Statement of Artistic Neurosis

I’m sorry to have to do this to you guys, but if I don’t submit my statement of artistic neurosis very soon, the neurosis is likely to increase.

My neurosis is most manifested in two recent posts, one which I have deleted, and one which I am about to delete.   The one which I have deleted is Tuesday Tuneup 28.   I will probably compose a shorter and less wild tuneup soon, and post it in its place.   

Secondly, we have the issue of Brian’s Song.  This one I won’t delete until I’ve played it to my satisfaction.   Then I’ll replace it on the same link.  (By the way, since this will probably take me forever, you might as well continue to enjoy it, if you happened to like it the first time.)   To be honest, I was ready to delete it about twenty minutes after the first time I listened to it.  But then, when I went to remove the post, I found that three people had already commented on how much they liked it.  I couldn’t bare to delete it after that, because people had liked it, even though I had not.

There’s probably a psychological term for that form of people-pleasing.  In a lay person’s terms, I would say it relates to my having been brought up as an entertainer.  Please allow me to elaborate.

These days, we hear a lot about people who have been traumatized in early childhood, due to abuse or neglect on the part of parents or other older “role models” in their lives.  My childhood contained nothing of the sort.

Bob Hope
Bob Hope

When I was five years old, my family was calling me the “Bob Hope of the future” due to my propensity to entertain them with original jokes that seemed a bit out of character for a five year old.  

When I was eight years old, I basically kicked the school music teacher, Mrs. Bechmire, off of the piano bench and began to accompany the elementary school choir.

By the time I was about ten, it was not uncommon for news cameras to show up wherever I happened to be playing the piano, as people shouted out requests.

Play Hello Dolly!

I gladly indulged their requests, after which I would tell a few jokes, soak in the applause and the laughter, and go about my merry way.   While other children were being abused and neglected, I was being belauded and praised.   Only one person did not join in that praise: my dad.

While everyone was encouraging me to pursue a career in the Performing Arts, my dad (whom I idolized) was expressing extreme disappointment that his firstborn son was not following in his footsteps.

However, I could not follow in his footsteps, and for two very good reasons:

(1) I wasn’t genetically wired to be good at things like carpentry, electronics, and auto mechanics.   My DNA was heading me in a very different direction, at a very early age.

(2) Whenever he tried to teach me these things, I couldn’t focus or understand what he was saying.   Looking back, there are probably two reasons why this is true:

(a) I had severe, untreated ADHD.

(b) I was terrified of my father’s disappointment.   I wanted terribly to please him, and yet he was the one person whom I could not please.

So, while Dad tried to mold me into a junior form of his own self, I cowered in fear of the words that were soon to come:

“Andy, I’m afraid you can’t do anything right!”   

My father was a Jack of All Trades.   As such, he also happened to be a very fine piano player.  But for some reason, the piano was the one thing he did not try to teach me.  I watched him play piano after dinner between the ages of 5 and 7, and told him repeatedly:

“I see what you’re doing!  I’ve figured it all out!”

At that, Dad would chuckle.  “You can’t learn how to play a piano just by watching somebody play!”

But lo and behold, when I was seven years old, I stepped out of the bathtub one day (where I had been practicing “Old McDonald” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on my imaginary bathtub keyboard.)   Sitting down confidently at the piano, I played the two children’s songs on the piano, never having a played a piano before.  (With both hands, too!)  My mom just about dropped a plate of spaghetti on the floor, and rushed me to the nearest piano teacher.   

ragtime piano player
The Type of Piano Player that Dad Was

It was me against Dad from then on.   He tried to mold me into the type of piano player that he was.   But it didn’t work.  I became the type of piano player whom I am.   

So that’s my story in a nutshell.  I couldn’t please my Dad, so I went out of my way to please everybody else.  And how better to please them — than to entertain them.  And if anybody can apprise me as to the proper psychological term for this kind of disorder or dynamic, please fill me in.   Only one caveat — anybody saying Narcissistic Personality Disorder may expect a pie in their face.

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Gratitude List 914

(1) I remembered to take my big cup with me to the 24/7 corner store when I went there to get my coffee this morning.  This not only decreased the price, but greatly increased the amount of coffee I was able to fit in a single cup — since my “big cup” is actually a quart in size, hehe.  Nice to be starting off the day with a nice big cup of hot coffee.

(2) When I came in last night from the cold, how great it felt just to be inside and be warm!

(3) Got up a little earlier this morning and did the entire wash.  Felt so good to put nice warm clothes on.

(4) And I must say – my morning coffee options have been greatly enhanced since the days when, if I wanted a cup of coffee in the morning, I would have to — have to — have to . . .  arrgghh.   Let’s just not go there, okay?

(5) Moreover, in another minute or two, I’m going to take a shower.  Once again, this is the first time since 2010 when I haven’t had to hassle with other men just to get a shower in the morning.   It feels wonderful to have my own bathroom, and my own shower, once again.

(6) I can’t help but have noticed that I’m not as angry as I used to be, and that I’m also not as absent-minded as I used to be.  Not only have I noticed this myself, but others have commented on it as well.  This is a good thing, and a great relief.

(7) Got the Street Spirit check in Friday’s mail, along with a complimentary copy of the paper, including my article, “The H-Word” (heavily edited, but hey – they spelled my name right.)

(8) The weather, though cold, has been incredibly gorgeous lately, with brilliant sunsets and sunrises, during both of which all the runners are out, in rare form.  And I will soon be among them. :)

(9) This gratitude list seems to be working fairly well, even though it’s the first one I’ve made since last Monday.  I think I’ll start making them every day again, and see if my life improves as much as a lot of spiritual people say it will.

(10) Something uncomfortable happened at Mikey’s the other night when I was having dinner there; and I ran into two of the youngsters, good friends of each other, the one Italian guy who’s always smiling, and his friend the bass player.   I don’t want to detail the exact essence of the discomfort, but suffice it to say that the bass player was turning to me for support in a certain issue — as a young person will often turn to an older person whom they respect.  But instead of support, I smirked with cynicism – as an older person will sometimes do, forgetting who he’s talking to at the moment.

May I always remember that the youngsters look up to the older sorts, and if they see something in the older person that they think is admirable, they will turn to that person as a role model — especially if they are lacking other adult role models in their lives.  May I never forget this.  1 Cor 10:23, Ephesians 4:1, and a bunch of other Scriptures come to mind.  (To my mind, anyway) . . .

I may be too old to seek out an “older role model” — but consider that if Jesus rose from the dead, and is still alive, that Guy would be over 2000 years old by now.   Can you imagine all the insanity He’s seen go down, by now?   And while Christ may be intangible on the worldly plane, I can still read His words, and seek His Spirit where it may be found.  Not all of those words are lost on everyone.  May they not be lost on me.   

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