Jazz Camp, part 4 of 4 − 8 July, 2002
[ Continued from part 1, part 2, and part 3. ]
The next day, my big stress was the morning session where I'd have to play with that band I'd been assigned again.
I hid out in the music building, one of the practice rooms at the top. It was hot; the air conditioning wasn't dealing with the warm midsummer day very well.
I sat in there practicing like mad. Then, the time came to go to the session.
I couldn't do it.
At that moment, I realized it was over. See, my memory is a strange one. As many gifts as it has given me, it has brought just as many disadvantages.
When you remember something, maybe it gets grey with age. You start to remember it less distinctly, less sharply. Maybe the edges soften a bit, the harshness fades, the pain goes from sharp to dull to a mere ache to a passing troubling recollection.
I don't. If you're like me, you remember 1st grade as clearly as you do coming home from work the day before. Both events are like they just happened. It's very hard for me to forgive, because when I remember the original event, I go right back there -- and get just as angry as I was when it first happened.
Academically, it has helped me all my career. But personally, having to bear the weight of accumulated memory has been, and is becoming, harder and harder.
In this case, I kept flashing back to that original, horrible session, that embarrassing moment being the lowest of the low, singled out for imperfection. There was no way I could go back.
So I left.
Not the building; the state.
That very moment, I realized there was no point in my being there. My joy of music had been stolen. I packed my gear, packed my stuff, wrote a hasty note to my roommate (whom I'd gotten along quite well with), and drove straight back home to Florida, arriving there 12 hours later.
I entered my house under a thick, black cloud of depression, but was greeted with my wife by open arms.
There are two codas to this story, so stay tuned.
[First coda: The New Start.]
[Second coda: The Turnaround.]
The next day, my big stress was the morning session where I'd have to play with that band I'd been assigned again.
I hid out in the music building, one of the practice rooms at the top. It was hot; the air conditioning wasn't dealing with the warm midsummer day very well.
I sat in there practicing like mad. Then, the time came to go to the session.
I couldn't do it.
At that moment, I realized it was over. See, my memory is a strange one. As many gifts as it has given me, it has brought just as many disadvantages.
When you remember something, maybe it gets grey with age. You start to remember it less distinctly, less sharply. Maybe the edges soften a bit, the harshness fades, the pain goes from sharp to dull to a mere ache to a passing troubling recollection.
I don't. If you're like me, you remember 1st grade as clearly as you do coming home from work the day before. Both events are like they just happened. It's very hard for me to forgive, because when I remember the original event, I go right back there -- and get just as angry as I was when it first happened.
Academically, it has helped me all my career. But personally, having to bear the weight of accumulated memory has been, and is becoming, harder and harder.
In this case, I kept flashing back to that original, horrible session, that embarrassing moment being the lowest of the low, singled out for imperfection. There was no way I could go back.
So I left.
Not the building; the state.
That very moment, I realized there was no point in my being there. My joy of music had been stolen. I packed my gear, packed my stuff, wrote a hasty note to my roommate (whom I'd gotten along quite well with), and drove straight back home to Florida, arriving there 12 hours later.
I entered my house under a thick, black cloud of depression, but was greeted with my wife by open arms.
There are two codas to this story, so stay tuned.
[First coda: The New Start.]
[Second coda: The Turnaround.]
