"What new mystery is this..."

I've never been part of a band, in a sense. Never felt as though my comments, vision, or parts ever meant as much to the group as everyone else's. What I brought was easily ignored or not worth giving credence to. In the first band, I ignored things until the volume on my parts were turned down on our recording; then I quit. The next one, started and ended, for me, with a crowd of people in the practice space with more say than I did; room full of Yoko's; and I walked out angrily. Since then there has been one real one, one that had a name, practiced more than a couple times. I moved. Moved to Texas before I could tell them that the subject matter within the lyrics frustrated me, made me uncomfortable playing a song, as a Baha'i, about drinking, the "first time", or a creepy man hitting on a 15-year old girl. Then, there have been the ones that never got off the ground, the ideas that were presented before people, with placating, faux excitement. Others, lying through smiles, condescending words like rows of Greek spears, and me running head first into them.

It boils down to being excited, wrapped up in the idea of doing something, being part of a group of people playing music while the group doesn't feel the same way. Thinking that each time will be different, even when I know it won't. This goes across the board, however, including writing, design, a trip somewhere, etc. It would seem as though the problem stems from people not translating my statements, being cognizant of the seriousness of my words, reckoning that it's just another joke. Erring my seriousness for slant humor. It's something that is far too common, irritating, stinging. And then I'm supposed to ignore it, be unfazed by the mistranslation, but I don't. I carry it with me, not learning the possible lesson that is presented. Ignorate, possibly unburdened. Like a child who falls on his butt, and continues walk about with a smile on his face.