My Secret Identity

I forget about it when I'm not there.

When I am away from the subway, or away from any part of my music and writing life, I'm usually not aware that I miss it. I may feel disconnected, but from what, I'm not sure. If I think of my creative experience, I do so in a parenthetical way. I look at it as a footnote, a by-the-way, an aside. It's not my real life. Is it?

One of my favourite movies from the past year is The Incredibles, in which two former superheroes, a man and wife, must set aside their previous secret identities in order to live what is generally viewed as a normal and responsible life. Mr. Incredible becomes an insurance salesman. Plasti-Girl becomes a mother of three.

Although they settle into their new roles with admirable stoicism, Mr. Incredible hasn't left his super-alter-ego behind altogether. Late at night, he and a buddy (also a closet superhero) go out on clandestine rescue missions. Plasti-Girl, now Super-Mom, is too busy to do the same, or to notice.

As the story unfolds, their "former" identities re-emerge. (That's all I'll give away here, in case you haven't seen it.)

I identify with that former super-couple, as do, probably, most people past the age of 35, especially those who are still engaged in a creative passion which may not always dovetail neatly with the other parts of their adult lives.

You can be a superhero and an insurance salesman, but not at the same time. You'll likely have to keep your identities secret from the people who know you by day or by night. You might even find yourself cutting yourself off from your own secret identity at times, in order to keep things chugging along acceptably.

That's why, when I'm not engaged in intense creative activity, I tend to forget about it, or minimize it. It's a self-protective strategy. A way of staying sane.

This weekend, I had a very long, challenging conversation with someone who could not sympathize with the difficulty of keeping the various roles in my life in balance. As I write this, I now see his point. It would be hard for Mr. Incredible to stand around the water cooler chatting about how hard it is to get up in the morning after he's spent the night flying around the city. Everybody'd be jealous. Or think he was just bragging. Meanwhile, the regular moms in the park probably wouldn't want to hear about Plasti-Girl's constant temptation to expand.

But I can imagine Plasti-Mom, seeking connection and wanting her friends to experience something of the same exhilaration she feels when she stretches, asking whether they too might have a Secret Identity--some sacred pursuit that might rocket-fuel their existence, even for a few minutes a day?

It's funny...at one point during that long, challenging conversation, I did walk away to get some air. But I didn't pick up my guitar or consider going to sing in the subways. I walked right by my psychic phonebooth, not even attempting to don my cape.

If I had, I might have flown clear of the frustrating minutiae in which we were trapped. I might have seen something on the horizon that made our petty conflicts seem irrelevant and damaging.

I didn't believe in My Secret Identity just then, just when I needed it most.