"I want to be a crime fighting, fire fighting astronaut when I grow up. Yup." Oh. If I a dollar for every childhood dream that never came true I... well I would be a rich man, which is ironic because being rich was never a dream of mine.
I had a record player with a Disney rock and roll vinyl. I had a hair brush that doubled as a microphone. I had a pair of sunglasses and a cape. I would one day be a rock star! There was no doubt. I sang at church, shaping my vocal skills. I learned to play the guitar at the age of 17. I played in two bands and at a local church. I wrote music. I breathed music.
Somehow it all slipped away from me. Somehow, my dream took a back seat to bills, long work hours and responsibility. The guitar battled the T.V. once too often. My back grew sore from hunching over my Washburn while I strummed jazz chords and struggled through scales and arpeggios. Thirteen years of smoking has made me short winded, weakened my vocal chords. And worse yet, I have settled on the excuse that I'm getting too old to be a rock god. Am I?
"Drink your Metamucil and write your blog, you silly dreamer."
Some neighbors down the road have a rock band and they play in their garage. I envy them as I walk past, dog in tow. Yesterday they were playing -they sounded great- then security came and made them stop. I wanted to hit the guy as he wrote them a ticket. With all the noise of people booming their bass speakers, running table saws, blasting rap music, kids screaming bloody murder in the playground behind my house and these are the guys you decide to persecute?! The artists? The dreamers? The ravens and seers of visions? Targets for far-away laughter? OK, OK. Stop with the Pink Floyd references.
Perhaps I will try and follow my dream. But at what cost? How far am I willing to go? How much of my neck should I place on the line? I don't know. I have no vision yet. I have no reasonable goals as of yet. But I have a dream, a small one right now. A mustard seed, if you will. Let's see how far it goes.