Listening: Ken Burns' Jazz
I find it important to name your dreams. I don't see any point in running from what I really want. How often have I dreamed about what I'd really rather be doing, then stopped that thinking in its tracks with mental roadblocks and diversion? Many times is the answer, but I think I'm quite done with that. If the roadblocks are only in my imagination then there's no reason they can't be swept away like a whisp of smoke.
So I'm naming my dream here, if nowhere else. My dream is to work hard, and for it never to feel like work. I want my work to enrich lives and lift up those around me and, in the end, make the world a little better place than I found it.
My dad once said, when I asked him about death and the afterlife, that "If you try to make a heaven of Earth, you'll have nothing to worry about."
That's my ultimate dream: to lift others up with the blessings I've been given. I suppose I'm going to get there in a roundabout way and at a glacial pace (Aaron Standard Time), as I've done everything my whole life, but there you go.
There are only only two jobs I've had that didn't feel like work. The first was playing drums for Runaway Stage, and Artistic Differences - two theater production companies in Sacramento . Even for all the drama that ensues naturally from dramatic companies, Runaway and Artistic Differences and the Baxters, Daniellses and all the other folks involved selflessly endeavor the lift people up to heights they couldn't have imagined. So "pit musician" would be a job that would fit me like an old pair of jeans.
I've got an alright resume, already: Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Nunsense, La Cage Aux Follies, My Fair Lady, Falsettos. And sure, this was all for little theater companies in Sacramento, but it's not like the music I learned will change anytime soon, let alone that I was able to learn it, and that gives me faith that there is nothing separating me from my dreams.
The second job that I've had that didn't felt like work was tending bar in San Francisco. I was blessed enough to have been involved with Bar Drake from its very first day in the Sir Francis Drake hotel, and discovered, with the help of the fabulous Diana Brent, that I had a taste for mad sciencery, patient conversation, and rhythm of tending bar. And you better believe if somebody doesn't tell their problems to their parents, lover, soul mate or dog, they'll tell their bartender. And being there for stranger when they need to say something to somebody, anybody - it's a blessed feeling.
And why shouldn't it be? The two cornerstones of any civilization is the Church and the Tavern. The only two places where people are allowed to speak "easy" - talk with frankness about what ails them, weighs on their minds, and follows like shadows, with no fear of judgment.
This second job would also fit like jazz in the pocket. There is no better stage for me to lift people up, help folks see the better part of themselves, or that they can easily dispense with the worst of themselves. Booze being a lubricant of thought, even if you can "touch" somebody in a real, positive way, they might go right back to disbelieving when they sober up. But that touch leaves a mark that might make somebody think differently in the future. Planting seeds.
I imagine if I'd had a more religious upbringing, I may very well have been a pastor.
But I was making martinis at eight years old every day at 5 o'clock, so I believe it's my calling to dispense wisdom from behind a dark, wooden bar instead of a dark, wooden pulpit. It's the dispensing of hope that defines my Self, not where my piece of wood is located. That doesn't quite read right. Or does it?
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