For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to the process of doing a postmortem discussion of various matters. As a teen, for example, I would regularly write poems to honor various deaths, including the tragic death of a slightly younger classmate while in a car driven by his elder brother on the way to school. As an elementary school student writing limericks, I wrote melancholy reflections on my eating habits from the point of view of a chicken who gloomily pondered his imminent demise to feed his chicken-loving farmer. The present moment was to be enjoyed, at least to the extent that I could enjoy it, as that has often been a problem, but the past was to be mined for lessons, analyzed to death to uncover mistakes made not to be repeated again, and to be the source of wisdom and insight from an unsparing and brutally honest review of what went down and why. I often wonder what happiness and pleasure has been lost in my relentless quest for wisdom and improvement and progress. For surely my gloomy and reflective nature about what has gone down has surely not come without a price. Whether it is worth it or not is ultimately not a judgment that I will make. Such judgment is more able hands.

My attitude towards performing has always been very complicated. For example, whether it is noted on-stage or not, every year I write at least one puppet skit for our congregation’s resident puppeteer. Sometimes the skits are designed for laughs, sometimes for music, sometimes for lessons. This year’s skit, of course, was written as a lesson on gossip. Whether or not it is widely recognized that I wrote the skit, with some edits by the various actresses themselves, which is something I do not mind, so long as the point is understood and applied, especially with regards to me, I would be content. Yet this may be too much to ask. Although I am painfully honest in talking about myself, it seems as if most people would rather trust word of mouth from others than asking me what I think for myself, for I am more than happy to tell others about myself, should they want or need to know. Even though the puppet show skits are generally very lighthearted for my writing, which often has an oppressive weight about it, and even though it is indirect in that I write for others and not usually for myself, except in at most a very small role, I write from personal experience and observation in this as in so much else.

Sometimes it is a fine line to toe when you want to leave people wanting more or leaving them wanting less. For example, a few of the performances were very short, and could have easily been longer. At least one performance could have been a lot shorter, and a few performances seemed just about right. As a performer, you want to entertain, perhaps instruct, and leave people wanting more next year. What you don’t want to leave them is dreading seeing you or hearing your name ever again, which has been known to happen a time or two [1]. I am a bit surprised, but pleased, that the unveiling of my rapping skills tonight drew a great deal of attention and pleasure from young and old alike, many of whom probably did not realize how gangsta I am, which is a common area that people do not understand [2]. I find it odd that among all my many and quirky gifts that my rapping should attract that much attention and surprise, as if openly and self-avowedly nerdy people cannot rap. Haven’t they ever heard of nerdcore, or the last twenty years of “Weird Al” [3]? It may not have been so surprising if people would not put others into boxes so easily. Perhaps if they had known of my life experiences as a teen in East Tampa or as a poor USC student in South Central LA it would have been less surprising that even someone such as myself would be so strongly influenced by my environment even despite my massive limitations in being a white chocolate gangsta.

My feelings are often strongly mixed in the aftermath of such a night as this. There is a certain joy in performing, a satisfaction in especially performing well, in showing off a less serious side and poking gentle fun at oneself as I am known to do from time to time. As someone who thirsts for attention and affirmation and affection like the deserts thirst for rain, there is pleasure in the adulation of a crowd. There is also often enjoyment in planning for the next year and the next performance, as I am someone who tends to react to finishing one sort of project by immediately beginning another. Yet at the same time there is an inevitable hangover of sorts after the pleasure. Even the modest sort of pleasures that I am familiar with, in spending time with others, in singing and writing and eating and talking and playing sports and that sort of activity, come with a bit of an edge, as once the show is over I get in my car, turn the radio on, and drive home alone to reflect on the day that was. And no matter how good that day was, no matter how many hugs or attaboys were received, one goes home alone, to sit alone and muse alone, with only the company of others in virtual conversations or the critical and discontented voice inside one’s own head, reminding oneself that the pleasure is over, except perhaps in one’s memories, and that the business of one’s normal life begins again.

[1] See, for example:

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2013/09/02/dont-leave-until-they-throw-you-out/

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2013/11/29/why-do-they-always-run/

[2] See, for example:

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2015/04/15/no-flex-zone/

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/check-my-swag/

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2015/01/15/this-is-not-a-drive-by/

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2014/05/02/keeping-it-real/

[3] See, for example:

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2014/07/17/word-crimes/

https://edgeinducedcohesion.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/why-arent-they-in-the-rock-roll-hall-of-fame-weird-al-yankovic/