1.8.2024

In third grade a teacher gave the class sheets of construction paper (brown as I recall) and a box of crayons, played Rossini’s William Tell Overture, and instructed us to draw what we felt. It was probably the most important class of my entire life.

My life was pretty saturated with music up to that point.

Lionel Richie and Air Supply on the way to school with my mom.

Alan Jackson and Garth Brooks with my dad on the way to the store.

Tupac and Outkast with the cooks in the kitchen at the family restaurant.

Beach music with my grandpa.

Hootie and the Blowfish and Salt-N-Pepa and dc Talk and Red Hot Chili Peppers and Alanis Morissette and Nirvana and Tracy Chapman with my various cousins and aunts.

I even enjoyed classical music. I’m not sure where I got a hold of that. Probably from watching PBS.

I knew music made you feel things. I knew I “All Night Long” and “Tootsie Roll” and “Achy Brakey Heart” all made me feel like dancing, but all in different ways.

But this class assignment was the first time all of the feelings that bubble within me when I listened to music were given a specific space to come out and be communicated.

I don’t recall the full lesson that was taught that day. I’m not sure what the point of it all was. But I remember the joy and the freedom I felt letting the crayon run while the song galloped along.

I often try a similar exercise. I put on a piece of music and open a journal, and set out to just make. Do whatever the music makes you feel. Write a short story whose plot is shaped by the music.

Draw.

Scribble.

Doodle.

Write the same word over and over again.

Do a poem.

Anything.

But it never works. I can never get over the hurdle of starting.

I’m not sure why.

I think it is because music evokes such strong feelings. They are simultaneously very specific and precise while being nebulous and impossible to put a finger on. What I feel listening to Mozart’s Symphony 41 is so overwhelmingly perfect and specific, that anything I try to make in response to it will fall short.

The inability to work through imperfect iterations in order to hone and sharpen an idea or expression permeates my life.

My head is filled with lights and colors and ideas that feel so strong and important, but as soon as I reach out to pull one onto a page, it disappears.

I wish I could just have the freedom I felt 25 years ago in that classroom.