I figured since this journal is about relationships and friends, I should share a little information about one of my closest friends. I suppose this friend is not specific to me. However, our relationship is specific to me. This is about music. This is about the real phases of my rebellion and the soundtracks of my youth. Some were loud, hard and fast. Some of the music I listened to was quiet and soft.

It’s been a while though . . .
It’s been a while since we all got together. It’s been a while since we went to a show and screamed the songs and sang with the bands. I miss live music. I miss the feeling after a show when the energy is still flushing through your system. I miss the crazy angst before the concert and then finally, the band took the stage and like a switch, the blood beats faster.

I wonder if kids actually know what music is. I wonder if their love for a song is the same as what mine was when I was their age. I mean, do they even know? I do. I remember the connection to the albums. I remember listening to the songs, over and over again, just so I could learn the lyrics.

There are times when the world is just right. The City is on my side and the night is brightened by the streetlights and the glow from Midtown’s Times Square.
There are times when I can stand on the roof of a building at Lexington Avenue with a cup of coffee in hand and my eyes geared towards my downtown memories or my old, uptown life.

I remember being a child in a classroom and reacting to the sight of the first snowfall. All the kids ran to the window. Completely amazed. And of course, the teacher instructed us to return to our seats. I swear, sometimes I feel like a kid in a classroom, just waiting for a big snowfall.
I want to see something worthy enough to run to the window and hear the “oohs and ahhs” of the room. I want to feel amazed. And it’s wintertime now. I’m grown and yes, as old as I am, I am still youthful, hopeful and wishful enough to think about the times when I’d try to catch a snowflake on my tongue. 

And then one day, you’re not a beginner anymore. The uphill climb isn’t so uphill anymore and you look back in amazement. Day one became day two and then two became three and four. Next, your “One day at a time” function has picked up and grew legs. Suddenly, the past is not as close as it used to be, which is enough to make you realize your position in life. It’s enough to show you who you were and who you are now.
I say this is amazing.

We gather in phases. This starts in our childhood and evolves as we grow. We start with birthday parties until eventually, you’re too old for clowns and balloons and birthdays just become birthdays. The next phase comes with communions and confirmations and things like that. Then we go through our little graduation get-togethers that happen at grade school. Then there’s middle school. Then there is the age of sweet-sixteens and proms. And then we spread out a little bit.
High school ends like a chapter in a book and suddenly, ideas like Mr. McLellan’s shop class or Driver’s Education and the glory days and the crazy nights are only a memory. 

I recall the drive to a place in an upstate town that I had never heard of. I was never much for these long drives, least of all the drives like this one, sitting in the backseat of my family’s old Caprice with my Old Man behind the wheel. I can recall sitting in the backseat of the car with the side of my head leaning against the cool glass of the passenger’s side window. I was looking at the scenery and noting how the drive went from suburban, to urban and then finally to more of a rural kind.

We were in the middle of nowhere. I had never heard of these towns before. Ellenville? Kerhonkson? What kind of places were these? What do people do in places like this, watch the grass?

There is so much ground to cover and only so much time. Ah, but for the first time, at least I find myself at a point where I am enjoying the process. Life is not supposed to be a chore, at least it’s not intended to be. 
I find myself in a fortunate space where I am no longer conflicted but instead, I am focused on the direction that I have chosen for myself. It was once said to me that we move in two ways. We are either moving away from something or moving towards a goal. Moving away is not focused on direction. In this case, it can be any port in the storm, which is something that we will touch upon in a few short paragraphs from now. Moving towards something means we have a plan, a focus, and more importantly, we have a strategy and a destination in mind. 

There was so much ahead of me, the world, the life, the entire love affair with the ideas of my future and my future successes. Nobody tells you about the uphill life or the times when the fridge is empty. No one expects the life they find. At least, not really.
There are words that we say when we are young. Perhaps the only reason why we say them is because we are young. We haven’t seen anything yet. We haven’t lived long enough to run into ourselves at the door. We say things like, “That’ll never be me” or “I’ll never do anything like that.” There are times when young people swear, “I’ll never talk to people like that” and they’ll say, “I will never let anybody talk that way to me.”
I’m never gonna sell out.
I’m never gonna be like that “Suit and Tie.”
Uh-huh. I said that too (before I had a mortgage).

If we are able to do anything then we are only as able as we believe. The challenge is our projections. This is the inner turmoil, our thinking, the self-talk and the subconscious bias, which we tend to project in ways that stem from doubt or assumptions.
For example, we tend to create narratives of upcoming events. We mentally set the stage and systematically predict that there will be problems ahead; therefore, we behave on behalf of or in response to our assumed projections.