underpaid assistants, and there is no response whatsoever to what was actually said.

And if I had the desire to watch unedited clips of the Bush/Kerry debates, I’d be able to find great examples and post them to youtube…but I don’t have that kind of time or desire…

So this is written. You have all read it. And yet, as far as I’m concerned, it holds less legitimacy than had I extemporaneously said the same thing aloud and not been able to recall a word of what I had said.

Maybe it’s the thought that sound travels like light – in waves – and that light continues to travel even after the stars from which the light originates are dead, and I like to think that the best speech I gave in 10th grade is starting to reach some other solar-system right now, and someone else can enjoy my wit and candor, and that my senior recital from the NEC prep graduation may one day be captured and enjoyed on a planet we cannot fathom. If so, I hope they’re gentle; it wasn’t that great of a show.

The Happiest Man on Earth

Editor’s note: This blog entry was written the night of Monday, April 23, 2007.

Today, I met the happiest man on earth. He is a homeless man on West 11^th Street.

I was sitting on a stoop in the shade, reading, across from the school. I saw a homeless man walking towards me. He was wearing clean jeans and a clean shirt and headphones around his neck. He had an extra bounce in his step, more than most homeless men. I glanced up from my reading. I’m not sure if it was to see what was going on or to try and figure out how I was going to avoid giving him money when he would inevitably come and ask me for a hand-out.

In looking up, I saw that his friend, a younger man, was coming towards him from the other direction. I knew, at this point, he wasn’t coming down the street to beg me, but to see his friend. I could tell relatively quickly that his younger friend was not mentally with it and the older man was essentially his care-taker. I put my head down and pretended to be reading so not to be rude in watching their interaction.

The man asked his friend if he had anything and then looked in his cup. The younger man emptied his cup into the older man’s, and the older man started to count the money.

“You hungry?” he asked his younger friend.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna eat?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want?”
“Meat.”
“I think we’ll go to McDonald’s. And I don’t think they’ll let us eat meat there.”

He then turned to me and said, “What do you think?” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. First, I wasn’t fully listening and didn’t hear what his friend said. Second, I didn’t want to be known as an eavesdropper in this conversation between friends. He told me what the conversation was, and I laughed. I kept reading.

I didn’t see where his friend went, but he walked back towards 6^th Ave, and the next person that walked by, he asked if she could lend him $50-million. She ignored him. He came back to me.

“Nobody’s ever willing to lend me $50-million for the weekend.”
“When I get $50-million to spare, I promise that you’ll be the first to get it.”
He laughed. “You’re a good man. I can tell you’re going places. But take my word for it: Stay in school.”

I told him I planned on it. He continued to dispense wisdom.

“Everybody’s got problems. The key is to be happy. I’m coming up on 60. I know I don’t look it and it’s hard to believe, but I am. Y’know what, we all have problems. I’ve been here now for 40 years. I’m almost 60 and I’ve been in this neighborhood for 40 years, and let me tell you: these people on this street, they’re rich, but they’re not happy. Not any of them are happy. Me? I have nothing, but I’m happy.

“They all have problems. At least I’m happy. I wasn’t in Vietnam, I had a year of college, but I have a problem. My problem is that I love beer. A lot. And I’m going to drink beer. A lot.

“You should see me, man. I have routine. I wake up every day, I get an orange juice, and then I drink some beer. And then I come out here and see if I have any energy to try and get some money. Because I gotta eat. I mean, you can’t deny the body. When the body says you gotta eat, you gotta eat. So I go to McDonald’s whenever I’m hungry and I have the money to do it.”

He then told me all about how tough things were for him during last weekend’s Nor’easter. That he was out on the street and didn’t have anywhere to go and how he couldn’t sleep because the rain kept him up and he had no money to eat and he only had what was on his back and that he was drenched. But then he went back to happiness.

“It’s not easy. But when I get happy, I dance. When I put on these headphones, I start jiggling and dancing and I get happy. Last week, I put on my headphones and started dancing, and a woman came up to me and gave me a 10-dollar bill. She said, ‘you dance good,’ and dropped it in. I looked down and was like, ‘wow…get out of here…’ and I grabbed my friend and we went to McDonald’s. ‘Cause when I get happy and put on my headphones, I dance.

“Man, all you need in life is to be happy. Stay in school, trust me, but you’re gonna do well. You just gotta stay happy. Get yourself a nice girlfriend, stay in school, and you’ll be fine. Just gotta stay happy, and you’ll be okay.”

I kept expecting him to ask me for money. And I would have definitely given him a couple of dollars. But he never asked. And I never offered. It seemed like it wasn’t expected at that point. Just the fact that I treated him like a human was enough for him. I owed him nothing, if only because I gave him the only thing people normally don’t: human interaction.

We shook hands and he turned back to 6^th Avenue and wished me to have a good day. I got up to go to class and said, not really thinking, “Good luck!” He turned back and said, “I’ve learned never to deal in luck.”

It was the most fulfilling human-interaction I can remember ever having. This man who has only the clothes on his back, some music to dance to, a friend, and whatever he hustles for in order to buy beer and eat at McDonald’s, gave me more than anyone has given me in years.

He needed to be treated like a human, and I needed someone to show me how good life really is – even when it isn’t.

As sure I am that he appreciated that I treated him like a human, I appreciated that he treated me as one. He expected nothing of me. He took nothing for granted. Unlike friends, who start to take for granted the people around them and forget to treat friends as human, this man – this homeless man with the world defecating on him – showed me how happy he is just to be treated like a human.

And y’know what, so was I.

Giving my heart -- Selfishly

"I've learned what it means to really love your job and to truly take everything to heart in that regard.” While damaging at times, his…dedication [is] awe inducing.” That’s what Lizzie said she learned from me this year while working with me as an RA. These words made me cry. They filled me with such emotion – yes, joy, but some other emotions that I’m not sure I can put words to, only tears.

I’m not even sure why this particular thing got to me so much – in a good way. Maybe it’s because this, the fact that she got that out of me, shows me how much Lizzie really understands me. Some people don’t understand how I can genuinely love something that hurts me so much – and the RA job has hurt me at times. There is nothing more painful than walking into the middle of a conversation about how much of an asshole you are. The day-to-day grind of coming home to work in a place where people aren’t your friend and instead are scared of you, it’s taken its toll on me. While at first, walking into the lounge and a hush falling over the crowd is a feeling of power, it loses its novelty quickly and I just wanted to be treated normally. I wanted to yell at people and say, “I’m not an asshole, I’m just by the book. And trust me, the discipline you think you’re getting here, it’s nothing compared to what the real world has in store for you when you pull this shit out there.”

I’ve been told that sometimes people hate their RA until years later when they are removed and see what he’s actually done for them. The funny thing – I don’t care if people see that in a few years. Yes, I’d like them to, but I never did this job for them. I never did this job to “better the world” or to “make better human beings” out of my residents; I did it because I’m selfish. And no, not because of the money and selfishness of free room. I’m selfish because my biggest fear in life is to be forgotten, and I cannot fade to the background, and in a position as visible as I was (and am), I’d like to think it will be hard for people to forget me. I’m selfish in the fact that I did this job because I loved the job. (And still do. I’m just ready for it to be over.)

I’d like to consider myself a loyal person. In fact, I pride myself on my loyalty. And the only things I ever ask of my friends is honesty and loyalty. And I’m willing to let honesty slide as long as they’re loyal. And this job, well, it was my friend. I was loyal to it, and it to me. I loved it, and parts of it loved me. (How a job can love a person, I’m not entirely sure, but it’s the intangibles…I know it did.)

The point that I’m failing to find a segue to is that what Lizzie saw in my job is what I see in the way I handle relationships, both romantic and otherwise. Sometimes they hurt me, but I have an undying dedication and love, and yes, loyalty. People have hurt me, a lot more than I’ve ever talked about, in the past, and yet I still have a loyalty and dedication towards them. And I know I haven’t been hurt for the last time in my life, and I know that I’m going to continue to walk into oncoming traffic (proverbially speaking) over and over in my life, but I do it because I’ve never been good at pretending I don’t love something.

Y’see, when you give your heart to someone, they never give all of it back. They always break it a little, and it never fits together perfectly again because they’ve kept a piece of it. Some people never get over this pain and won’t ever give their heart again, or when they do, they take it back before it can be broken. I’m the opposite: I’m an emotional masochist. I’ll give you my heart if you ask for it. And I’ll give it completely. And when you don’t return all of it, I won’t get mad.

Maybe it’s because I’m so afraid of being forgotten, I figure that when someone has a piece of my heart, I cannot be forgotten no matter what. So when people try to cut me out of their lives but they have a piece of my heart, I get (some) solace in the fact that they still have a piece of me, whether they want it or not. They took it, and it’s impossible to give back. And y’know what? I’d never ask for it back. It’s worth the pain for me.

Is it selfishness? Perhaps. Am I so vain that I am willing to hurt myself just to be remembered? I’d like to think I’m not that mentally ill. Am I doing it to try to make the world a better place and to try and “fix” people? Hell no. I’m too selfish to want to fix people, and I’m smart enough to know it’s impossible to fix someone, especially when they don’t want to be fixed. So why?

Because it makes me genuinely happy to see other people happy. Because I’m such a hopeless romantic that I believe in the power of love. Because it hurts me to see the pain some people will put themselves through to keep others from hurting them.

But mostly? It’s because I’m afraid. I’m afraid to blend in. I’m afraid to be forgotten. And while my khakis and grey fleeces aren’t going to make me stand out on a street corner, my personality will. Because while people may never understand why I love things that sometimes hurt me – a lot, the fact that people understand that I love them makes all the difference to me. Because, well, I’m different, and I want to be remembered as that.

I guess in the end, it’s because I’ve never done anything for the recognition it may or may not get me, but dammit, it feels good to be recognized. And in recognition of what I do, I feel like, especially with Lizzie, I haven’t given my heart, but rather I’m sharing it.

So while giving your heart will never get it returned in one piece, sharing it – and having another heart shared with you – will make it stronger, since two people are caring for it instead of just one.

Lizzie, and everyone else I’ve worked with this year – and even though I don’t know if they read it, I will name David, Monica, and Matt – thank you. The fact that I’ve shared my heart with you four this year while it’s been broken by my job and by the rest of my life, there have been so many people helping me look after it that it’s stronger than it’s ever been.

I guess it was a selfish endeavor. I just hope that there’s someone out there for whom it was mutually selfish.

Words of Wisdom (From Jazz Musicians)

I know it’s not Monday, and I said I would update twice-weekly, Thursday and Monday, but I just wanted to pass along two pieces of advice I’ve gotten in school over the last few years. I don’t know why I’m passing these along, but they seem appropriate to me. And more related than I ever thought.

Richard Boukas and I were standing at the mailboxes at the end of my freshman year. Boukas is putting things – charts, tests, assignments…whatever – into some of his students’ mailboxes.

Me: I always feel left out when everyone’s mailbox has something in it and mine is empty.
Boukas: Sometimes the lack of something is a gift. It’s very Zen, but you know…
Me: And sometimes, it just means that nobody has anything to give you.

Neither one of us was talking about mail.

Almost a year later, Arun Luthra told us an anecdote after class. I don’t know if it’s true, but I enjoy it. And it took me until tonight – over a year later from this anecdote – for me to realize how interconnected the two are.

He has a friend/mentor/professor who did a sabbatical and visited a small island...forget where. (He said, I just don't remember. Coast of India, perhaps?) But there, when people make appointments, it's to "meet under the tree" and no time is denoted. Basically, whenever the time is right and we are both under the tree, that's when we were supposed to meet under the tree.

So to those of you reading this blog: I’ll see you under the tree. Bring mail.

15 Megabytes of Fame

Cinema can turn anyone into a celebrity. (Or so Walter Benjamin argues.) That anyone can become celebrity -- we can look at anyone (and anything) on the silver screen. And while the novelty of actually being on the silver screen (extra, anyone?) has not worn off, there are plenty of other ways for people to get their "15 minutes".

With youtube, even idiots like my friend Christophe can be seen on the LCD (the computerized version of the silver screen) by millions. (Here is a video of Christophe, whom I call an idiot in a very loving way, acting like Cookie Monster. I took the video…and no -- we were not drunk. We'd just watched a Battlefield Earth and were delirious from how bad it was.)

On the one hand, it's fantastic that everyone has the opportunity to share their "art", but as a result of so much being out there, so much art just plain sucks.

I mean, look at the above video? Does 'Stophe deserve 15 minutes of fame? Perhaps…but not for his Cookie Monster impression. Benjamin says that art goes from being a ritual to being an exhibition -- available to anyone. So did we just make Cookie Monster Porn? (scary thought.)

The point that I was looking to try and brilliantly segue into is how this can really create some bad things in society, if you ask me.

I am a musician -- and dammit, I work my ass off for it. I study it, I go in and out of gigs and sessions and lessons with some of the greatest living minds. And when some garage band puts together an album using…cough…GarageBand (TM), it makes me feel like the work I've done is bastardized. When anyone can be an artist, those of us who devote our lives to the art become run-of-the-mill, when what we do is anything but ordinary.

Now I am not a music elitist (okay -- I might be), but I am not someone who says you need to study something to actually call it what you do -- like plenty of musicians can call themselves musicians without going through the process I'm going through -- but I think we need to discuss what legitimates art if everyone can make it.

So, what does?

Outside validation. Example: I always did music for my life, from the day I started playing piano at age 5. I've pretty much always known that I wanted to do that for life. But I never called myself a "musician" until I had the outside validation of being accepted to music school. (Or multiple music schools, fortunately…) So I don't know if someone can call himself a professional at anything until he's been monetarily compensated for it. (So a painter who has been accepted to art school can call himself a painter, but he may be an amateur painter…or for myself, I call myself a semi-professional musician. I have been paid for my work, but I get a scale less than union. (I'm not in the union yet.) And I wouldn't ask for that pay, because I don't think I have the validity to do so yet.)

But then, of course, there's the question of who validates the outside validation? If your garage band makes your own album and prints it professionally using Kunaki or some services like that, and you sell it to your 25 closest friends from school, are you a professional musician? Or does a record label need to sign you? Where does the line come?

I'm not entirely sure. But while I may blog, and I may rant, and I may write better than some I know who call themselves 'writers', I will never call myself a blogger or a writer. (A ranter, perhaps. I think when people walk out on my rants, that gives me the outside validation I need to be considered a ranter.)

But art -- art has started to really suck at times. The good is getting better, it's just harder to find, because there's so much crap to sift through to make it harder and harder to find good art. So while there are some good home-made Youtube clips out there, Christophe's isn't one of them…but he still gets his 15 minutes of fame…or at the very least, his 15 megabytes.

When a Woman Loves a Man

This is the first (and likely last) time that I am going to post something that isn’t my original writing. This is my favorite poem, and it’s been weighing on my mind lately, so I’m going to post it and share it with you, my blog-reading community. (All four of you…)

---

When a Woman Loves a Man
by David Lehman

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.
When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

Sailing the Long Island Sound

Like the last blog entry, I’m fighting. But my fight has changed. I’ve gone from a fight with the external powers-that-may-be to an internal fight with my own emotions. I’m battling, and I’m battling hard. I’m amidst the most difficult fight of my life, and I’m fighting the hardest I’ve ever fought. And y’know what? I’m going to win this fight. It’s not the fight I wanted to win a week ago when I posted my battle-cry, but it’s a fight that I will not lose. It’s a fight I cannot lose.

No use in being archaic. Those who know me well enough know I’m fighting depression. And those who don’t know me well enough and read my blog anyway, well, no use in hiding it. Mental health in this society carries an unfair stigma. Its earned a reputation it doesn’t deserve. It’s something everyone has to battle with at one point or another…or so I’m told. And I, being in the music world, have found that every single one of my mentors, teachers, and friends have had to deal with their own depression at one point or another. Most have to revisit it at least once a year.

This is the second time this year that I’m battling. I’m fighting harder than last time, and I think I’m going to win quicker, too. Partially because this time, my friends are in my corner giving me great advice. (They were in my corner then, too, but I’m a lot more open about it now. And this time, we have a definite tipping point, whereas the last time, it just sort of happened.) And I have amazing friends. In fact, this entire post thus-far was a long-winded introduction to the advice I was given last night.

“Have I ever told you my dad's theory to boating? Or rather how my dad knows where every rock in Long Island Sound is?”
“No...”
“He knows where they are cause he's hit them all at least twice.”

So here I am, going through my own personal Long Island Sound. I’m hitting every rock right now. The hard part is patching up my proverbial hull after the damage from the rocks. Damage is going to happen – and it’s going to happen a few times. And as long as I keep sailing, I’m going to hit a few more rocks along the way. But I’m learning how to patch the holes faster and better. And I’m learning where at least a few of the rocks are so I know not to hit them again. (Or at least I’ll try not to. Which is all I can ever promise myself without lying.)

I’m confident in myself, though, because this trip through The Sound isn’t going to keep me from sailing again. Some have their hull damaged so much that they decide they are giving up sailing and leaving their boat on shore. Some decide that they don’t want to sail the same place again, since they got hurt there once and would rather go find rock-free waters. (Those people usually find that there’s no such thing as a Sound without rocks.)

I’m going to take a step outside of the proverbial world and back into the literal one, with my own sailing experience. I mean that literally.

The first time I ever stepped foot into a sailboat was the summer I was 8 years old. It was my third summer at camp, and I’d never been sailing. I wasn’t entirely sure why. I decided one day, probably because my counselor recommended it when archery or ropes was full, to go sailing. We sailed Sunfishes on a pond. Small boats, small body of water…actually a kind of high wind day – or at least that’s what my memory tells me. Peter, the head of the sailing program took me in his boat. Him, me, and one other camper probably around my own size. (Three people in a Sunfish, even small people, is not always the easiest and most comfortable thing, by the way.) While my 8-year-old counterparts on Long Pond loved the adventure and excitement of fast gliding across the water, I was scared out of my mind. Every gust of wind, I held on for dear life, praying that the boat wouldn’t tip. I got back to the beach, I was relieved not to have needed to take an unexpected swim. I swore that the land was the place for me. Peter, however, told me that he’d get me back out another time.

I was 8 years old and somehow decided that I wanted Peter to be a male role-model for me, someone who normally gravitated towards female adults, always having been close with my mother and not really understanding my father (who was always at work). (Incidentally, Peter is the first male role-model I really remember, and 13 years later, I still say he was one of my three favorite counselors of all time in my 13 summers at camp as a camper.) This was enough for me to decide I wanted to sail the entire next week.

Peter saw me there on Monday, and after assigning a counselor to each camper, or more accurately two or three campers to each counselor, took me and my then-best-friend Jake Levine for himself. Within days, I loved to be out on the water. I was still afraid to capsize, but not afraid of sailing. I didn’t let the fear get in the way of fun. Did I mention that I became a really good sailor and was on pace to be one of the youngest to ever finish the awards program at camp? (I stopped because it no longer became fun after Peter’s successor left.)

And that’s how I’m sailing through my proverbial Long Island Sound. I know that I can’t keep myself from hitting rocks, and rocks hurt – a lot, but I’m going to patch up the holes, remember how I did it, try to remember where some of the rocks were, and sail through again…and again and again.

So, to you, Long Island Sound in my soul, I say this:
The HMS Yellen will sail again.

But right now, I’m patching some holes in the hull.

Anyone have any spare fiberglass?

Battle-Cry of the Plucky Underdog

I’ve never been one to give up on a fight if my emotions tell me to fight.

Too bad my intellect usually tells me to stop. But I ignore it.

Why, exactly? I’m not entirely sure. I guess it’s because I’ve always said that I’m never one to regret my actions, only my inactions, and I’m always afraid that I’m going to regret not fighting. I know that the fight hurts, and it rarely pans out, but I have faith that once, just once, I’m going to win this fight and it will be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Is this fight that fight?

This, here, is the battle-cry of the plucky underdog. This is what I live by. This is what keeps me going: the thought that even though I am the underdog, that the chances of me winning are slim-to-none, I fight because it’s what I feel. It’s what I believe in.

And most of all, I’m bound to win one. And it will be worth it. It will validate and vindicate all the lost fights of the past.

I this fight that fight?

I doubt it, but that’s not going to keep me from trying to find out.