2003-11-16
It's weird how a memory can embarrass me.

Out driving today in search of a double iced hazelnut latte with skim milk, Natlie Merchant came on the radio. I have always loved her voice. Her and Tracey Chapman. Something about the way they sound is a lot like drinking warm green tea on a rainy day.

Very comforting.

I can't remember the title of the song but it's one we all know the lyrics too. And can't help singing along with.

I love singing in the car. It's the only time I really sing out loud. Full force and unhesitant. Whenever I'm around people, I keep my voice hushed and submerged under my breath. There's nothing worse than someone singing louder than the actual song you are trying to hear. Especially, if that person sings badly.

However, on the flip side, there's nothing cooler than seeing someone really let loose - social taboos be damned.

So, it's a tough call.

Anyway, out of consideration, I have never really sung in front of anyone. But I make up for my constraint when I am alone. So if you happen to be driving 'round these parts one day, and slide up next to a wild brunette rockin' out madly to her car radio in the next lane over, just smile.

And I'll smile back.

Music - and smells - have a dramatic way of propelling me into time travel. Instantaneously, I am transported back into another time and place.

In today's particular instance, it was Miami, Florida circa 1995.

God, I was so young. Almost too young for my own good.

And almost too "artsy" for my own good as well. I put the "beat" in beatnick.

I was working at this trendy coffeehouse (yeah, big surprise there) and I knew a guy in a band (again, go figure.)

We would drive around in his car and listen to Natalie Merchant and talk about love, life, philosophy and poetry.

It seems like, when I was eighteen, a lot of my conversations revolved around these deep, intricate subjects. And still do to this day. Unlike then, the difference is that now I don't think I'm an expert in any of them. When I was younger, I thought I knew everything that the world had to offer. I thought noone could tell me anything I didn't already know. Age has taught me it's better to be a continuous student in life - always believing there's something out I need to be taught - than to assume I've learned everything and close up shop.

Because, if you do, you're sowing the seeds of ignorance. Which only reaps stupidity.

While on the subject of stupidity, let's carry on with my flashback.

As aformentioned, I thought I was an expert in all of the finer points of life. Art, music, literature ... and poetry. Especially my own.

I thought my poetry would shame Pablo Neruda. Dishearten Dickinson. Make Keats roll over in his grave.

Yep, I thought my poetry was the shizzit. My nizzit.

So, my friend who happened to be in the band who happened to be playing in my coffee house which just happened to be having a very popular Leonard Nimoy book signing that night, asked me if I wanted to read one of my poems before the band took stage.

Mind you, he had never read, saw or even slightly overheard one of my poems. He just assumed - from my glowing praise of my own work - that it must be spectactular.

If I did say so myself.

Well, of course I agreed.

I wrote a poem about his band. This should have been a red flag. I would have to have major star-quality, Nobel-prize winning skills to produce an even mediocre poem about a wanna be folksy but slightly hard edge with a reggae twist boy band.

And it didn't improve matters that I used each letter of the band's name to start each line of the poem.

It was very "A is for Apple, B is for Billy" -esque. Which is the hallmark of great literture as you well know.

So, the night comes. The place is PACKED because of the Leonard Nimoy book signing. I mean P-A-C-K-E-D. Wall to wall with Treckies. Standing room only. There was a line wrapping around the store. We actually had to turn people away.

It was crazy, man.

My friend's band sets up right next to Mr. Nimoy. As they're getting the microphone set up, I approach my friend and ask him if he wants to read my poem before I go onstage.

He says no. He wants to be "surprised".

Oh, big mistake. Big, big mistake.

Finally, everything's ready. My friend stands up next to the microphone.

"Hello? Hi, everyone."

All the buzzing talk of the masses stops. Every head is turned towards his direction.

"Um, before we begin playing ... I want to introduce poet extraordinaire. Our friend Keryanna is going to read a poem tonight for ya'll. Listen up. This girl is good."

Yep, no pressure. No pressure at all.

He motions for me to come up to the mike. So I do.

Everyone is looking at me. Waiting. Expecting. Anticipating.

Even Leonard's interest has been peaked.

This is my moment to shine. This is my chance to wow them.

Then I started to speak.

And there was dead silence. Then laughter. Followed by really, really hard laughter.

To say it "sucked" would be an understatement. An all-encompassing black vortex of humiliation would be a more accurate depiction of the evening.

I would recite the poem here for you but I've blocked it from my memory.

Let's just say Charles Buckowski didn't have to worry about competition from me. I was definitely going to keep my day job.

That memory will always embarrass me.

But it taught me a few things:

1. Singing and poetry share something in common: secretly, most people think they are very good when usually the opposite is true. Not that this should stop anyone from singing or writing - that would be horrible. As horrific as this experience was, I still write poetry to this day. Hopefully, in the years, I've gotten a little better. But maybe not. Either way, I learned that, although believing in yourself is a powerful tool for success, obnoxiously building yourself up to be better than anyone else only has one result: a really, long, painful fall back down to earth.

2. Youth may make us pretty - but it doesn't make us wise. I've learned alot about life - and myself - in the ensuing years since that incident. Not to say, that I don't make a royal ass out of myself from time to time. Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. But less often and fewer times in between. Or so I'd like to think.

Wisdom doesn't come from growing older or from experience. Wisdom comes from learning from your mistakes and not repeating them. Wisdom is striving to better than you are.

Well, I don't claim to be wise - but, I tell ya, I ain't stupid. You may see me singing in my car - but you will NEVER hear me reading my poetry in a coffehouse.

Or a Startreck convention.

Nowadays, I opt to humiliate myself on a much less grander scale. I run into freshly cleaned sliding glass doors and walk into work with whipped cream on my nose (don't ask).

I guess I've lost my flair for the dramatic.

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