This is the week, though. Anticipation abundant. It happens a different week every year, but in six of those trips around the sun, I’ve always held a reverence for this week. The lead up to my favorite show. A day that will always be of the highest stature. Because of what happens during the day, sure. Love, charity, music, friends, and so on. All the best things.
But for I. For this selfish singular being, the weight comes later. After the party’s over. This day is important because of what happens at the end. An immensely reflective moment for your humble narrator.
But we’ll get to that. Later. And I hope to see you Saturday.
But let’s go elsewhere for a while.
As soon as I finish, vaguely proofread (laughs out loud) and post this, I’ll be taking one last listen and then releasing my second solo album this year. An idea that became motivation flying westward over the Atlantic just after New Year’s. Returning home after a weekend abroad. One I don’t imagine I’ll forget.
And despite the moments that were had, and the poetry that hangs about the air of their memory, I let a bad habit creep in. A thought process that has plagued my mind for as long as I can recall. These thoughts of inadequacy. Of not being enough. For myself, and therefore, no one else either. This is always partly a delusion, I know. But that does nothing to make it seem less real.
So, I resolved myself to fight. Even if I would never be enough. Never be that man some kid dreamt I’d be, I would try. And lo and behold, as I reflect upon the whole of life thus far- I dare say, I’ve done alright. In many ways, better than that which might have been dreamt up. Though superpowers would have been dope.
Because the thing with lofty goals of the future is they never will be. Unless your soothsaying skills are A+ material, we are blind to our futures. Did you predict where you’d be at this moment? Most likely, no. But, if you did manage to place yourself where a past-self intended, I ask you this- is it as good as you’d thought it’d be?
You don’t need to answer that. Not to me, at least. But as a cat who has tried, I’ll tell you, you cannot run from yourself. No matter what you have convinced the rest of the world, you’re always in there. That true you.
So, it’s early January and I’m kicking through snow in Midtown thinking upon my life. My desires and decisions and such. And thanks to a friend, I got an idea. A replication of his past endeavor. Modified to fit yours truly. Write, record and release original music entirely by one’s self. A series of them within a year.
I set a goal. Which truth be told, I have failed already. But only by my past vision. It has worked out better than that. I was to do four albums. One with each of the seasons. Winter, Summer, etc. But as there was little spring in the NY Metro area this year, so there was no spring album. I had fallen off pace, but the universe obliged.
Now, this isn’t for money. Just as these years of writing and posting hasn’t be for that. This is never about money, and if it ever is, I’ll cease. This is for something far more valuable.
I do these things for my soul. Whatever that means. Not many people had heard the first record I made this year. But I know how everyone who heard it felt about it. We shall see with this next one, but it is a comfort to know that my soul already feasted what it could from this one. Its hunger is already elsewhere. And my attention and skill set has grown to match it. I do feed on planets, after all.
So, I start the next one. Which I feel will be the best yet. And that is not a prediction, it’s a feeling. Different things. One is more honest.
I started a new notebook for this as well. For writing music and lyrics and melodies and ideas. A physical blank page can often help the mind mimic one.
I also started a reading a new book. Not new, though the story is new to me. I’ve had it in my possession for ages. And I greatly admire the man who penned it, for many reasons. It doesn’t hurt to have a fellow to look up to who also dances between music and the written word. And it is even grander to find that the words he wrote seem to be better than you had even hoped.
A bit of good timing in the madness of existence is nice.
But this week. Right, we were going to talk about that.
I’ve spoken and wrote of it before. This Saturday is the day of love. More than any holiday could be. Because it doesn’t run away from hurt and pain and heartbreak. It runs into it. And breaks it.
And every year, it moves my spirit in ways I no longer try to predict. Just let it happen.
I know which faces I will see. I will think of what we were and what we are now. And I know which faces I hope to see. But hope is a sucker’s game.
I told a friend and bandmate, “I wonder who will be standing at the end of the night.”
Not who is in the crowd standing, though that wonder does exist. But I told him I wonder which ‘me’ will emerge from all this. Destitute and heart ached? Visceral and vibrant and full of wonder? Passive? Placid?
Whoever he is- I’ll work with him all the same.
And no matter what else happens, this Saturday is a good day. The greatest. Undeniably.