There used to be a time, especially during gigs, I would scribble little notes on napkins and keep them for future reading. A line of prose perhaps, or just gibberish to make sense of later. I recently found a couple of such notes, neatly folded, inside the pocket of my guitar case.
In some indefinable way, you just realize you have moved on to another place and you must learn to live there… The anxiety of it all, from sleeping for the first time in a strange room, to trying to orient oneself in which direction to go, all these bring out a mixed sense of both adventure and dread. In the end, the only thing that eventually soothes you into finally sleeping soundly is that thought, what will I be doing at the same time next week?
On another note… It’s really crazy (and cool) how peaceful life becomes when you finally decide you no longer have the need to argue. It’s not that you’ve lost the energy to partake in such exercise really, it’s just the loss of interest and realizing there’s only one valuable lesson there, however disconcerting it may have been.
Fact is, It is okay to be misunderstood because people only understand from their level of perception anyway and no argument is worth damaging one’s mental health. As in an old country song, after all that roaming around, it’s time to come back and rest at the old front porch and just let the world go by. One wonders if these were inner rants perhaps or the makings of a mantra to get by, I forget. But it’s a settling feeling to have read it again.
Once when we were younger, there’s always some thrill (or aptly kilig, in the dialect) when, while diving into old piles of boxes long discarded, one finds an old toy. In that instant, the flood of a more personal past drifts by and for a moment, you’re back in time. These old scripts, whether they be lodged in some notebook or the pockets of one’s guitar case, are precisely that.
Toys, you can either hand them down to your nieces and nephews to give to their children; but be careful to impart that these were once precious treasures from an older time. I remember whenever my mother handed down an old book of hers to read, she would always give a short historical background of the tome, along with who was and what was linked to it. Thus, the gift is complete; complete with all with the inner wrappings of its history.
Thus, these notes I keep, like I do those old books and some broken old toys. Perhaps, one day I’ll still find time to read them notes one day or turn them into songs or short stories, who knows. As for the toys…
