Often, I find my eyes wandering off to various objects around me as I take mental breaks between penning long, meandering passages of prose. Today, my pupils have chosen a burning candle as a point of fixation. This candle acts as a refuge for my tired mind – a rest stop, if you will, where it can refuel on gas station snacks and relief itself as it prepares to complete the remaining portion of the psychological road trip.
I can’t help but notice how the burning candle is a perfect allegory for the subject of discussion for this stream of consciousness. During the candle’s youthful years, the wick stood above the brim and the flame burned brightly for everyone to see – no one was questioning if what they were looking at was a candle or not. After all, the candle was young, energetic, and had a positive outlook on life. It thought about all the light and heat and raw energy it would radiate to everyone who stood close enough to feel it. The lovely aroma it would emit to anyone who came within earshot of it. But as the candle grew older and life’s obligations came calling, the wick sank down beneath the surface of the brim, and the wax shielded its light from the outside world. An observer may be able to see the flickering light through the semi-transparent wall of the ceramic container, but they would not be able to identify the object in front of them as a candle without innate knowledge in the first place. Eventually, the wick has sank so deep beneath the surface that hardly anyone can tell it is even alive. Yet the flame continued to burn, whether anyone realizes it or not. At long last, the candle’s life will come to an end. Despite the best efforts of the candle’s owner, the coated piece of fabric cannot be shocked back to life. So the candle is lain in its final resting place, the trash bin, and another one is purchased from the local craft store or big box retailer.
But up until that very moment of absolution, the flame still burned. No matter how deep the wick sank into the depths of the wax, it persisted onward. No matter the age of the candle, it still kept its energy. It would take divine intervention from the outside world, such as the gentle breath of a God above, to put out that flame.
(This essay was inspired by a recent conversation I had at a local watering hole a few weekends ago. I have done my best to recall the facts as accurately and detailed as possible, but some crumbs will always manage to end up on the floor. Reader discretion is advised).
The more I think about life, the more I am starting to believe that conversation is the one and only reliable source of inspiration and material for writing meaningful works of art. Commentary on global affairs, culture – both ancient and contemporary, philosophical concepts, life advice, etc. is nice and makes for interesting discussions. But at the root of the human experience is the written and spoken word. So, as I continue to take this idea of being a “humble wordsmith” more seriously, I find myself focusing on my interaction with the written and spoken word – after all, if you have anything worth saying, it will eventually manifest as dialogue, prose, text messages, drunk tweets, or some other form of media in which you express your thoughts and feelings.
When we first sat down at the Mexican-themed cantina in the heart of the Mecca of nightlife in my damned city, my expectations were lower than a limbo bar at a Bah Mitzvah for a child with stunted growth. I showed up early, like I always do, scouted out the scene, chose the opportune spot for shooting the shit with a stranger, and fully integrated myself with the aura and atmosphere of the place. The fifteen-or-so minutes between when you first arrive at the establishment and when the guest of honor is scheduled to arrive is the most difficult time period of the night. It is when you start questioning your use of dating apps. There is a feeling of impending doom, like something horrific is going to happen to you. Maybe the roof will collapse and you will be crushed to death, with your last words as a living, breathing organism being “yeah I used to go to that place all the time in college”. Or maybe she will show up and shoot you in the face because she was simply bored or is a serial killer. It is what I get for taking dating apps seriously to the point where I go as far as setting up real, in-person, half-sincere dates (drinks after work is hardly sincere, but in today’s day and age, asking a member of the opposite sex out for margaritas might as well be asking her to attend the Royal Wedding with you – the bar is unbelievably low).
(The fact of the matter is that dating apps, while being a terrible way to meet a long-term partner, are great for having fun and getting in meaningful practice reps. You can interpret that last statement as you wish.)
Truth be told, the first encounter is only awkward if you make it awkward, and you have to be vehemently trying to blow the interaction up to reach a level of awkwardness that is unacceptable to the point of non-arousal. It will come as no surprise that dear Tony loves making life’s great scenarios unnecessarily overdramatic, and this particular night was no exception to the rule. I was fine. We’re having fun after all, right?
The conversation started off as expected. We were both playing it safe, despite having absolutely nothing to lose. And as we continued to chat, I should note that I was taking copious notes mentally, because any and all conversation from this point forward is prospective material. The writing bug has smitten me down like an alcoholic father after a long day at work, and I cannot help myself in the tempting Garden of Eden that is this wonderfully beautiful life.
After I short while, I had successfully identified that my female acquaintance was a fellow degenerate like myself, and we both agreed that this lovely February night should continue at another establishment ever so closer to my humble abode (years of playing Risk has made me a respectable tactician in the field of danger and play). I had no specific destination in mind, so she suggested this off-the-beaten-path dive bar that I had not heard of up until that point. I am not one to say no to the occasional blue-collar indulgence, so I closed out, and we headed towards our next destination.
The place was located a block off the main road where all the bars and restaurants stood and was wedged in between a beauty salon and a bicycle shop, in which all three businesses were a part of a shopping plaza that looked as if it existed when Nixon was being impeached for Watergate. As we walked through the dimly lit parking lot, I began to ponder my past experiences at previous holes-in-the-wall. I could not help but think about the church-like characteristics that the prototypical dive bar possessed. Not so much that they are a holy place of worship where people go to rejoice and pray; they are quite the opposite in all actuality. But rather dive bars act more of a confessional, where the raw truth is extracted like a cancerous tumor. Where the lonely bartender, pouring well drinks and $3 drafts, acts as the preacher, passing judgement at every overheard story of heartbreak, devastation, and damnation. Where you step outside into the cold winter air, and share a smoke with the burnouts and have-beens, to hear all the stories of college dropouts, failed music ventures, and tragic love stories, all in the time it takes you to finish your American Spirit. Where you might even muster enough strength to offer your own sermon to your people, in the form of half-baked wisdom and liquid courage.
It was no surprise to me that the aura of this place had a noticeable effect on our conversation. Before stepping foot in there, we were running through the normal song and dance that one goes through when meeting someone new – job, background, interests. I feel terrible for ignoring Michael Porifirio Mason’s advice on never saying what you actually do for a living, but unfortunately it was unavoidable in this instance. But as the night carried on and the liquid in our drinks inched closer towards sea level, the real conversation started to manifest – all it took was one random rock song from the 90s to catapult it into action. If I’m not mistaken, it was a Coheed and Cambria song, which to my surprise, I had never heard of (despite being a so-called aficionado of 90s rock, I did actually not know who this band was upon hearing both their song and mention of their name). Within seconds of hearing it, she immediately began telling me about the time when her older brother, against her parents’ insistence, took her to see them when she was just 16 years old. The way she described it was like the way I somehow manage to describe my late-night strollings through urban areas, and I was quite enamored by the trajectory of our conversation, despite taking little-to-no-interest in the actual topic.
At some point, she managed to mention a peculiar term – harmonics, in reference to the lead singer’s voice – that piqued my interest. I asked a simple question:
“Do you know a lot about singing?”
And that was all it took. With those seven uttered words, we were off to the races.
“You have no idea”, she said.
And for the next twenty minutes or so (this is one detail I will admit to not knowing precisely, as time tends to distort when excessively consuming), she went on the give me her life story and how it related to her long-time aspirations to become a professional singer. I am not quite sure what that means, but it was interesting to hear nonetheless. I learned about all of her triumphs and defeats as a young and upcoming star in the show choir. She told me stories about long weekends, grueling competition schedules, and the drama that comes with being a part of a high school extracurricular. She then went on to tell me all about the musical business (one I am extremely unknowledgeable about), and everything that goes into putting on a memorable show. Costume design, voice training, cinematography, lighting, sound production - the list goes on. She was also able to recall with great precision the details surrounding every single musical she had ever attended - the musical name, date, time, venue, and even the specifics of where she was sitting. Vivid depictions - it reminded me of myself. In the grand scheme of things, the details were a moot point - beyond them, I could see the passion in her eyes. The wick was burning brightly; I had simply failed to see it beyond the thick layers of wax prior to that very moment.
It was no coincidence that following our lively one-way discussion about arts, the conversation degenerated into the dreaded work talk. She flat-out told me that she felt trapped at her dead-end megacorp job (like I said before, the truth always finds its way to the surface at the dive bar). The juxtaposition of the two topics was intentional, whether she meant it to be or not. Here is something I love, and now here is something I hate. My heart weeps.
The night ended as expected, yet that conversation continued to eat at me, despite my best efforts to try to erase the entire night from my memory so I could do it all again next weekend.
What haunted me the most is that she had been carrying around this passion for musicals and singing with for what I would assume to be her entire life. It lay dormant for months, or even years at a time. No doubt that she wanted to try her hand at singing again. But for whatever odd reason, she didn’t - perhaps it was the unbearable weight of having a soul-sucking job, the fear of embarrassment or failure, or simply the distraction by more superficial and easily accessible things in life.
What I’ve come to realize is that the word “passion” has been mercilessly tainted and forever ruined by the current state of modernity (Yes, I know it is easy to blame everything on society - I will attempt to limit my old man tendency to complain for the sake of complaining here). Memories of sitting in orientation meetings flooded my mind, and I could not help but think negatively about the question “what are you passionate about?”
The idea of a passion has been commoditized like every other sacred human emotion. Walks in state parks thirty minutes away have become a Saturday morning checkbox ritual and Instagram photo op for confirming that you are in fact a weekend warrior. Every attempt at cooking an earnest meal must be religiously documented and mashed up into a 60 second video. You will be outcast and ostracized from social circles if you are not caught up with the latest TV drama that is terribly written and vastly overdone visually.
Sadly, there is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying any of the items mentioned above. Being outdoors, creating a home cooked meal from scratch, and enjoying the arts are all pastimes that we all should enjoy. Yet for some reason, it feels simultaneously nauseating and superficial to even think to enjoy them.
And hidden beyond the surface level interests and hobbies are the real passions - the ones that keep our wicks lit and candles burning brightly, despite the wax wall of coldheartedness that shields the light from the outside world.
There will be no grand ending or hopeful wrap-up from me. Deadlines are calling, so I must end this stream of consciousness abruptly. I fear that there is no hope in dealing with the tragedy mentioned above. So I will sign off for now, and leave you with the note below.
As a child, I spent summers at my grandma’s house, where there was no shortage of things to do for the curious and adventurous child. Between the two ponds filled with wildlife, the in-ground pool equipped with a diving board, the tattered trampoline, and a four-story house, I was almost never bored. And when I was, my grandma always had a chore or task to be completed. Those days live as a polaroid picture in my mind. I can smell the pond muck like there is a pile of it sitting in my living room. The common snapping turtles hissing at me as I dragged them out of the water with a fishing net. The humming bullfrogs late at night, letting surrounding mates know they were open for business. The smell of chlorine on my sun-kissed skin, as I climbed out of the glistening, clear blue water and approached the diving board to attempt to perfect my front-flip. Bonfires flickering and cracking in the warm summer air. My drunk uncle lighting fire crackers and hitting golf balls into the empty fields adjacent to the property. Yes, it was there I uncovered my raw passion for discovery, for observation, for for explanation, for trial and tribulation, for getting my hands and feet dirty, for challenging myself, for competing, for stopping to smell the roses. I took those days for granted. My grandma has sold the property and moved into a condo. I no longer keep in touch with my cousins, who have gone off the political deep end. But it was those years that shaped me and gave me a passion not for the objects in which I was presently fixated upon, but rather the activity itself, whatever it may have been at the time. Those memories must never die. Your memories must never die.
Onwards,
Tony