Spotlight, and your eyes
Mary Jane by Alanis came on the iTunes tonight a little after one in the morning when I was playing online. It came on, and I thought of you. I started lip synching to the song, it’s too late to sing along, I share a wall with someone who gets up in five hours and want to respect his sleeping patterns. This song, it represented me in so many ways during my twenties. It was a “signature” song at karaoke you’d catch me singing at least one a week there for a while. But that’s what we do when we love something, we listen to it over and over, read it over and over, sing it over and over, look at it over and over, and we do it because it makes us smile. We love to smile. We love to listen, and read and sing and look at things, over and over. Tonight when Alanis started with What’s the matter Mary Jane, had a hard day? I teared up a bit, because I thought of you. I thought of all of our times together. I didn’t just think of you, I thought of us.
Brighteyes, you are the reason I went to karaoke for the first time ever. I was cast in a play and given a solo, something I’d never had, and with my semi stage fright you said the best way to get over it was to practice. You made a junkie that night over ten years ago now. That kind of mark set me on a very important path, which inevitably makes you a very important piece to the puzzle that is my life, a very important piece.
Nahnnah, I found you that same year I learned to sing on my own. I was so intimidated by you. You had an amazing voice, you were (are) so beautiful, and when I didn’t know how to read the music you stood up without a thought, came to sit by me and began teaching me a bit about the music, how to follow him (the guy teaching us the song), and the notes. You were so patient, you still are, and you know how important that is to me. How fearful I can be sometimes of people growing tired of me, and my ramblings or questions or inability to carry a conversation without a large vocabulary. Your words are important to me, all of them.
Kevin, you’ve always been so supportive and encouraging of my everything. My drives, my goals, my pure intentions to do nothing, you supported those too, and I appreciate that. There are moments you have I had over the years where tears have been shed and words of love pass our mouths. You will always be close to me, you are family to me.
Kitten, where would I be without you? I met you when you were sporting dreads. Is that even how I’m supposed to spell that? You had such a great energy and mysteriousness to you, I wanted to be your friend immediately. The stories we’ve shared over the years, the countless analytical conversations, the hundreds of ounces of coffee with creamer. I trust you, and I trust few, and it’s important to me that you know that.
Colin, somehow you’ve fixated me to certain ideals of what I expect in a relationship with a man, be him a friend or more than a friend. We dated briefly and I loved you, just the way I was supposed to, and you know I still do, just the way I’m supposed to. There’s an honest quality to you that makes me want to hear what you have to say, and for some reason that’s a difficult quality to find in other straight men. I respect you and what you offer to me as a person and friend and I want you to know that I acknowledge your triumphs and use you as motivation sometimes. I miss the sound of your voice when you sing. There’s a kind of love in your voice when you sing that resonates in my ears and vibrates my heart. I will always want to be in the front row, I will always want the back stage pass for your tour.
That time in our life, all those years ago, its truly molded me into the kind of performer I am now, and the kind of person I am as well. There is a stage presence and vulnerability, I’m told, when I’m singing certain songs, and no one can really tell what I’m thinking. If I’m thinking about the song, or something entirely different. Sometimes people guess, “oh she’s singing a sad song, and she looks sad singing it, she must be sad” and although that makes sense just fine, it’s not as accurate as…the only way I know how to sing this particular song, is with these people in the front row, with these people and their children, and bbq’s, and dogs, and slow dances, and dance shows, and surprise parties, and alcohol!, and coffee, and their smiles. Their eyes. Eyes that have seen me succeed and fail and hugged me regardless. Eyes that have cried for me in joy and sorrow. Your eyes, that’s what I’m looking for when I sing that song. I’m searching and longing for the twenty something year old I was when you and me were together. I’m searching for the lights above my head, the spot light in my face, and your smiling faces in the seats among our “front row.” And maybe that’s what being vulnerable really is. Letting someone see what you’re feeling. Be it while you’re walking in the rain, singing on the stage or trying to drown it all away with glass upon glass of 7&7’s. Maybe that’s why I’m a better person, and actor, now. Maybe that’s why when I have anxiety over something, I have to share it, because keeping it to myself keeps me from everything else. When you let someone else see what you’re feeling, they can connect and relate to you. And that’s all people want in the end, a sense of connection, a place rooted within them to define a branch of their existence.
I thought of you tonight when Alanis started to sing. I thought about your eyes and your smile and the way we used to be, then I cried and remembered, its the way we still are that makes me love you more.