Someone wrote a song about me once. I only know this because he did it right in front of me. I no longer remember who he was. I know I was with a friend or two, we had gone to someone's apartment in Albuquerque for New Year's Eve? Maybe? And the guys there were drunk. I believe the last time we'd all been together, I had also been drinking. Possibly a lot. Probably I did something silly or foolish. I no longer even remember all of the words to the song, but it was definitely about something I had done in some sort of drunken stupor. And it all came back to one refrain, "But oh well/Life goes on."
Ok, so maybe it wasn't a great song, and maybe it didn't show me in the best light. But goddammit someone wrote a song about me! Me!
When I was young I had this unwavering belief that I'd be famous. Not a famous actor, or singer, or performer of any type. Hell, not even the type of person who changes the world drastically. I just knew that I'd be recognized and remembered. I also hoped (ok, I admit it, knew) I'd be a published author some day. I'd like to find some sort of grade school essay about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I seriously doubt it said anything like "doctor" or "lawyer", although I have the sneaking and embarrassing suspicion it said "secretary".
As I got older, I lost faith that I would be well-known myself. But I thought, "Hey -- maybe I'll meet someone who is or will be well-known...and I will gain some notoriety through this person." Yes. It's true. I've actually had this thought. More than once. And in it's most basic form, it was something more like: One day, someone will write a song about me. Ha! Oh yes. That is what I hoped.
I suppose I imagined that I would meet a boy/man (depending on my age -- they've only recently become men to me) who would fall madly and irresistibly and painfully in love with me. It would be dramatic. It would be fiery. It would be tragic. Love would be pain. It would hurt too much to be together; it would hurt too much to be apart. We'd yell and scream and fight and make-up. And he, of course, would be an artist. Probably a musician. And from the depths of all the drama and turmoil and passion, I'd be his muse in one tortured, deep, biting, yearning, hateful, loving song. Of course, we'd never be able to have a long-term relationship. It would end. But I'd never forget. He'd never forget. And the whole thing would live on in that one song. No matter when or where it was played/performed/listened to...It would me. Us.
Well. So far, this has not even come close to happening. But like the mystery song writer of yore said, "But oh well/Life goes on."
I'm not a song writer. I'm barely even a prose/poetry writer. But I think about what I am inspired by, and whom. And sometimes the "you" is just any ol' "you" and the "he" is just some "he". A no one. A someone. It hardly matters. When the "you" is someone real, I often think of how embarrassed I would be for that person to know that I wrote something inspired by them. That they actually affected me enough for me to write about it. But at the same time, doesn't everyone deserve their song? Hasn't everyone I've known earned the right to appear somewhere, in one line, in one poem, of mine? I think they have. But be warned: it won't always be a flattering mention.
I've settled down a bit. I've learned that I don't need a mention anywhere (and if I insist upon needing it, I'll always have the New Year's Eve live acoustic ditty). I've learned that (surprise!) the world does not, in fact, revolve around me. Or anyone. So I'll write my songs. You write yours.
Life goes on.
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