“True art is characterized by an irresistible urge in the creative artist.” Al Einstein
I’m sitting here, thinking it is so incredibly presumptuous to write my stories and assume anyone will read them. Then, I started thinking about what’s anyone got going on inside, causing them to think anyone will give a shit about their stories, sculptures or landscapes.
My original excuse for writing was to provide my grandson with a fairly decent road map through the twists and turns of my life. It was my insurance policy, defying mortality, with the words living on, maturing in meaning, a forever harmony of our two hearts.
It is funny, as I am now thinking, the truth is, my gift for my grandson has turned out to be an even greater one for me. Once, a long time ago, in a land far away, I sat on my bed in Park Slope, Brklyn, a typewriter, a can of beer a burning joint, and a blank paper staring at me hard. At that moment, I did what any young buck would do, I cried a good, gut squeezing kind. It would have been an excruciatingly, painful experience, peeling away the layers, while not having developed the vocabulary to deal with it all. I couldn’t do it.
At the same time, I really didn’t think anyone would care about what I had to say. I am also seriously introverted about many things and sharing would have been a fight, even on a good day back then. A huge amount of time has to go by before you even begin to enter the “I Don”t Give A Shit” zone of self-exposure.
If I’ve ever claimed my grandson was simply an excuse to finally get me writing, I’d be seriously full of shit. I would never write another word again as punishment for such blatant self-deception.
The greatest word in the English language is Love and it deserves its own dictionary. I am a Dad and to say the least, I get mixed reviews. My grandson was like a gift, enabling me to engage him in ways that reflect what I’ve learned, which is a far cry from thinking you’re always right, because of it. There’s a blood thing between us and we both know it really well.
When I saw him for the very first time, I promised myself I would figure out a way for him to get to know me. Trust me, writing was nowhere in the mix, still dormant, waiting for the beat of my heart. The easy way would have been being immortal and just being around with him for his entire life.
As a kid, my grandparents were half gone, long before I was old enough to even ask my father their names. To make matters worse, my father was also gone before I was 10. My mother’s parents were Jewish immigrants and seeing them felt like an ordeal for a young kid. We’d go to a linoleum smelling walk up in a ghetto like community. It would usually involve one of the too many Jewish holidays. To be honest, I really didn’t know much about anyone in my family.
So, we have now established my family memories are not all that great. However, before you get the wrong idea, my mother was quite extraordinary and provided a real family for my brother and myself. Please, I am not some miserable shit, bitching about his childhood and neurotically, overcompensating for his shoddy upbringing, by attempting to twist the mind of his impressionable, young grandson. Although, that could be a Netflix plot. Just sayin’.
The quote from Big Al was what I was looking for. If you didn’t know this, Albert Einstein said some of the most amazing things you could ever imagine. He was one of those very rare beings, incredibly imperfect, but nonetheless, absolutely, singularly brilliant.
I always knew, lurking somewhere under my skin, was this need to create. No, as a kid I wanted to be a goddamn fireman and then briefly around fifth grade, I thought I should be a doctor and I can’t even say how that got in my head in the first place. Very, very early, I remember entertaining my father by performing. My biggest hit was Jimmy Durante and if you give a shit, look him up and you’ll get it pretty quick. “Ink-A-Dink-A-Doo” to you.
I think I’ve always treated whatever environment I happen to be in as a stage for some kind of performance. It goes back to that early time with my father. After his death, I found out a lot about him, all of it second hand. As a traveling salesman, he lived a life on the road during the forties and into the fifties. When he visited friends, he was filled with stories and jokes.
Without knowing it, my Dad has been inside me. Your parents never die, they live within you forever. I always knew I was going to do something, that “irresistible urge” Mr. Einstein was talking about.
I think I started getting tired of just talking to myself, trying to impress my mind mirror with my erudition. I don’t know how it is for you guys, but I have a grand old time communicating with me, like I’ve know me my entire life; oh, wait a minute!
The seasoning for this tale on creativity is time. You keep those diverse elements in life’s kiln and over time clarity slips in behind the wheel. The road looks good and the view is breathtaking.
My grandson was the gas pedal that got me moving. One way or another, this boy will have the opportunity to know all about me, whether he cares to or not. As I said, we are doing just fine right now. I plan on being around for much more of his life, but my writing, etc. is my insurance policy. This is pure and simple, all about the love. What a powerful force it is? How it can sometimes bring out what we’ve fought against, putting it under the bright light of right now.
These things that I do now have always been a part of me, but the passage of time has created a growing sense of urgency, really, about most everything. The freakin’ sand in the hour glass is looking more like a pear!
Thank you for spending this time with me. I sincerely appreciate it.
Grandpa Larry