Writing is the best way for me to tell the truth.
The truth about me.
I’d say music but I spend most of my piano time playing the songs of other people.
The songs of other people pay the bills.
But, no matter how sincere and personal the interpretation, it’s still a degree seperated from the inside me.
Before I played an instrument, I wrote songs, poems and stories.
As grade schoolers, my brother and I would improvise operas.
We didn’t know what we were doing.
We didn’t care.
We just did it.
Then, in high school, other kids told us we weren’t any good.
They said, “If you were, you’d be famous. Besides, we’re better than you at everything.”
I don’t know if my brother believed them, but I did…on both counts.
But fame didn’t matter to me. Not really.
And other people being better than me? Okay. So what?
Negative criticism and allowing myself to be eliminated from any and all episodes of “Clash of the Teenage Egos” didn’t stop me.
I kept on playing music and writing songs coz that stuff was in me.
And it’s still in me. *After a hundred years or more, it’s still in me.
The more I express, the more there is to express.
The more there is to express.
What a comforting thought.
During the pandemic, I found out about live stream and YouTube.
I started a YouTube Channel called “The Real Joe Fingas.” I made a few videos and liked the direction the muse was taking me.
Then I ran out of stimulus money, someone stole my cellphone resulting in my losing access to my e-mail and YouTube accounts.
Bummer.
But, like so many times before, I’m not going to let a back step stop me.
That stuff is still in me.
I’ve got to let it out.
……………………………………..
*It hasn’t been 100 years. Just 70.