Monsters Need Beds

So many things to do, but I need to write this. It's really important, and I want to remember it later.


I think my specialty is telling small crowds really revealing, personal things about myself. I seem to do that really often. In a strange, nerve-wracking sort of way, I'm kind of getting used to it, and I think I like it.

I waited for a few other people to go first before I told myself to get it over with. I was slightly less nervous than I might have been because I played it for Jacob before I left, but I was still shaking a little. When I walked to the front of the room, sat in that lonely chair, looked up at the musicians sitting before me, and felt Andy Wilkinson's presence to my left, it got really bad. A few notches short of a heart attack.

Stage fright is one of the few frights I don't have. I swear, audiences don't make me especially nervous; a small amount of nervousness is ingrained in my personality, and the fact that I've never played and sung a song in front of a group of people made this a higher scale of nervousness. But the scariest thing was the song. Describing the song. Singing the song.

"My song is called "Monsters Need Beds"," I said as I sat down. A few people laughed, and I wanted to hug them. I went on and talked about The Process, how this song started as a bunch of nothing, just several pages of rambly phrases that didn't connect, until I met with Mr. Wilkinson. He looked through it and we found a little passage of something that was the most "song-like" out of all of it. I didn't tell them or him that the little passage was a poem I started writing because I was tired of failing at writing the song.

"This song is about monsters in our lives and what to do with them, but for me specifically, it's about depression," so I say holding my ukulele. "Um... there's a line in the second verse that says "Try the medicine." For me, that means depression medicine, but it also means other things... the things we do to heal ourselves. Um... in the third stanza--sorry, verse--there's a line that says "I'd rather fight a man," and that's a reference to aikido... because... I took an aikido class this year, and it's really helped me... I don't know... Um..."

I was so nervous. Just then, the door opened, and the only person in this class who really reached out to me walked in.

"I guess I'll just sing it."

I glanced at Andy Wilkinson. He nodded. The silence was a glass window waiting to be smashed. My fingers were shaking. I started playing.

I'm not going to lie. I wasn't counting while I played. I just played each set of triplets until I could remember how the next piece of the melody went. My eyes stayed on the strings, and I probably made silly faces while I was singing, but I got through it without any huge mistakes.

Everyone applauded, as we always do. I sighed.

The comments were all kind and complimentary. All I need to do is chart it.

Andy said that Willie Nelson would be proud; everything was balanced well. The ukulele was fast and complicated, the melody slow and simple. It sounds sort of like a lullaby, and goes really high on the neck, but is about depression. He cautioned me when I first told him I wanted to write a song about this on ukulele, but in the end it worked.

In a moment of silence, my songwriting friend (okay... I've only talked to him once... but he lives on my floor, and told me to come by if I wanted help with my song. I just never did because by the time I had anything to show him, I had figured out what to do. I think it still counts.) spoke up for me.

In the next pause, Andy asked "Was this scary to write?"

"Yes," I said immediately. It was scary to write and terrifying to sing.

"You know you've got a good song when it's hard to write. If you're scared shitless to play it for people, you've done something good."

Someone else commented that she was really glad I chose to sing this and share it with everyone. Every time I've done this someone has said something like that. So I believe it's worth it to bare your soul sometimes.

We were allowed to leave early this time, if we didn't have anything else we needed to play. I took him up on it because of the essay, journal, poems, and physics homework I need to do (and this is still productive because I'm going to put this in my Caswell journal). I was sad that I would miss my friend's song, though...

At the very least I could catch his eye as I left and say goodbye. So I did. He gave me the kindest smile and said goodbye back. Then, as an after thought...

"Good job! Very... reflective. I really liked it. Really nice." I said thank you about three times, glanced from his eyes to the floor about five times, and then finally stepped out the door. Just one more glance back, and I saw him do the same. Leftover jitters.

Austin, you'll never know, but I absolutely love you.

Well, you can infer. After next Monday, when class is over, I think I'm going to write him a short note and tape it to his door. Just to give him a proper thank you. People really ought to know how amazing they are.

All of you are changing my life for the better, and for that I thank you so much.

I absolutely love you.