YesterKid

My dad used to write a lot of music. My dad was excited about the age of digital home recording, and he had some of the first available MIDI tools. When I was born my dad wrote me a song. I’m sure I’ve heard it, but I don’t remember it. The recording got lost on a floppy disc somewhere I’m sure. A computer from “the 1900’s”.

It was a subject of deep grievance and disappointment for my dad. He used to talk about being able to access the song again, in some angelic vault post this mortal coil. I’ve forgotten it. I thought I’d forgotten it.

Decades later, I sent my dad the start of this song, Beautiful Life.

To me, a step back from it, this record became about my experience with bipolar disorder.

Bipolar disorder, to me, a step back from it, feels like forgetting. In highs of intense energy, I forget to remember myself (the me inheriting tomorrow). The relay racer picking up for me in the morning. And in low periods, I forget that I’ve been here before. Pain feels blindingly new, irreversibly permanent, inescapably tactile.

When I played this song for my dad, he said, “Little Sam remembered!”

My dad’s song for little Sam; Life Is Beautiful.

I need to remind me, sometimes. Run this groove into my subconscious. A reminder when I forget. When, for a beat, I see through it.

It’s such a beautiful life.