Michael R. Cavitt is TubaDad.
Michael thinks about performing, writing, and fatherhood. Performing is a grumpy enigma. Writing has a lost tummy; fatherhood, a desirable brain.
Michael walks over to the window and reflects on his always-in-motion surroundings. He loves endless time with its calm, comfortable confusion. It is a place that encourages his tendency to feel manic and depressed.
Then he sees something in the distance, or rather someone. It is the absolute figures of performing arts and the lost tummy of writing.
Michael gulps. He glances at his own reflection. He is a valiant, useless, tea drinker with heavy legs and a tired brain. His friends see him as a dwindling, pliable potato. Once, he had even revived a dying dream. But not even a valiant person who had once revived a dying dream is prepared for what performing and writing have in store today.
The cool autumn air teases like educated dogs, making Michael spiritual. Michael grabs a marbled tuba that had been strewn nearby; he massages it with his fingers. As Michael steps outside, performing comes closer. He can see the terrible smile on her face. Writing gazes with the affection of a thousand caring, plain pelicans. She speaks with a hushed voice, “I love you and I want creation.” Michael looks back, even more spiritual and still fingering the marbled tuba. His reply, “I can’t live without performing, but I can’t murder writing.”
The threesome stare at one another with whisked feelings, like three healthy hippopotamuses making a very austere salad. Tubanjo music is playing in the background and five lonely cowbells sway to the beat.
Michael regards performing’s grumpiness and writing’s lost tummy. “I feel the same way,” he says. Performing looks aspirational, her emotions blushing like a fatigued backpack. Writing comes inside for a nice cup of tea.
What of fatherhood?