Dreamworld

I stumbled upon a channel that features jazz music. Normally I do not like jazz at all but I am beginning to learn that I just do not understand the wide range of this type of music. Robin Thicke was singing his "Dreamworld" song and I was hypnotized by not only the video but the lyrics. The haunting words "the real world just don't seem right" describe how I feel exactly. I sometimes live in my own personal dreamworld, I think most of us do.

Normally I associate jazz with annoying clarinet riffs or skit skat dootle doots from some singer. This music I found, however, this jazz - is totally different. It's sexy. Soulful. I like to sing and the sign of a good song for me is one that I try to sing myself. But more than that, this music inspires me to get to the place in my own head where I can think unencumbered. I feel lighter. Watching this singer is a pure example, a tangible example of someone using their gifts. Precious few of us feel free enough to do that. Imagine what the world would be like if we could all do that, provided of course we understood what are gifts were?

When I was little, my mother always told me that I could be "whatever I wanted". Which at that age struck me as odd because wasn't I already something? I understood then that I had to learn to BE ... something other than what I already inherently knew I was. I was very imaginative and my best friend and I would spend hours in the tiny, perfectly landscaped neighborhood behind my house. This neighborhood stood in contrast to our own, somewhat rundown neighborhood we lived in. This other neighborhood had rows of tulips that stood at attention in several front yards. It was a wonderland we created for ourselves. A place where anything magical could happen. It was hard to stay in this state of mind for long, especially when an annoying boy would approach us in an effort to engage us into playing with him.

"Let's pretend we're deaf" my friend whispered.

Sure enough, this boy tried to talk to us and we immediately began fake-signing to each other. This display did not fool him.

Sullenly he said, "I know you guys can talk" and he slinked away leaving us to get back to our wonderworld.

We would then pick out which house was "our" house, always competing for the best looking one, usually a white cape cod with black shutters and a picket fence with beautiful beds of colorful flowers surrounding the house. The people all looked happy and shiny, washing their cars or walking their dogs. My neighborhood seemed like WWII London in comparison. Gray and bleak with run down houses, especially my own. The house I grew up in was a rancid, pink bungalow with peeling paint and a shitty, overgrown and pitted backyard littered with downed tree branches and a saggy clothing line. (The clothing line can serve as it's own post one day.)

Our main activity involved seeing whose yard we could sneak into without getting kicked out. It was thrilling to slide between rows of bushes and move from yard to yard, holding our breathes if we spotted a grown up.

"Do you know you are trespassing??" was an admonishment we heard more than once but more often than not we travelled very well between yards or "shortcuts" without incident.

So thank you Mr. Robin Thicke, soulful jazz singer for helping me to remember all of that.