Ooblio's Return

Not too long or far ago,
There lived a happy ooblio...

And so starts the poem, which I first read over thirty years ago, written by someone I haven't seen in over twenty years. And a lot has happened since then, and almost nothing has happened since then. Such are the vagaries of life, especially when you don't happen to be Jimmy Carter. The former President was on the Daily Show not too long ago, talking about his latest book and all the furniture he's been turning out and his latest initiatives and Habitat for Humanity and...

And I was wondering whether or not I'd ever finish replacing the molding in the house or whether I'd paint the bedroom this year. Some people get as much done in a day as the rest of us accomplish in a year, and I'm beginning to think that people like me exist so that other people who aren't like Jimmy Carter won't feel nearly as bad. Or it could just be that I need to accomplish more.

But back in the day of the ooblio, when my thirties were still ahead of me, everything was still possible and I had a lifetime to achieve my dreams. And grand dreams they were, dreams of songwriting and rock-and-roll bands and fame and fortune and even artistic fulfillment. And it didn't matter so much what other people thought of the time I spent hunched over a piano keyboard or plucking some silly series of notes on a guitar because I was an artist, damn it!

But now there are responsibilities and things to do and places to go and people to pick up and ferry and meals to cook and there's really just this short period before the coffee when I don't have to do anything, but composing is a solitary act and there's people around and even after they're gone it's not something I really do anymore.

But back then... before cell phones, before I had to have a color tv and Internet and a dishwasher and even a car, there was me and a bass guitar and an acoustic guitar and, thanks to an ooblio-writing lady, a piano. There was a world, a colorful world of whatever size and shape and flavor I chose, that I could summon anytime with little more than a chord or two and the few notes my non-piano-playing fingers could manage, and I should probably have stayed there longer or gone in further. But I hadn't quite figured out how to work everything, what the rules to the game were, which path had the most promise. And now, that seems to have been such a long time ago.

Or used to seem to have been such a long time ago. Now, I can remember 1941 Dodges, Ramblers, Saturday nights at a bar called the Last Chance Saloon and a band called Martha Valez and... well, and somebody. And Innisfree gardens and some enterprising soul impersonating a park official telling us that there was an entrance fee, even though there wasn't and he didn't have a badge or even a uniform. And there was magic in the air.

And ooblios, not too long or far ago.