At A Moments Notice...

Most times when I’m out and about stumbling through the streets of New York, there’s a soundtrack playing in the background. This soundtrack is ever evolving and cannot be limited to one genre, artist or mood. Each track, explicit or not, universal or not, sensitive or not is equally important, and serves a necessary purpose in the evolution of Chris. Sometimes, while embracing a song I wonder what my life would be like if music wasn’t a part of it, and each and every time I immediately usher the thought out as quickly as it surfaces; for to me there would be no life without music.

This week and for the last couple of months I have been living and breathing Elton John’s classic tune Daniel. Maybe you’ve heard it? If not, maybe you should. It is a painfully beautiful song with lyrics as powerful as they are poignant. But then what else would one expect from Elton John, the musical equivalent—some have speculated—of Stevie Wonder? Released in 1973, the year of my birth, Elton had to fight to get his label to issue the song as a single. It seems they believed the song was too long and too somber to be a hit. When all was said and done, Daniel ended up peaking at #2 in the United States and #4 in the United Kingdom, and has since gone on to live in the hearts and minds of music lovers everywhere.

Part of the song’s charm lies in its ambiguity. It’s one of those songs that seem have a different meaning for everyone who listens to it. The most popular speculation (probably due largely to Elton’s sexuality) is that Daniel is a former lover who has gone off to Spain, and has left his partner behind. But the true meaning, according to Song Facts, is that Daniel, having lost his sight in the Vietnam War is abandoning America for Spain. Hence the lyrics: Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal; your eyes have died but you see more than I... Rumor has it Elton eliminated the verse that contained this information to condense the rather lengthy song, almost certainly, I imagine, to appease the already doubtful label. And though I would love to hear this mysterious original version in all of its historic revelry, a piece of me knows no matter how beautiful and clarifying it could be I still wouldn’t trade it for the version I’ve come to know and love. As mystifying as it sometimes is, in its simplest form it is pure perfection. As revelers of music, isn’t that all we want, simple pleasure?

I love my soundtrack. I love its melodies, its highs and its lows. I love the way it seems to know which songs to play at exactly the right moment. And I love the way each song in one way or another completes that moment, almost like the way a period just happens to complete a sentence. But most of all I love the feeling I get whenever I happen upon one of those rare beauties I can listen to repeatedly and never grow tired. And today that’s just what happened as Elton and I walked hand in hand wondering if indeed we had glimsed Daniel, or, if it was merely the clouds in our eyes.

What it all comes down to, is that I haven't got it all figured out just yet. I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is giving the peace sign. ~Alanis Morissette

As I walked through the fallen autumn leaves, my hands tucked neatly in my pocket, my destination nowhere, I once again contemplate my journey. Joy...what will it take? How long will it take? Can it actually be achieved?

I had spent the evening before wading through book after book—-from Gibran to Vanzant-—sampling specific instructions on how even I could live my best life. Later that night, while snuggled up on the sofa taking in a bit of the tube, the slogan for one of my favorite channels encouraged me to live like you mean it; within a matter of seconds the same station reminded me that eventually everything connects. Caught completely off guard I imediately pressed pause and sat in the moment. Minutes later I repeated the sudden epiphany over and over until finally it began to make sense: eventually everything connects.

A creature of habit, I can’t help but worry and contemplate and plot and wonder if all my doings will somehow yield the response I so desperately want to experience. In fact I spend most of my day worrying about something or another. Silly things. Simple things. Things most people would never admit to worrying about, but like me, find themselves worrying about nonetheless. Like whether or not my outfit is proper, or my walk is correct or my hair just so. Why just the other day I spent nearly a half-an-hour worrying about a pair of perfectly unworn shoes I suddenly believed were out of style. And what bothered me the most is that I like the shoes—-my anxiety was based on the fear of other people not liking the shoes. And as I sat there nerves frayed I began to see too clearly the error of my ways. My journey to joy will never amount to shit as long as I continue to live for, through, and by other people and their standards. Whose life is this anyway?

Still old habits die hard, and many never really die at all. They simply allow you your time and space to breathe and show back up stronger, and more determined than ever, the moment they sense you need them again. And like the addicts we are, we embrace ‘em with opened arms, happy to have our old friend back; happy to be comfortable again. Hence my addiction to junk food, perfection, and a whole host of other self-defeating behavior that both ran & ruined my life while somehow managing to feign pleasure.

There’s an old saying I love to quote: The more you know the more you’re responsible for. To that I add another: Once you know, you can never not know again. The journey to self is no easy task; the road is littered with exits filled with comfortable excuses. Excuses that allow one to regain entry into the world they once called life. But as the days steadily mount, and the desire to know myself becomes even more alluring, I continue, with my hands tucked neatly in my pockets, and my destination: somewhere truly fabulous.

As I sat blank faced staring into the distance, I wondered quietly to myself had I made my life more complicated, more stressful, more toxic than I knowingly cared to admit. I thought about all the comprises I had made, to fit in, to stand out, to be whatever my parents, siblings, friends or anyone else who wandered into my life wanted or rather, expected me to be. I thought about those rare quiet times, when I allowed myself to truly be alone and still and at peace. I thought about the voice that usually followed, clear, calm and tolerant, wielding the same unrelenting question time and time again: "Why..." the voice would begin, "does any of this matter?"

When I was younger and without experience I would argue my point, eager to justify my madness, eager to make sense out of nonsense, eager to be right. At the time right was all that mattered, happiness or any facsimile of it wasn't as important. But what if--I wondered once again--all the choices I made about who I was and what I wanted were governed by me, and not by the whims of those I felt knew best? What if--and truly this was bold--I took my life back?

As the October sun began to set and winds of night pressed increasingly forward I realized what it was I needed to do. And though I knew many would look on in fear, and reason my decision radical, undoable and completely uncharacteristic of the man they had come to know and love, the decision nevertheless, had been made. And as I climbed into my car for the long trip home I said aloud for the first time what I had always been too afraid to say: I choose joy.