When my uncle drinks he falls in love. With me, with the world, with the cat – you name it. The smell of Stella Artois on his breath always makes me happy because it means I’m about to be bear-hugged and smothered by his bristling beard still reeking of cigarette smoke.
When Bill Arney drinks he lacerates my writing.
The cup slammed down on the table empty.
“See this? – ‘When I called my father a few minutes later I almost cried telling him about the kindness the lady showed to me’ – this is all about your feelings again!
“Ah.”
Bill was not amused. He glowered as he poured over my document now ignoring his wine completely. I sat around at the table trying not to look sheepish.
“Forget words like ‘presently.'”
“Got it.”
“‘I had been reading my Bible in the sun…’ Who cares?”
“Okay so what should I do?”
Bill frowned and leaned back, exasperated.
“How about instead of asking me questions you go and play around with your sentences.”
I nodded. Bill shook his head.
I returned to my study, which also doubles as the couch in the hostel kitchen. I wiped clean the half-finished blog post I had been working on and stared at the page for a bit.
“Mistakes aren’t funny.”
I was a rookie again standing on stage getting chewed out by my band director.
“You have to play like a pro.” Said Hector. “There’s always somebody younger and better than you who wants your spot. Be consistent.”
The drummer twirled his sticks and looked away. The rest of the band shifted their weight uncomfortably as Hector continued to lay into me.
“Just don’t play so white man. You’re not grooving. Find the groove.”
That’s what I needed. The groove.
How do you make words pulse?
“Click, click, click, click.” The bass comes in.
“T-tiss.” The snare starts to snap while the hi-hat sizzles.
“Mmmm.” The keyboard gets poured into the mix like cream into coffee.
“Wrr-wicka.” The guitar plays in the pocket like icing on the cake.
Instinctual. Primal.
I learned to make my hand loose, my wrist relaxed. I slid into notes and crept into solos instead of nailing them exactly to the wall. The new kids can’t do what I do or how I do it. Only easy when you don’t think too hard and just play.
Wasn’t that what Bill was saying? Play. Don’t write. Play. Don’t perform. Build the words like blocks in a preschool classroom. I-see-spot-run. Spot-gets-hit-by-a-bus. Flip it. Bus-gets-hit-by-spot. Bus-is-hospitalized. Adult sensibility screams, “But that doesn’t make any sense!”
Who cares? It made me smile. Okay. Now I’m writing again.
Finished. Maybe not great. But definitely different.
“Definitely warmer.” Bill emailed me two days later. Warmth. Writing that has a smell and a temperature. Writing that remembers my drunk uncle singing David Bowie louder than the record. Warmth. If I can’t smell the sun tan lotion and feel the wind in the palm trees then I’m not there yet.
I slid on to my bunk in a Santander hostel and picked up my pen.
As easy as falling in love. With the world, with the cat, with Stella Artois, with whatever you like as long as the pen keeps moving. Two German girls sitting in their bunks giggled and said something looking at me, but I was too in love to notice.