Thursday, October 23rd
I was supposed to be working that night but business has been inconsistant lately and so I was called off. Though, as I have often said, I was born without a work ethic, this unplanned night off was not an experience that was giving me joy. I was/am broke and needed to work, even if it only meant $40. Anyway, I was sitting at home, wearing the kind of comfortable clothing that I would not wear in public and watching television. My phone rang again, around 9:30 and it was my sister, Ellie. She and my uncle Harvey had shown up at Mia Rosa unexpectedly, assuming I would be there. Clearly I was not. I agreed to meet them at Newstead Tower Public House, which is only a block or two east of Mia Rosa.
Honestly, I had no real interest in having a drink. I had $20 to my name and had spent the day unshowered and hitting the “Stumble” button on my internet browser eleven thousand times. But my uncle lives just outside of Anchorage, Alaska and this could be the only time I’d see him for another six months. So I threw on clothing only moderately more appropriate for a public appearance and headed to The Grove.
It’s a good thing I did. I only had one beer (Schlafly’s Baracktoberfest, ha ha) and fortunately, thanks to familial generocity, I did not have to break my lone Andrew Jackson. There is something about drinking in a bar with an an elder family member that makes me feel like a grown up, which is not a way I generally feel. Over a too-brief hour, the three of us talked about life and work and relationships. But my favorite part of the conversation revolved around art. My uncle is a drummer, from when he was a teenager in a local band in the 60’s through his current twosome who plays original music in Alaskan bars and small venues. My sister was once quite an artist, primarily painting and drawing, and after a decade or so of dormancy recently began taking art classes with her former instructor and has reawakened her spirit for such things. And, of course, I fancy myself a writer. At least someday. And it was inspiring to me to listen to my uncle, who despite never “making it”, refuses to ever stop playing and writing music – truly believes his happiness depends on it. Our discussion reaffirmed my belief that I myself can only be complete and happy if I write something, anything. A job is a job, and I am certain that I could continue doing any number of things to collect a paycheck. But the act of creation is what all of us should be working toward.
I’ll cut out all the cliches and hyperbole that was about to folow that last sentence. This got embarrassingly corny very quickly. Sorry about that.
