“It’s alright to want what you can’t have.”
and
“Nothing can give you what isn’t already here.”
and
“These are the ordinary fantasies of those who would give anything to be chosen and who are not…”
– Stephen King, You Like it Darker
America’s schlockmeister
I wrote down something similar a few days ago as I tried to meander through my thoughts on being an also ran to the “creative life” – big C, big L. I find it wildly ironic and sort of laugh-or-you’ll-cry that Stephen King – arguably the biggest writer in the world – gets where I’m coming from. I can even get a little bitter: what’s the point in saying something when the BIGGEST WRITER IN THE WORLD already said it*?
(*My bitterness can only ever be short-lived as Mr. King has always been my favorite author and I can only love him harder recently as his Haven Foundation saved my friend John.)
I wrote down four pages with the gist being what I have wanted someone to say to me for years… say to me and MEAN it: it’s ok not to be special.
All the spots for writers are taken. Musicians? Full up. Singers: get in line. Painters, artists: take a number. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
Don’t want to bleed anymore
This reduces the artistic urge down to the basest idea: can it pay the bills? I know this is harsh. I know the answer should be: I write, draw, sing because that’s who I am. But sometimes the world runs you over enough times, you don’t want to bleed anymore and instead of art, you do the thing that keeps the mortgage covered, gets all your medicine paid for every month – some of that very same medication makes living in this unromantic world bearable. More irony.
What the world needs now…
The world needs also rans like me: a really really really competent… civil servant. Slayer of Bureaucratic Dragons, Vanquisher of Beasts of Red Tape, Wielder of the Letter Opener of Truth and Rubber Stamp of Justice. After sallying forth for 20 years? Girded perhaps by the Holy Wrist Wraps of Carpal Tunnel and held erect in my search for meaning by the Ergonomic Back Support of Cubicle Dwelling.
I didn’t let my cynicism stop me though recently – in truth, I really didn’t know what I was signing up for: the Buttercup Pajama Party & Creative Retreat hosted by the Hotel Giles in Comfort, TX.
I knew about Comfort. Sort of. I used to live in Boerne – near that area. Comfort, Welfare… just interesting names. Human concepts. Comfort was a sign I saw and a snackies/bathroom break gas station (with a wizard machine that tells fortunes… sort of like the movie “Big” and yet not even a little) before turning left and getting on I10 for San Antonio.
As my husband and I headed under the underpass on 06/22/24 and headed straight instead of turning left, we wandered into the actual town and were much abashed to see that Comfort exists! And it was sort of cute to boot.
There’s a tiny main street with old buildings, art, cafes/restaurants. They are trying to reinvent themselves as a destination and could be described as another up-and-coming Fredericksburg in miniature.
Comforted
The bizarre thing I discovered as I walked into our destination: I KNOW the Hotel Giles people (namely Laura Lee Hines)! Emigrees from the Abilene community theatre scene. I knew a handful of them had gone in together to run a restored boutique hotel in some town to the vague south of where I live, but I was absolutely floored to realize it was *this* hotel in *this* town. If ever there was a sign I was in the right place or for that matter: that the Texas arts scene really is a small world… it was the sight of Laura Lee’s beautiful, long white hair and smiling face peeking around the corner from the warming dishes holding what would end up being our evening’s delicious supper.
Our hosts are near the head of the table with a dry erase board declaring:
BUTTERCUP UNIVERSITY
- Welcome
- Time compression
- Play
- Midsommer
- Creative share
Time compression
Time compression was my takeaway from that list. How could we possibly accomplish anything in so short a time? Because of the other concepts. Things will feel both incredibly short and endlessly long. Put your phone away. It’s ok, Erik the lead singer, soothes. He knows the temptation, but still – the phone will rob us the meaningful nature of our time together. And he was right. I tried to keep my phone away as much as possible. This is hard for me as sight has been the self-imposed coin I have bartered with for years. I will see so you don’t have to. I am the master of the candid shot. I will capture so you can live in the moment.
Being a wallflower has its perks (if you know, you know.)
I also see another woman there. A willowy figure with long red hair. She has two cameras – probably far better than what I have come armed with. She’s doing the job. I put mine, for the most part, away.
Forget the details
Erik sums up how we will proceed: listen to each other, ask questions, forget the details (this one comes back several times to haunt a few of us: it doesn’t matter if it was a Tuesday or a Thursday, it doesn’t matter which album had “that song” on it), there will be stuffed animals. If you don’t want to talk or if you just want comfort close, keep your stuffie near at hand. My husband is dealt a Pink Panther and I? A sock-style… snake. That I immediate christen: the Trouser Snake.
I thought perhaps the stuffies were thrift store refugees picked out specifically for the event – Mr. Trouser Snake was already in my luggage before Erik said no, these were personal items to be returned later. The Pink Panther was a gift to Joe the Guitarist who was recently in the hospital with a bum appendix.
I wasn’t sure how this evening was going to go.
I have been to an ugly Christmas sweater party… where no one wore Christmas sweaters. I saw a tweet about someone attending a pool party where no one got in the pool. I wasn’t sure if Pajama Party really meant pajamas.
Truth in advertising
But knowing Buttercup, I thought truth in advertising was a safe bet.
I purchased new jammies – nothing had motifs of either butter nor cups, so I settled on cats in cups, loaded up my ramen noodle blanket (hold the orange and red wrapper of a package of ramen noodles in your mind. Yep, that’s my blanket) and my red Squishmallow bat, Kardi B (Kardi B gets introduced to a red dragon named Arrow in my future. Later a dino plush went missing and I overheard worry as he was very dear to his owner. I love how unashamedly this group embraces the childlike – that I was not the only one well provided with stuffies to bring from home.)
As an aside, each of these items is very special to me as I bought Kardi B while on a mini tour selling merch last year with my husband. I now equate Squishmallows with moments of greatest joy and have a largish collection. Ramen also means “tour” for me as I always look for it when we are on the road (I make it in hotel room coffee makers) with Buttercup and the other bands that Salim Nourallah’s circle of regard has allowed us fellowship with. Anything that reminds me of time with these bands, hearing the music so dear to me: this is joy, happiness beyond measure, time with people who just let me love them and who love me back because we hear first; live first with our hearts, time very much worthy of recording for posterity.
The funny thing after hearing Erik’s opening spiel (which I googled just now – a thing I do often just to double check all these lovely words swimming around in my head actually mean what I think they mean. Spiel: “to utter, express or describe volubly or extravagantly” – I think Erik would like that: to utter extravagantly) was only one other person had a question and it was my question too: when do we put on our pjs?
After dinner.
Imposter Syndrome
I am almost lost early on though when it’s asked who at the table is living the Creative Life (my words, not theirs): where are the singers, musicians? There are embarrassed looks. Here is where my imposter syndrome comes bustling in, “Give me your hand, you don’t belong here, we have to go.”
Odie the bass player saves me though; gives context to something said later: don’t ask me what I do. Ask me what my story is. Don’t ask me if I’m a writer, a musician, ask me what keeps me up at night. Ask me what I need to survive.
Odie’s serene smile soothes me. He gets it: that the soft heart of art doesn’t declare itself quite so openly.
Times like this remind me of a speaker hosted in high school. I don’t even remember what his brand of motivation was, but I talked to him after. “You write stories?” Yessir. “Have you sent any off?” Yessir. “Got rejected?” Yessir.
“Then you are a writer.”
Could it really be that simple? Would I ever *let* it be that simple?
At the commencement of the meal, we were given one of three different “Conversation Menus”: topics to bring up while we gnosh and get to know our new creativity compatriots.
I receive “Friendship,” but I don’t reference it. This? I’m good at this. People who know me scare the absolute life out of me. But a willing stranger? I have had some of the best connecting moments of my life with people I will never see again: a Greyhound seat mate, a young man on a commuter train in Chicago, the countless unaware who sat next to me on flights who willingly become part of my world – my entire world at that moment – due to my fear of flying (“talk to me, please talk to me, anything”).
I barely find time to jam my food in between learning about my table mate, Charlie. The food is delicious – meat was involved. Two kinds. That’s all I remember. And then the most decadent peach sorbet (sherbet? Googling again…) I’ve ever had in my life.
Legal eagle
Charlie is married (bonus point for me: I’m prepared to swear her name is Julia) with two daughters. I feel immediate kinship when he tells me he made the choice I made he got to the point where he had to be a “grown up”. “Bills to pay and kids to grow” is a lyric of Salim’s I could use here. He picked “defense attorney” as a vocation. I immediately want to make “Better Call Saul” connections, but Erik has admonished us to let the conversation unfold. Don’t steer, don’t make it about you – this I have a huge problem with as I don’t mean to make it about me. If I try to point out “me stories” it’s only me trying to make connections. I would never ever try to make it about me. I don’t have that kind of self-esteem.
There might be peace couched in tales like this.
It reminds me of Larry Mullen Jr in U2’s Rattle and Hum movie, waxing philosophic about Elvis. Maybe Elvis played a car salesman, but he was never just a car salesman. He was a car salesman… who loved to play guitar.
Under the guise of legal eagle Charlie lurks a heart that yearns for ROCK.
Later during the Creative Share (the moment we can get up and share some piece of personal work in front of the others), Charlie steals the show with a song a penned straight from the ghostly lips of Ronnie Van Zant where he amends past Sweet Home Alabama declarations. Turns out Watergate *does* bother him.
My normally reserved and introspective spouse dusts off a piece with a silly bent that he wrote about our house full of cats over a decade ago called “Does Your Vet Drive a Lamborghini?” Though a generation older and mildly curmudgeonly at least regarding current technology trends, he is still secretly pleased with how many hits the video of his recitation continues to get on my TikTok page.
Deep breath
I read a piece I wrote about Jesse Daniel Edwards. I worried when I wrote it and didn’t publish it for a long time as it takes sort of a left turn and becomes something different from the song critique I originally set out to write. But I feel like this audience will like where it went. So, I read it. Still – I worry because they don’t know Jesse and they don’t know the song. But…
But they know the feeling.
I love the way
“I love the way you listen to music,” Erik tells me and my heart soars. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know Jesse’ song. I feel like they see the picture I am trying to paint of falling in love with words: I’m thirteen, my room- at least the tiny patches not covered by rock band posters – is purple (“African Violet”), I’m sprawled out on my bed with thrift store A Day at the Races in my hand. The water damaged inside sleeve has the lyrics to Teo Torriatte and I am transported. Life will never be the same.
Goopy carbonara
There’s clapping! People tell me I have done well! My “creativity” and “social interaction” Sims bar (yes, I think of myself this way sometimes – this life is so bizarre, it’s easier to think of someone else playing a game where I am an amusing and misguided experiment and not just a speck floating in the void for absolutely no reason except cosmic coincidence) fill up and my plumb bob turns green.
Later people ask where they can read my writing. What? Tiny hearts pop above my head. I have never felt anything in conjunction with my writing, but the frustration of yelling into the void – the void now wired for sound and bars and bandwidth and access. Endless voices all screaming at once.
I have a blog!
A blog that I get home and immediately start renovating so that the half a dozen souls I might have in my thrall soon will like me more and read what I have to say.
Lights in the dark
I have responsibility for the tiny lights now floating in my particular void. I deleted the 4 previous pages I wrote with a bitter voice lacking in locus of control, blaming everyone for the fact that I’m not special. My parents did it. My ex-husband did it. My job did it.
I have been hurt.
But that doesn’t convey the love or light or hope any of us needs. So away it goes.
The retreat ended all too soon: I hugged each Cup goodbye: smiling, sweet Erik, effulgent Joe.
A hug for the ages
I am once again surprised by odie. He was my revelation for this experience. He hugs with every fiber of his being – I can feel the ropy intensity of his muscles as he hugs so fiercely and yet with delicate care so as not to discomfit the receiver.
Serene smiles given; serene smiles returned.
After all is said and done, all the shares shared, and thoughtful questionnaires completed (more music! More talks, more stories! More time! Bring me more puppy dogs to pet! – I actually forgot to say that, but there were two available and this is literally my criteria for leaving the house: will there be things available for skritchies and snuggles?) I declare the event a rousing success and I do feel truly better about my status as also ran. I am not the only one who made my decision. I am not the only one out there who placed my soul at the altar of Mother Blue Cross and Father Retirement Matching.
To thine own self
Maybe I can be true to myself.
Maybe I can be a bureaucrat.
A bureaucrat who loves the written word, loves music with all I am, loves to take pictures of the life happening all around me.
My soul is buttery, cupped and comforted.
Maybe I will be ok.
Deep Breath
