I was feeling perplexed and uncomfortable. There's a period of depression and despair that follows a life threatening operation like open heart surgery, a bereftness of spirit that doesn't happen right away or suddenly, but builds gradually over several months of recovery until there is no further doubt that you've made it through the ordeal and are going to live. You faced down death, and in the process of doing that, you constructed a strong belief that life has to be worth living. But then you start feeling normal again, and you come to realize that your belief in this life was just a necessary part of the ordeal, that life is actually full of pain and discomfort and might not be worth living after all dependiing on how you live it at every moment. It is a poignant and sorrowful realization, like the loss of belief in a god that you had ardently worshipped all your life.
I missed the passion I had felt so strongly and set out to find it in a dream. I climbed the mountain for a consultation with the master, who looked exactly like Wayne Dyer with a beard and, in fact, was Wayne Dyer with a beard. Sitting at his knees, I asked him what to do. "I don't know," he began. "Do you like bowling?" I told him that I did not. "How about baseball?" Again I answered in the negative. He smoothed out his long gray beard. "I see that you are not a sportsman," he observed. "No," I agreed. "Apparently not." He let out a long endless sigh and got up from his rock to rearrange his robes and consider how to address my profound spiritual and philosophical predicament without loss of prestige or potential future income.
"I have it," he suddenly shouted, leaping into the air with his eyes flashing like Ken Kesey's on LSD, as described by Tom Wolf in The Electric Koolaid Acid Test. "You should don a clown suit and play the accordion for the amusement of the wealthy east-side uptowners!"
"That's brilliant, oh thank you Master!" I replied with heartfelt enthusiasm and gratitude and, as my feet flew without effort back down the mountain trail to the crystaline city, I felt a lightness of heart that I hadn't experienced since the surgeon temporarily removed it from my chest. Firm in my new resolve, I proceeded to follow the wise directives of the Master.
The clown suit was easily taken care of since, luckily for me, Macy's was having a 2-for-the-price-of-1 BIG SALE on clown apparel the following weekend. The accordion, however, was another matter entirely, since I realized that it was necessary for me to learn how to play the damned thing. I bought a beginner's book with training video, but I couldn't seem to acquire the actual instrument because I got hung up on the question of whether to get one with buttons or piano keys. I was inclined toward buttons since I have never managed to conquer an old childhood fear of piano keyboards, but I also understood that a basic familiarity with the intervals between black and white keys forms a foundation for an almost unlimited range of musical experience. The decision is not dissimilar to that of choosing between learning Norwegian or Japanese. Which language would be more useful? In the end I was unable to finally make up my mind and, after another agonized period of indecision, the whole accordion/clown thing just sort of drifted away, leaving behind a remorseful feeling of yet another path not taken, a tributary not followed, a passionate ambition not pursued and a life not fully lived.
On the positive side, the clown suit fits me perfectly. I've thrown out all my other outfits, and people tell me I look pretty good in polka dots.
