Dreams Change

When I was little, I wanted to be a rockstar. 

I mean, don’t we all?

But no, I distinctly remember pulling out buckets to serve as a drum kit. Elmo was on the drums. (Not the actual Elmo, just a stuffed animal version). Clifford was backup on a cardboard paper guitar. I sang into a TV remote, belting out lyrics.

I suppose I’ve always found myself weirdly comfortable in the spotlight. As long as you give me time to prepare, it just feels like some surreal, out-of-body experience. You’re there, but you’re also with the crowd, watching yourself perform while also trying to remember your next line or the point you’re trying to make.

It’s funny, a big change from being younger. Letting others talk over me whenever they pleased. Letting boxes get thrown at my head and rocks on the playground. Getting my stuff taken out of my hands and threatened to be broken. 

But when I was little, I wanted to be a rockstar.

And then, I just wanted to make something beautiful. Something I believed in, something that others could see and believe in too. 

I wanted to make something that makes people feel less alone. I think I’m still discovering the medium. Words, maybe. Images, sound, noise, music. Computer-generated. Graphical or literary or something in-between. Maybe the medium hasn’t been invented yet. 

When I was little, I wanted to be a rockstar, to sing to outer space like David Bowie in Space Oddity calling ground control and looping Major Tom into the gambit.

Now, I guess, I’m still dreaming. Now, I’m still naive enough to want to touch the stars.