Philip Glass Charater Story

    Stacy is my name, Stacy Lee. I was born in the artist meca of New York City.  In high school I tried to get everyone to call me just Stacy, but the way the names rolled off the tongue I couldn’t escape Stacy Lee. I was born into a middle class family, upper middle class, I didn’t ever get that pony I wanted but I never had to make due with out modern conveniences either.
My father is a lawyer, he works at the public defender’s office, when the police read you your rights, and say if you can’t afford a lawyer one would be appointed to you, they mean my dad. My mother had a degree in art, but had fallen into the role of a stay at home mom, my parents got married when they we 20, and had me barely a year later, I couldn’t help but feel that I had somehow squashed some plans.

    My mother was intensely interested in all forms of art, the walls of the two bedroom split level house where we lived held countless paintings, mostly ones she’d done in college or ones her college friends had painted. I can never remember a time when music wasn’t floating over the house, everything kind you can imagine.

    My mother read me poems as a child, hoping to stimulate me and culture a child of art, she was slightly disappointed when I showed no aptitude for painting or writing, but brightened as I grew to dearly love these things. At the age of seven, my mom started to take me to shows, live ones, Broadway. I loved them all.

    My father was the quiet type, demure you might say, I still to this day have no idea how a man like that could be a lawyer, but perhaps he was different in the court room. He made up for the reserved nature however, nearly every time he did open his mouth his words were froth with deep insight, I learned everything I know about the inner works of the world from my father.
He would look right into my eyes and say “Stacy Lee, sometimes it’s more important what you don’t do, then what you do” when I asked him how to do the right thing, sometimes I never knew what he was talking about.
Maybe it was my deep love of but lack of ability in the arts that drew me to my first love. His name was Philip Glass. I was working as a waitress at the time, in a small coffee shop, and he would come in once a week and sit in the far corner and write, it was so cliché, but I started to love him for it.

    He was everything I idolized, an artist, deep, brooding, and talented. Every time he came he asked me to sit and drink coffee with him, and I would take my break and we would talk and talk. We talked about music, and paintings, and shows we’d both seen, but mostly we talked about his music. It was so different, innovative, and intense; I loved it nearly as much as I loved the man himself.
After awhile we started going out to dinner after work, then we’d go to shows, we spent more and more time together, and never ran out of things to say. We’d spend hours just talking, or I’d sit on his floor as he played his music, getting lost in the repeating melodies, hypnotized by it.

    Time seemed to fly by when we were together, I loved everything about him, he was perfect in my eyes, no one could ever be as good as my Philip Glass.

    My mother once read me a poem, ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’ by Robert Frost, and he was right. I never saw it coming, but I should have. Philip dropped deeper and deeper into his music, we spoke less and less, he didn’t want to go out any more, he started to pull away.

    Finally we had our first fight, first and last, he was frustrated, and I had asked him if he wanted to go out and get dinner. I’m not sure how it happened, it must have been a last straw effect, he yelled, accusing me of holding him back, of not wanting him to achieve fame. I knew he didn’t mean it, he was just upset by something else, but I couldn’t help but drag up the fact that he no longer spent time with me. In the end he said he didn’t love me, I cried and ran out, back to my apartment.

    He called me the next morning, and again the next day, I left him a few messages but we never seemed to be able to catch each other at home. I didn’t want to see him anyway, or talk to him, he said he wanted to talk to me.
I never did find out what he wanted to say, the last message I left for him I said I was leaving, I didn’t leave a number. I went to live with my best friend, and tried to get over him. As time went on I heard more and more about him, he was gaining fame. Every time I hear his music I’m transported back in time, sitting on his floor listening as he played, then he would turn and smile and ask me what I thought. Every time it hurts a little. I was right, no one was ever as wonderful as my Philip Glass.