In spite of all my talk about social networking and “working the room,” I’m actually quite the wallflower. My MO during gigs and performances is to walk in with Paul, find a nice corner where I can comfortably settle myself, order a drink, and OBSERVE people. No matter how comfortable I am speaking in front of large audiences, I usually enjoy myself the most—especially in these situations—when I’m alone.
Last night, however, at a Penguin gig that brought together four of the best musicians in the country (Sammy Asuncion on guitar, Louie Telan on bass, Mar Dizon on drums, and, of course, Paul on percussion), I seem to have undergone a trial of sorts. Comprising the jury were a highly intoxicated but charming choreographer and her cinematographer husband, a fellow writer (our neighbor who just lives a floor above us), a sound engineer, and a screenwriter and his girlfriend. I knew none of them, save for our neighbor, and I had no idea of the sterling credentials each of them possessed at the time they all converged at my table for a chat. All I knew was that it was my first time to have an encounter like this, and I had better not embarrass Paul (or myself, of course) in front of his community.
It started with the charming lady, whom I shall call Lady D, asking me about what I, as a journalist, thought about
Her eyes were trained on me, everyone was listening intently (waiting for me to slip, I suppose), looking thankful that they could simply sit back and enjoy the show.
It was probably foolish of me to do so (one should never talk about politics or religion with a group of strangers, especially after they’ve had a drink), but I put forth my views about everything that she asked about—including what I thought of the underground economy and how people should learn to wean themselves away from government and properly sustain themselves. And as it got hotter and hotter on the grill, I could feel myself loosening up more and more, enjoying the barrage of questions and the looks of eager anticipation on my acquaintances’ faces… because I had an intelligent audience, and I wanted to put on a good performance. Toward the tail-end of my self-propelled exposition, I could see the Grand Dame pursing her lips into a smile and nodding her head in agreement.
I had passed.
“I liked your answers,” she said.
“And I enjoyed answering your questions, Ma’am.”
“I could see that.”
Being a performer herself, she saw that I took to the spotlight and enjoyed myself immensely in it. (So why am I working behind the scenes again—someone please remind me??)
That was only the beginning of my evening with these “benevolent strangers”, and before I knew it, I had gone through three more hours of great conversations and a deeper sense of connectedness with these people who understood what it meant to really bring culture and the arts to life. By the time we parted ways, we were the only ones left in Penguin (definitely a first for me), and it was time for everyone to pack up and go home.
More than sharing my ideas and getting complimented for them, though, what gave me a high that night was knowing that I am on the right path. At a time when I was doubting the choices that I had made and the direction toward which I am heading, the Universe once again showed me that this is my art and these are my peers.
When I was still employed thousands of moons ago, I looked at my bosses and colleagues and realized that I did not want to grow up to be like them. This time, I could look at my companions’ intoxicated smiles, their long, unkempt hair framing their faces, and honestly say that I wouldn’t mind growing up to be like them. For, indeed, success to them isn’t measured by how much money their films make or how diverse their portfolio of investments is (if they have any). It’s measured by the lives they touch, the minds they inspire, and the change they bring about through the passionate pursuit of ideas and ideals.
Emerson was right.
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