091918 Start with this: dude wrote *In the heights* in his sophomore year of college. What was I doing in my sophomore year? I’m not perseverating on this as another bout of self-flagellation, but as a way to maybe keep some things in perspective. Like playing tennis, even if you’re not a pro. Nobody thinks you’re a loser if you play tennis for fun. But i do hafta wonder, do people who accomplish what seems to us mortals as amazing things—do they have to struggle to keep motivated? you know what i mean? like is it “easier” for them because they’re just driven to keep working on stuff? are they like that bend in the river that has that big muscular swell of current running through it and so they feel that, and what waking up in the morning feels like to them is going with that and plugging into that and feeling that and letting the force of that current move your legs and your arms and you feel your body sway and you almost have no choice but to go with it? and so as a byproduct of all that energy you end up creating amazing things? Or is it as hard as a boring job is for a normal person? Do they have to struggle with their lazier self not to just watch tv or smoke a bowl or browse the web or whatever? is it a daily practice? is it like, oh god, i got to put in my time today, and then they build that muscle up and they’re just so goddamn persistent and they don’t give up— but either way, what makes the difference? what makes one person not give up but another person give up? is it perception of potential results? perception of actual results? Like, is there a time when you really SHOULD give up? and what determines your honest opinion of when that time is? What about stories of people who failed failed failed failed—what kept them going? What voice was it that said, you have to put in your time today anyway? Was it other people encouraging them? And if so, what did those other people see in them? Or did the other people just love them and want to be encouraging? Couldn’t someone who loves you also say, no, you should be realistic, this is never going to work and you need to get a job? You know, maybe do that thing you like to do on the side, as a hobby? How often do loving people kill dreams or make dreams real? Is it all predetermined anyway? Are some people just naturally born with just the right crystalline structure or mineral makeup or chance happenstance of being in the right volcano at the right time so that they turn into the glimmering jewel on the beach, instead of the blunt tan pebbles that the rest of us are? Isn’t it all just a giant wheel of chance combinations? It isn’t anybody’s fault and it isn’t to anybody’s credit, then. But we don’t seem capable of looking at it that way. We like to celebrate the amazing people. Are they amazing people, or do they just do amazing things? Which came first? Don’t we just like to be a part of something, anything? So even if our part is just adding our hot human underarm-smelling musky present grinning selves to the crowd, and cheering on the amazing person doing the amazing thing—isn’t that essential too? Wouldn’t the whole picture fall apart if we weren’t there doing that? Likewise, there’d be no *In the heights* if there were no heights, yeah? And that’s something beyond “audience.” Or is it? My dad always said the audience was an essential part of the performance. I wonder if he arrived at that bit of wisdom after thinking about this stuff the way I do/am. I know he also said one time “I wish I were smarter. I wish I had more talent.” So maybe wishing that inevitably brings you here, to this place, wondering what makes some people make amazing things. Is it just that they want it more? And again, why? Oh and back to what I was saying. How do you know when it’s worth it to keep practicing something? Maybe you don’t know. Maybe it’s definitional—either you keep practicing, or you don’t. It’s kind of beside the point why you hypothetically would or wouldn’t; all the matters is whether you did or didn’t. There’s no guarantee of a reward. Just, at the end of the day, either you put in your time or you didn’t. Then whatever else happens during your day happens. You truly do not get a medal. You can brag about it to your mom or your girlfriend or your boss or your students or your therapist (as Bukowski pointed out), but there’s no actual medal that anyone really honestly gives a shit about. Not for just working. Not for just deciding what you’re going to spend your time on. So it’s really up to you. It’s really, truly, utterly, completely up to you. And maybe that’s what’s so scary about it. Maybe the only goddamn difference between the amazing person and me is that one day some little amazing thing happened to them that snowballed into a bigger amazing thing, and now I’m listening to that thing in the car on the way home from Milwaukee with my two eldest daughters, and it’s making me laugh and feel rhythmic and alert and alive. I operate under the assumption that the daily grind is part of that. It’s a prerequisite but not a guarantee. Like not every rectangle is a square. Not every pebble tossed into the lake makes that perfectly round, resonant *puhloongk!* I operate under that assumption mostly because of what I’ve heard, what I’ve read. So keep the talking and the singing and the dancing and the writing coming, folks. Maybe ninety nine point ninety nine percent of it—of this—is utterly and completely meaningless noise. But you never know. The search for extraterrestrial intelligence—derided and obviously futile and a big waste of money and the stuff of deluded nerdy dreamers though it certainly is—nevertheless it continues—because you never *quite*—I mean you get within ninety nine point nine nine nine nine nine nine ninety-nine percent of knowing—but still, until the day you are actually one hundred percent dead—you really never *quite* know.