Like a Rolling Stone

Career plans have never been something I worry about very much. When I was in high school, I never thought about what lay beyond college. If pushed by those around me to tell them what I wanted to do in the real world, I was just as likely to say "nothing" as I was to say "outfitter," "zookeeper" or "lawyer."

By the time I got to college, though, I'd decided that I wanted to be a history professor. I was excited by the prospect of ensconcing myself in Widener Library behind a hard wooden desk, poring over the relatively obscure works of Nicolo Machiavelli, illuminating the great thinker's inner thoughts.

However, by the end of my first year, I had soured on the historical endeavor; I felt like I was stuck in a morass of Michel de Montaigne's almost petulant musings, and I yearned for a return to something more natural.

So, after a semester that really deserves a novel, I finally settled on Biological Anthropology, convinced that I was going to elucidate the meaning of life. I wanted to be a renowned biologist who carefully balanced his knowledge of the natural world with an eye toward the apparent diversity of human experience. Happily, I told my friend Matt, "I want to be an anthropologist!" as visions of voyages to the Serengeti Plain danced in my head.

My plan satisfied me for just a short while, but before long I realized what I really wanted out of life. While the academic drama of my life was playing itself out in the friendly confines of Harvard Yard, I added a little twist. I bought a fistful of harmonicas and a cheap guitar. Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to be: Bob Dylan--or, at the very least, a living legend. I was in dire need of some practice, but I thought that with a grin and a fancy guitar pick, I'd be able to cut it.

It wasn't too long before the inadequacies of my amateurish style became evident. Given a very large bucket, I might have been able to carry a tune, but usually my singing sounded more like the call of a tomcat on the prowl. My guitar playing was similarly sub-standard, though most wouldn't be able to tell through the jangling of six crudely-tuned strings. And, finally, my harmonica playing--which I'd been toying with for a longer time--was more than enough to set the dog howling in pain and my little brother storming to my room to display his lack of enthusiasm with my skills. I was disheartened, to say the least.

But I persevered. I became inspired by the story of Kris Kristofferson, who once complained to a friend, "How am I going to make it? I sing like a frog," to which the acquaintance replied, "But you're a frog who can write!" And write he did, penning such gems as "Me and Bobby McGee," which he gave to Janis Joplin. And Johnny Cash became an example for me, too: the Man in Black raced through the '60s on cocaine and booze, achieving greatness despite a wild chemical imbalance and a damn ugly face. Bob Dylan represented the ultimate achievement of the man-and-his-guitar dream. Thoughts of matching his lyrics, his playing and his doobie-laced charm have always been more than enough to keep me going.

But through my short musical career, I've had to keep my eyes open to the reality of life around me. My last band, "Ricky and the Redstreaks," broke up when the drummer graduated last semester. Now he's sitting back home, looking for a job and the lead guitarist is gone, too--a victim of life or fate or maybe just himself. I hear Dylan echoing in my head when I think about that stuff. He's singing "You've gone to the finest schools, alright" but "how does it feel to be on your own/ a complete unknown/ like a rolling stone?"

I'm going to ignore those paralyzing fears. I still love playing the guitar and singing along, whether it's to blues, folk or some straight-up rock. Besides, I've got this irrational confidence that everything'll be alright. I'm not claiming that everything I touch turns to gold, but I keep pickin', and I keep getting better at it; I figure one of these days, I'll set up shop in the Park Street T-stop and find myself swept along from Boston to the world. Ahh...sounds beautiful. And while people do tend to tell me that it sounds totally implausible (myself, in my saner moments, not least among them), I still find my thoughts wandering back to that little daydream.

Besides, if the American music scene can tolerate the Spice Girls, Billy Ray Cyrus's "Achy-Breaky Heart" and Puff Daddy's cheap rip-offs of Police standards, then I figure the time will soon be ripe for me and my corn-eater to move in.

And even if it's not, well, there are a lot of days when my guitar provides the brightest moments I have. Even if no one else wants to listen, I'll still play a song for me.

T.J. lives in a world of his own creation but is often seen around Leverett House.