Composed first as a dialogue, I decided to make this purely internal as today is Bloomsday. Not the least bit Joycean, I still wonder what you think of these conflicting thoughts. With which Evan will you sympathize? I imagine many of my colleagues have experienced similar thoughts… or is it just me…?Are musicians, ‘artists?’ Or perhaps, are artists that make music, musicians?Is taste merely a matter of class? Where does preference stop and ‘snobbery’ begin? Do you agree with Pierre Bourdieu’s judgment of taste?Do you like Sibelius?

Spread Your Fingers:

Yeah.Evan.Likewise.What I…? Oh what I do…

Right, well, if you ask me what I do, I’m going to tell you: I breathe, I walk, I sit, I sleep, just like you! Just like you. What I do.

I might venture that I’m an inventor, or no longer need to work, because, right out of university, you see, I came up with a really clever patent for trampolines that has prevented the paralysis of hundreds of bouncing children— if not thousands.

Yes, yes, every month, every month checks. …for all the new trampolines in the world that have my… device somewhere on the side of the, trampo—Yes, it is odd being rich from trampolines. But, I’ll take what I can get.

That’s a good line, ‘odd being rich from trampolines.’

I’m also a professor of 18th century German religion at an online University in …sssSingapore!Singapore? You ask. Yes, yes, Singapore.Do you, lecture online, what with the time change and all that?Yes, yes, with the, with the time change.

Truth hurts: I play the piano and harpsichord and organ. You’ll ask, ‘Is that all you do.’

Is that all I do. Is that all I do. Let’s say I were the 17th best flamenco dancer in the world, but I had to supplement this with bus driving.

‘Hey! There’s Evan the bus driver’ not ‘Hey, there’s Evan, the 17th best flamenco dancer in the world.’ You might consider me a fairly good dancer, best dancer in the village even— but I’d still be, ‘Hey, there goes Evan the bus driver.’ But if suddenly, suddenly, flamenco paid well enough where I could stop driving the bus,‘Hey! There’s Evan the flamenco dancer.’

I wouldn’t have gotten any better or worse at dancing the whole time.

I hate these parties where people ask you what you do. I want parties where that’s not allowed, where you lead with, what is your favorite color? The no small talk party. You guys going to the no small talk party? It’s actually going to be enjoyable.

Somewhat vibrant green bordering on blueish… what’s yours? Oh did you meet Sheila? She also likes the greenish blues!

What’s your main fault? Hey Dave, nice to meet you, what’s your main fault. You ever cheated on someone, Dave? Who is your favorite heroine in fiction?

Yes, that’s all I do. All I do is play the piano. Oh, it must be so nice to be able to make a living with your passion.

I hate it when people say that. Passion. Overused word.

Yes, it is. It’s a good life. I’m healthy I’m happy. I am healthy and I am happy. What did that guy say on Instragram? ‘every day, wake up, sip lemon stare into the sun and say, today is going to be a great day, today is going to be a great day…’

Yes, I should say this to myself more often. I am grateful.

But sometimes— sometimes!— I wonder if I had given it all up to be the snowplow man, I wouldn’t have to remind myself to remind myself to be grateful. Just— pkcchhhh— plow the roads, up at at ‘em before even the well-employed! Thermos full of coffee, heater blasting, 20 below out, but I’m in a T-Shirt in here… pkchhhhh— plow the snow, plow the roads— what’s on the radio? Not my colleagues and thank god for that. Who’s got time to remind themselves to be grateful now? Snowplow man! Honk Honk!

Do you have any idea what it’s like to not be accountable to anybody but yourself, to make your own deadlines, to create your own goals, make your own structure? If suddenly people woke up and had to create their own work, no one would get out of bed! When robots replace everything, no one will know what to do, but I’ll carry on exactly as I always have. I got fugues to learn man! Let the robot sweep my house, do my laundry, but unless the robot’s gonna write in useful fingering, I’m busy! No one will ever pay to hear robot pianists.

Oh …my god. Robot Pianists.

These parties. These parties. This vapid socializing! Look, if 95% percent of success is showing up, I’ll take 5% of my potential fame, thank you— You’re a pianist? Oh, I heard this fantastic pianist play the most incredible Schumann — or was it Schubert…’

Was it me? Oh, wasn’t me?! As if they were any good, I wouldn’t be overcome with jealousy, and if they were mediocre, I wouldn’t abhor them for destroying our profession with mediocrity!

Don’t talk to a musician about musicians. Unless you’re drinking buddies with Leo van Doeselaar, I have no interest whatsoever in your anecdotes.

But shouldn’t I be glad to speak to someone who goes to the symphony— who even goes to the symphony?

I should! I’m not! Last thing you do when you meet a working actor is talk about all the movies you’ve seen. Wasn’t Brad Pitt great?! Get a life.

This thinly disguised sacred— sacred humility placed upon us by none other than Beethoven, of course, and the fact that we may no longer enjoy music for the reasons we once fell in love with it… likely a classical musician. You guessed it. I must look it. Over qualified. Underpaid. Bitter. Do I have the posture of a classical musician? You bet.

And then, I don’t know what’s worse, ‘do you like Sibelius? I used to take music lessons as a kid I never learned how to read do you ever listen to Eric Clapton?’ Did you know that actually Eric Clapton and Paul McCartney don’t know how to read music’ Well it’s about f***** time they did! If they’re such geniuses, have ‘em solve a treble clef.

Doesn’t read music. This kills me. It’s like talking about your favorite author who doesn’t read. No really, he doesn’t know how to read! He just talks into a microphone!And you enjoy that?Yes, yes, now would be a bad time to mention your nephew is a DJ. Is there a defibrillator nearby, because I’m going to need to revive the part of me that just died.

Also a musician. Also! a musician. What because he makes sound? There, did you count that glass that just fell off the table a musician, also a musician? I’d rather listen to broken glass than your nephew. Ha! What you think about that?!

Lots of people took music lessons, lots of people can pick up an instrument and play a little something, and a lot of these people, especially the men, fancy themselves ‘good at music.’ Hence, I’m gonna put musician in my bio. Art lover, coffee historian, dog walker, musician.

So...?

Well, so a lot of people know how to play ping-pong too. And I feel like the olympic ping-pong player.

Is… that a phrase?

You remember the olympic ping-pong player who once explained, ‘there is no other sport where, if you tell someone you’re a professional, people respond by saying… ‘I dunno! I’m pretty good…’

So I’m out to prove I’m an olympic musician, and I’m better at music than this party of non-professional musicians. Exactly.

Exactly. Okay. This is where we are. Measuring yourself against non-professionals… Oy. I need a drink. Where is the bar.

It was only recently pointed out to me that feeling like an imposter is a good sign, really, because real imposters never have imposter syndrome. Turns out the real imposters think they’re ‘pretty good!’

So… I want people to know, that even though I’m a professional, and the world thinks I’m really good. I still think I’m really bad, at music.

Okay.

Do I really think that I’m bad at music? Well, I didn’t practice enough today… Didn’t practice enough the last seven years really. Oh well, I never had the dreaded 9-5…

The dreaded… the dread— This is exactly what I’m talking about! this is the 9-5 man!What, writing dialogues featuring split personalities.Indeed! Hear, hear!

Everything is research, even the way I’m going to order this drink is a performance.

‘Negroni please. No garnish.’

Ha ha, no garnish. Bet that threw him off. He wasn’t expecting that little bit of flare. that was my improvised cadenza. Being an artist is crazy work.

Ugh, did I say artist? Artist! I hate that word artist.

Are we not an artist?

Not for us to say.

Musician. Musician, now this is fine. I can go over to that piano and entertain this whole party. Can your DJ nephew do that? Schmuck.

Sit down and play a little Scott Joplin, Evan.Coming right up.Got any Schubert in there?I dunno, Johnny, does a bear crap in the woods?Hahaha.

They’d be so charmed.

Only a musician can do that. An artist —why they need curation. They need their tools handy or they can’t create. I can make music on a bottle cap. Musicians don’t just sit around waiting for the muse to whisper…

Do people think that?

Everybody thinks that! That’s the Cliche! For most people music is American Idol. It’s a lucky break. That’s all success is: a lucky break— everyone wants to know how I can make ends meet if they couldn’t. Can’t be hard work, couldn’t possibly be hours of grueling hard work, what did I have a good manager or something?

Author, director, educator, socialite, content creator, cat mom, musician…

Puke! Vomit creator. Can you add that one please? Vomit creator.

What do you do?I’m a Vomit creator.Accurate, accurate!