Watching an old video of myself playing a recital, live event, people gathered voluntarily to inspect and discuss… I have not watched it again in recent weeks but somehow it surfaced in my head today, while waiting to cross Broadway at 7:50am… As a high school sprig I can cut myself some slack for feeling important and for feeling like I mattered. That was an energy I gave off in that video, an energy perhaps detected only by myself with decades of hindsight. Being on stage felt vulgar, even vile. As part of the ritual I felt the keyboard breathe before I put my hands on it. It breathed a warm, danky air through gritted albeit well-flossed teeth. Sitting on that bench was worse than any job interview, worse than even the weepiest therapy session. I hated it so much.

I think this memory may have surfaced after rediscovering an old entry on this website, from 2011. Stream of consciousness and less subtle connections from that story reminded me of the last concert I’ve played in, which was in November 2019, just before pandemic. I did not want to be there but I felt some kind of obligation to a friend involved in the concert. Superciliously I imagined I’d make connections and be attractive to other musicians for future employment. But it wasn’t like that. Why would it be? I went into it with my usual air of self-importance and esteem, thinking I would be the star of the show when in fact no one was there to gaze at the skies. It was strictly business, as would be expected of even the most shadowy New York City pickup orchestra. Nobody there knew each other. This was a one-off performance attended solely by friends of the performers. It quikly became clear that I had no reason to be there. This was done before it started.

…

I am at the office. Yesterday I was not at the office. I strambled yesterday, through familiar haunts and hollows. Before I had reliable meds I had frequent panic and anxiety attacks. I still feel them starting but the meds keep these episodes at bay. That doesn’t mean I do not sometimes have trouble functioning. But it’s not that fade to white that it used to be. I cannot credit my discipline, self-awareness, or spiritual growth for any of this. My calmness is a lie, fed by meds.

I am reminded of this any time I roll through a certain stretch of Woodside. 38th Avenue in particular, between 54th Street and 58th Street, where 38th Avenue feels like a narrow driveway and not a City street. I was once trapped in a car with strangers from a local bar, heading to Corona for a Christmas dinner of cow stomach and stilted conversation. A woman there was interested in me but it never progressed. What drove me to one of the hardest panic moments I can remember was when the driver of the car thrust us into this narrow roadway, which in the dark of night looked like no road at all to me. I thought we were being kidnapped, or at least hoisted out of our very limited comfort zone into a realm from which we could not escape, would never return.

I wanted to open a window for to breathe more easily but the needs of others in the vehicle prevented me from doing this. It was very cold out and opening the window would  have disrupted. God it was an awful night. I have to go.