In the previous post, I went through some of the things I did to make my dream of becoming a recording artist a reality. How I used to sit up in bed, every night, hands together as if I was praying, and picture in my mind what I wanted my future to look like, as if the goal had already been accomplished.
There was something within, an innate knowing, that told me that by repeating this exercise, I would be hooking my dream and reeling it into my experience.
Even in my late teens, when I started to come home under the influence, I would still sit up in bed and do my visualising.
As my bedroom was spinning and all I wanted was to sink into my cold pillow, I can remember a sober part of me asking, “How badly do you want it?”
I would hurl myself up, clasp those hands, go through the routine and then finally collapse into a drunken stupor.
This dream meant the world to me.
I was obsessed with it.
I would listen to the music of the artists I wanted to be like as much as I possibly could.
I would go to sleep with my headphones on.
At the cinema I was told to turn my music down – “Off would be better!”
Having a meal with family, I would have at least one earphone in.
I earned £6 a week from a paper round I had. I saved the money to buy albums and singles (it took two weeks, sometimes three, to buy one album.)
When I got to college, I would spend my lunch money on music.
My dad was once frustrated at this. I can remember saying, “Would you rather I bought cigarettes?”
That kept him quiet for a bit.