This Is My Rifle: A Day In the Life of a Dream Posted by Jason James on 01/30/13 | Filed under This Is My Rifle, Opinion

It's Friday morning at 6 AM and my alarm is going off. No matter what melody I choose on my phone the sound of my alarm pisses me off every time I hear it. I can't remember the last time I got a solid 8 hours of sleep. For the past 4 years my brain has been hardwired to wake me up after no more than 6 hours and unless I'm drunk I can't get beyond that mark. I was in the studio with my band last night and even though I was in bed at 10:30 my mind wouldn't stop writing until 2 AM. I spent 3 and a half hours tossing and turning, periodically jotting ideas down and then pleading with my right brain to stop. I honestly don't know why I even bother to lay in bed agonizing over the hours of precious rest that I'm losing. I'd be much more productive pacing around my living room and chain smoking like I normally do when I write.

Ok. Just 2 more minutes. I lucid dream fairly often so I'll time it out and make sure I wake up. Although I do occasionally fuck up and find myself running out the door at 8:30 while screaming obscenities because I am officially 2 hours late for work, the extra few minutes are worth it.

I keep having the same recurring dream. I'm at a music festival somewhere and I'm walking around backstage. I say hello to some people I don't know, Busta Rhymes ignores me and I catch the last little bit of a performance from A Tribe Called Quest. Right after they walk off stage the promoter walks over to me and tells me it's showtime, but as I attempt to make my way to the big stage he grabs me and re-directs me to a smaller stage located in an empty field where a few people are barbecuing. I look back and I can see what looks like 50,000+ people in a stadium but that's not my show. Instead, I'm on the other side of the festival performing to an empty field.

I know what this dream is about. I'm insecure about where I am in my music career. As I acknowledge this, and almost on cue, Tupac Shakur walks over to me and begins a conversation. He invites me to join his show, which is on the other side of the arena. As we walk I tell him how much of a fan of his that I was growing up and how his songs were some of the only music I could relate to. The conversation is strange because I feel like we've met before. Not because this is a recurring dream and not on some stupid "kindred spirits" level but it feels like we crossed paths at some point in the previous years. As we approach the entrance to his stage he walks over to a car and grabs something. I can't see what it is but by the sound of his voice I can tell it's important. Then as he turns around to face me another car drives up with a pistol hanging out of the window and opens fire. I haven't been hit bit Tupac has. He's dying.

I pick him up and run across the street where a hospital is conveniently located. As I'm running I can hear blood gurgling in his lungs and I'm frantically reassuring him that he's gonna be ok. As I run through the doors of the hospital my stress levels are beginning to overwhelm me and I force myself to wake up.

6:02am. Alright, time to get out of bed and take a shower. The water is hot and it keeps trying to push me back into a dream state. I run through the day in my mind. Fuck, that's right. I have a department meeting with one of our directors today. Gotta remember to shave.

3 videos, 2 EP's, one new album with Rodney, one book and one current album to promote, a column on RefinedHype, a full-time job and an all-the-time girlfriend. All on the go simultaneously.

3 videos, 2 EP's, one new album with Rodney, one book and one current album to promote, a column on RefinedHype, a full-time job and an all-the-time girlfriend. All on the go simultaneously.

3 videos, 2 EP's, one book and one current album to promote......

FUCK! I forgot my wallet. I have to run home and grab it. It's a good thing I did too because I left the water running in the kitchen and forgot to close the lid on the washing machine. Now I have to go over everything and make sure that it's off. Since I know that I made these few tiny mistakes my OCD will be in overdrive all day until I go crazy if I don't. Check once, check twice, don't fuck up the ritual. If I do I'll have to start all over again.

I need a manager so fucking bad.

I walk into the office and we go straight to the boardroom. Christmas wasn't too kind to the cellular industry and now one of our directors is looking for answers. However, I played it safe and ran my numbers tight so I'm in good standings. My numbers are the way they need to be so I can get through this meeting like I always do; only half-listening.

I scan the room and watch my co-workers as they listen to every word intently. They laugh at his shitty jokes, engage in his sarcasm and sit up straight to show that he has they're full attention. I hate corporate groveling. There are a few of my co-workers who are as withdrawn as I am but most of the room is focused on his direction.

Mental note: don't forget to make sure guns and masks are ready for the "This Is My Rifle" video. We have 2 weeks left until shoot day.

My co-worker invites me out for happy hour. He's a cool guy but he used the word "cocktails" sooooo no, I won't be going. Besides, I hate those lounges that play deep house music and charge $7 for a $2 beer. Those cheesy, upscale bars full of “young professionals” meeting and exchanging cards like what we do for a living gives any description as to who we are as people whatsoever. I hate being introduced to these young non-dreamers. I always feel extra asshole-ish whenever I’m forced to shake hands with one of these veiny wannabe corporate dicks in a Ralph Lauren button-up (top button undone of course because it’s Friday and he’s cutting loose).

“Hey, I’m Jason. Here’s my card. As you now know, I am a national purchaser for the country’s largest cellular retailer. I live in a 15th floor condo, I have an expensive leather sectional and I watch CNN financial updates on my big screen TV. I’m totally defined by my possessions”.

CRACKA-LACKA-FUCKING-BOOOOOOOOM

You should see the look in his eyes. Yeah son, you’re just a fucking clerk working his way up from an internship. You’re shit. You’re nobody. You’re way out of your league here. These are cocktails bitch, not root beer floats. Beat it, button-up boy.

He thinks to himself, “Just 2 more years. I’m gonna have the penthouse, fuck the 15th floor. I’m gonna lease a Benz, drive right up to that fucker’s office, rip my cardigan off and throw my card right in his face. I’m gonna be an executive. I’m gonna run this motherfucking lounge someday. But for now I’m just gonna stand here talking about corporate bullshit that none of us can make any sense out of because we have absolutely nothing in common outside of this”.

Fuck, shit. I forgot to book my flight to New York for the “Tomorrow” video. I gotta call Cristina and ask her to do it for me. I should also ask her to find a run down hotel and some rusty hacksaws for the “Forgetting How To Dream” video. Odd things to ask of the person you love, but whatever. My whole situation is a giant web of “what the fuck”.

Ok, time to get up from my desk and head home. It’s been a long week and I still have to write a new song for the EP with the band, practice my verses for the EP with e.d.g.e. and talk to Rodney on the phone about a million different things that we have going on. I’m so exhausted right now I just wanna go to sleep but I can’t. I should also call Joe about the book and talk to Ben about the set-up for the “This Is My Rifle” video. I’ll do that while I’m on the treadmill at the gym. I have so much going on, I can’t do this all by myself. This is a dangerous place to be. This is where dreams begin to die.

I’ve always wondered what the catalyst is for most people when they finally let go of their dreams. In my particular situation it has nothing to do with the amount of work I have on my plate- I’m used to doing things on my own. It’s the fact that I’m constantly resisting the perpetually growing expectation to fit in with societal standards and now that I’m 30 years old I keep telling myself that I have to make some decisions. Earlier this month I even went as far as making a deal with myself; one more year of hard grinding with the music and if nothing comes out of it I’m going to go to college to explore a career in journalism.

I know that I’m lying, of course. I’ve bargained with my inner sense of responsibility for almost a decade and every single time I break my promises. I have to do this. Sooner or later something has to happen. As long as I keep applying pressure with all of my strength I’ll break through eventually. I can’t accept a future without music. Actually, I can’t accept a future without FREEDOM. Fuck music. It’s just the only talent god gave me and I love to create. So this is what it is. I’m gonna do this even if it kills me. Fuck society, fuck corporate bureaucracy and fuck young professionals. I’m not one of them. I could never imagine myself flipping between alternate personalities depending on who I’m talking to, working years off of my life just to take a tiny percentage of what I’m truly worth. I could never get lost in that. Suck it up and get shit done. I spend nearly every dollar I make on my musical ambitions and now I’m gonna spend a little more. Bleed motherfucker, bleed.

It’s Monday morning at 6am and my alarm is going off……

(Jason James is an artist, freelance columnist and writer for RefinedHype.com. You can read/download his free eBook, "This Is My Rifle" and listen/download his most recent album, "Pyramids in Stereo". You can also contact him here and here.)

See Also:  This Is My Rifle: Kids, Guns & Prozac (The New Rock N’ Roll)