Drew

"Yeah, tho' I walk through the valley of the shadow of Evil...I shall fear no death. 'Cause I'm the meanest mother fucker in the Valley."
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I am a thinker/intellectual, but can be social. I like to try and have a good time in whatever I do...of course, doesn't always work out that way. I'm funny, but can be serious. I'm passionate about the written word, writing lyrics, prose, fiction, memoir...politics, racquetball, baseball, books, film, music...especially music. I have been involved in music for most of my life. I have lived a lot of life, but know there is so much more to live...I'm just doing my best to live it.
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Therapy
I am a frustrated writer. Words and images flow through my brain like constant electrical impulses, plaguing me. Sometimes, a single word or phrase floats around up there, almost taunting me, daring me to use it in some context that makes sense. I pick at my fingers waiting for all the fodder to flow in a logical shape. When I was nineteen, the phrase "moral ambiguity" was a continuous reprise, nearly driving me mad. I wrote it down, hoping something would materialize. "Moral Ambiguity. Moral Ambiguity. Moral Ambiguity… Moral Ambiguity?" Repeating the phrase in a rudimentary tape recorder was a failed attempt at therapy. One night, I think my sister heard me repeating the phrase through the wall that separated our bedrooms. Without even a thought or consideration, she pounded her fist on the wall, "Shut up, I gotta get up early! What does that mean, anyway? God, you're weird!" With a soft click of the Stop button, my therapy session ended. I spoke of my condition to my English Professor at the time; how words often haunted me. He told me that it was important not to dwell on a single word, phrase or topic, and that if I didn't stop, I might not be able to get beyond it. This suggestion, to me, was akin to saying, "Don't forget to do good," at a ball game, or on a test; however appropriate the advice, my professor was obviously stating, well…the obvious. Despite my daily torture, I still managed to get an A in that class. During the summer of that year, I sat outside evenings attempting to compose my opus. History had proven to me that I could write something great, and this was the time to do it. Everyone said so, my teachers, my parents, my friends. I was not as convinced. One night, the blank sheet of paper stared back at me, mocking me with its pristine canvas, and all I could muster was "moral ambiguity." My Father, who is a talented writer, yet undiscovered by anyone save himself, saw me biting at the tips of my fingers. He brought me a cold glass of iced tea and sat across from me. Without seeming too interested, "What are you doing?" he asked. I seized the opportunity and told him of my crisis. It's my Dad who labeled me a frustrated writer. He said I had one of two problems, "Either, you're a frustrated writer, or you have questions about your morality. And I don’t think that it’s the latter." With that said, he sipped his tea and left me to ponder my dilemma. My Dad was always very thoughtful with his advice. Often, he'd ask a question or give you a choice in order to provoke thought. I appreciate this quality, even though I've never told him. Buried in those questions, I found a compliment. My father was the first to call me a writer. Although frustrated, still a writer. I wrote with fervor that night. I don't remember what I wrote about, and I didn't use the phrase "moral ambiguity." It no longer mattered. Everyday, up to this moment, I still cannot distill the electrical impulses of words and images. Instead of stopping, like the advice of my English professor, I accept it. I remain a frustrated writer.
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