There are things so beautiful in this world it is painful. I apologize for my absence. Despite the impending axe over my neck, food doesn't turn to ash in my mouth yet. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

I have this terrible habit of watching powerful and emotional movies and then letting that emotion transfer over to myself in such a strong sense that I find myself close to tears over the simplest things. I find myself cold and feeling powerful afterwards. I'm not sure if this is a psychological problem that I'm just simply not aware of. Music effects me in the same way.

I remember... the first time I started playing bass. I was trying to convince myself I was straight and was kind of dating a boy named Peter, my previous prom date. I was often at his house where his friend George lived as well. We were more of friends than significant others; playful bantering and no sexual stimulus whatsoever, and no desire to make any. Peter and George were musicians. I remember going to their house, their broken concrete stoop cracked and the metal banister looking twisted and slightly dangerous to say the least. There were always cats on the stoop, and their huge lab of a dog Max excited to see me running in circles in the overly long grass, and the gravel crunching underfoot. I remember the garage door looked stained despite it's water resistant coat of paint. The thing is, Peter's house wasn't in the middle of a city, where these things could be kind of accounted for by others, nor surrounded by other homes like it, making it normal in a city atmosphere. No, Peter's house was down south, right before the Hari Krishna temple on the way to Salem south of Spanish Fork Main Street. Acres of beautiful nothing surrounded his home. Barley, I believe, is what they grew and harvested and at the time that I'm recalling, it was fall so they were as tall and as golden as ever. I grew up in Utah Valley, with most of it spent in Spanish Fork. Utah Valley was just that: a valley. Nestled between mountains that I've never bothered to learn the names of, the barley seemed to stretch all the way to the base of the monoliths rising out of the earth and crash against them in the wind. I remember often finding myself standing at the edge of their driveway just watching the sunset or smelling the moonlight or tasting the stars. It was beautiful there, and there was enough space for me to be myself, in the sense that I take up a lot of space. I'm not overweight, I do have some husk, but I'm speaking more from the idea that I have a lot to give, and I can fill up a room with my essence of who I am. Rooms are always too small for me and if it's not a theatre or a gymnasium then it has to be the outdoors in order for me to feel comfortable in my own skin.

Peter's house was... home for me that summer. I spent most of my days down in his basement while the boys, my boys, Peter and George, played video games or acoustic guitar or just listened to music while I made anime murals on their cracked and orange-peeled walls. More often than not though, we were in the garage. The boys were preparing for a Halloween concert and I yearned so badly to be incorporated. I've always adored music, enjoyed it to the point of obsession, but mum could never afford music lessons or I never had the thought to ask that of her, I can never tell which it was. I had played trumpet for a couple of years in the school band in the 6th grade, Mr. Seely. Even was fairly good. But I lost the passion for it. It wasn't my style.

What my boys were doing though; writing their own music, or even if it wasn't their music, they were making music with someone else's words or someone else's riffs. All that mattered was the home was constantly filled with music and my head constantly filled with thoughts. I've always been a very withdrawn person. I think I'm self-centered, but Kele always said I was just more self-aware than most. They made music and I listened, wishing I could participate. Tylor was their bassist, Brad was their drummer. George was being difficult during practice and Peter threw a fit and barricaded himself in his room. I was sent as the emissary to try and make things right, and by the time we'd talked things through and made things a little more bearable Tylor had left.

Peter is a huge guy. Sanguine-faced and made like a barrel, he made an intimidating figure. But he was also slow, a little. He was just a teddy bear to me, full of hugs and gentleness. He played guitar beautifully.

But Tylor had left and now they were out of a bassist and seeing my chance, I picked up the cream colored instrument and holding it firmly struck a note and said, "Teach me what to play."

We spent that day teaching me the notes and I played well, considering my fingers were blistering and my hands felt horribly cramped up. I was getting the hang of it really well until Tylor came back and gave me this look like, "Aw, that's cute. Now run along so the big boys can play." I turned the bass over and relinquished my hopes of playing.

Until Mary, Peter's mother and George's guardian and the mother of 4 other children besides, pulled me aside and said, "Alisa, you play that bass with a passion like I've never seen anyone else play. Tylor will never be able to have that." From there, I realized nothing would make me give that up again. Music is life, and true to my word, I got a bass for Christmas and played on their's until I got mine. To this day I play bass guitar, and have picked up acoustic guitar along the way, with a little bit of singing inbetween.

My passion? I don't know where it stems from. But it's all I have left. It's all I've ever had.

I need a smoke. I'll probably continue this tomorrow before or after work.