Today, an idea has seized me: I will write a memoir one day. Well, it was more of a thought briskly scribbled into a notebook as the train neared my stop, 137th St- City College. I have lived here for 3 years exactly. And that’s all there is to say about that.
So I’m writing a memoir. It probably won’t be finished for another 50 years, but what the heck. I’ve lived, perhaps many lives, and am here in human form in front of a standing desk, a human marvel, to tell the tale. The real inciting inspiration for this idea (which I will now attempt to bring to life) is Hoagy Carmichael’s memoir 'The Stardust Road’. I had finished it a couple stations before. Finished! A book I had finally managed to read to the end, and boy was it worth it.
Another influence is Steve Martin’s 'Born Standing Up’, which I mention here on the off chance (but I am a dreamer) that he will read this.
I just called my mother (Marina, you may as well know) and told her in all my subdued excitement that I have started writing my memoir. “Why so early?” she scoffs, deflating my dreams, “You’re still young”. Marina has a habit of offering the practical side to any matter. For instance, when I gave her the great news that I had been accepted to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, she responds with “How are we going to pay for that?”.
The fact is, for me, being consistent is a consistent problem. I like to think that I simply belong to the ilk of Dadaists, artists that dabbled in, or rather invented and mastered, many different forms of creative expression from photomontage to the nonsense poem, lending credence to the belief that creativity is fluid and concrete identify futile. I think we can all benefit from this notion.
getihylld rehdyus webvertyy
webvertyy rehdyus getihylld
That’s a nonsense poem to prove my point.