The Other Looking Glass

Unless you are a winged insect you probably don't think of a window as a barrier - I mean, it's transparent and (usually) easily opened or smashed- not presenting much of an obstacle to the determined person.

You can observe the world through glass- some things might affect you- oh look, it's snowing!- but more than likely you'll just see objects passing you by, oblivious to both you and whatever you may think of them.
Maybe a child will see you watching and wave to you.
Pull the curtains shut.

For years this has been the nature of my once-human interaction with the world.

There's a pane of glass between myself and everyone else- there's so much I could say to you that this glass could never translate- the meanings would diffract into chaos like light through a cracked prism- an asymmetrical kaleidoscope of stammers, half-starts and frustration at words that are just not enough.
Not always. Not now. Not ever.
The words didn't work the first time, nor the second or third, so why should I believe them enough to repeat them ever again?
I can chew them, taste them, spit them out, but I can't say them.

So I sputter at this, this Window, and I hate it because when I try to touch it, all I feel is cold glass. Look- there's now a smudged fingerprint to remind me that once again I have failed to make any connection with the world -and with the people I want so much to be a part of.

Surely I am not so empty that I have nothing to offer? This is a real fear of mine- that I just don't have anything anyone would want- and it hurts all the more because I see what people are willing to settle for and I know I am better than that. I know this-I am told of my goodness by others- yet I'm unable to convince myself that any of what they say is true. They are just being nice.
They mean well, but it's hard for them.
I'm not easy to be around when I get like this, and I'm always like this.

Even when I'm working at the station, there's still this glass between me and the people I'm with- there's a clear wall between me and the performers- I can hear every sound they make - the microphones send it directly into my headphones- but there is little communication beyond "ooh, nice guitar" and the timeworn warning, " 1,2,3-Rolling!"

If you talk directly to me in the studio, I cannot hear you- I've got my isolation headphones on (that's what they are called- isolation 'phones). You will have to speak into a microphone. It will convert your voice into electricity and route it to my iso-phones , which will change it back into words. With any luck I'll understand what you said.
Almost all my communications- with everyone, about everything- follow a similar path. These very words are an example. Will you understand?
With luck, perhaps you will.

The song is over, the players pack and go home- I'm stuck cleaning up the studio.

Hey, here's my card- call me if you'd like to jam some time. Let me know if you know anyone who needs a guitarist I can play lots of different instruments- or call me if you need a demo or some live work done...but they never do. I don't blame them. If I can hear the desperation in my voice, I know that they can too. Who wants to be around some sad lonely guy?
I know I don't, but I don't have much choice.

Sometimes, rarely, one of my friends asks me to jam with them. This feels like a "mercy fuck". They don't have the time or energy to actually be in a functional band with me- they have their own things-their own bands, families, children, careers they don't hate- all things I don't have-
but I guess they get tired of seeing me moping around, semi-visible on the sideline, wishing I was more than a backstage button-pusher.

They feel sorry for me and I hate myself for that.

I know they mean well, but for me music is love, and love is an all or nothing thing.
Being in love for two hours every third Thursday is worse than being alone.
Alone.
Watching through the glass.
Trying to transmit an idea from Point A to Point A without losing it all in transformation is nearly impossible, yet I feel compelled to push it further- let's try for Point B and hope for the best.
Or point see.

I can see the point through this glass.
I know I can't touch it, but I try anyway.

I think I must be afraid of everything except failure, so I keep reaching, stretching...

It's cold, hard and flat. It always is.

It's just another fingerprint on the glass.