Sunday Morning Thoughts: 2.17.19

The exquisite ideologies found ‘round the barroom. Everyone is a critic. A poet. A genius and star. Everyone’s an asshole, if they are to be seen by the right person.

Likely been this way since humans first started getting together to drink poison. Another wildly interesting phenomenon in and of itself.

The week was the week. Good, to give an overall rating. Plenty of dad stuff. Much time spent regarding my profession. And even a bit spared for my soul sustaining (unpaid) side work.

I shall be returning to that open mic, me thinks. Perhaps even this week. If you know of any others, please advise. Or if you want to book myself or my ragged crew of bandmates, please, holler.

But it was a wonderfully nervous experience. One that I had missed. And one of the few things that can effectively emote me back to younger days. By the second song, I’d worked through my nerves. An older, ‘hip’ couple seemed to enjoy it. Got a few compliments. That’s some nice stuff, young man, they’d say. Funny how other folks see you as something that you don’t see of yourself.

But if two songs got me nervous, it should certainly be a blast when I play several dozen for this charity event in two weeks. But a bit of figuring on my equipment, and just the right amount of liquid courage on the day, and all should be fine.

Or I’ll fail and flop and they’ll all point and laugh (particularly the women) and I’ll fall down and suddenly be in my underpants which I will then proceed to moisten with my emptying bladder.

And while I feed my ego, the world continues to eat itself alive. And why I still feel I need to something about the approaching doom of humanity is beyond me. But it won’t go away. And it will not give me a clear answer of what I must do. It just pulls and aches for my attention. Constant. More than I think of most other things.

And this will never do it. Not saying writing can’t. But this. The weekly shit. It can never weigh enough. But I know what can. Or at least be a start. And I will. It’s been five or so years. And maybe a bit of hard living is exactly what that story needed.

I also just spent several minutes pacing around my apartment having a conversation with myself. To give you insight upon my creative process.

Me thinks it is time to get moving. This part of my life did not go how I thought it would. I didn’t live in the cool part of town. I didn’t go on world tours. And so on. And so on.

But I imagine that upon looking back- not quite yet, but someday, that this life was far better than the imagined alternatives.

Might be a defense mechanism. Might just be the truth.

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