We went with friends to see Yesterday last month. It's kind of fun to say that. Anyway the music of course was fabulous. How can you go wrong with the Beatles? I found the plot to be endearing and not formulaic. Not that I don't enjoy a good romantic comedy. I do. 

 

The main character struggled with the dilemma of taking credit for music he had only heard as opposed to created. Which by some fluke no one else on earth had. So he sang them to thronging crowds. But there was the niggling guilt. 

 

While I am not presumptuous enough to put myself in the class of Paul and John I have written a clutch of my own songs. For fifteen bucks you can have the compilation of (my) John's and my life's work, at least as pertains to music. But therein lies the rub. 

 

Did we write them?

 

The lyrics are lifted off the pages of scripture. Some word for word. And yes I make my voice go up and down as I recite them which in some circles classifies as a song. But are they mine?

 

Another composer who never married told me that her songs were her children. Which only adds to the breakdown of ownership in my mind. I go along with social norms by saying "my son" and "my daughter" but everyone knows I'm kidding right? In what sense have I earned the copyright on a breathing human being? I don't understand the most basic facts of DNA so how could I possibly arm wrestle it into being? I heard on a video that the chromosomes stretch out to a length of six feet within each cell. I have no idea of the repercussions of that. Moreover I cannot begin to imagine how such a thing could fit. Cells are pretty small. I once made a Harry Potter quilt, and the one square inch around his eye was comprised of twenty five pieces of fabric, which I was rather puffed up about. But 72 inches of chromosomes in a single cell? 

 

Still I digress. I went to a meeting of the people who orchestrate Pay it Forward, and one of the kind souls who delivered meals to worthy families described a conversation with a recipient.

 

"Thank you so much! You are wonderful! This means so much to us!"

 

"I am just the person who brings it. I did not help cook, or shop for that matter."

 

"We are so grateful! You are amazing!"

 

"I really didn't... never mind. You're welcome."

 

I suppose most of our days operate under the well crafted illusion that we are authors of our own destiny. Designers of our bodies. Minds. Skill sets. Trajectory.

 

But having noodled around on the guitar for most of my life, I know that all I did was listen and show up.