Sunday, September 22, 2019

I Could Eat A Horse

I am back from busking on a Saturday night that somehow produced about 35 bucks, helped greatly by a twenty dollar bill from someone, who hid it under the ones.
I believe it was a couple who came over and asked me what song I had been playing, which was "Little Wing," the Jimi Hendrix song covered by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Sting, to name a couple.

I had struggled with the same anxiety over going out that had been plaguing me lately; but was able to set myself into robotic motion at the prescribed time for a Saturday night departure, and I arrived at the Lilly Pad at around 10:45 and played for what amounted to a bit over 2 hours for the 36 bucks.

I had a more optimistic view of the human race, also, thinking that there might be some divinity there.

On the way home, I stopped for a can of cat food at the Banks Meat Store, arriving just as the second police van was, with a short toot of his siren.
A couple of black girls had been arguing with one of them grabbing a wine bottle off a shelf, breaking it, and attacking the other girl with the shards of glass. A truly ghetto knife.
There was a puddle of red wine, a puddle of white wine (a bottle of it was knocked to the floor during the tussle) and a line of blood droplets, leading away from the scene and up the next aisle.

I arrived home hungry enough to eat a horse, having forgotten to eat anything substantial, during the day. I had some boiled winter squash and one packet of flavored oatmeal.

I have got some thick slices of potato baking in the oven and added vegetables and tomato sauce to the squash and reboiled it, adding a bit of wheat starch for good measure.

I feel better, and hope to sleep well. Money does make a palpable difference. Or more specifically, having had your music validated through the tip jar makes a difference.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Depression Sets In

I am up to Chapter 3 in the Photoshop book...
If I owned a gun, I think I would have put it to my head this morning, and then thought really hard about pulling the trigger, perhaps waiting for some kind of sign, as to what I should do.

I felt disappointed with being a human being.

With our feet and our teeth and our bodies that aren't that much different than the apes in the jungle, only a step ahead in evolution.

I think it might be related to the really strong weed that has been given to me by well meaning friends. I think it depresses me, and yet I keep smoking it, as if the alternative of boredom is worse. Maybe this last batch was sprayed with some chemical that can cause mental confusion.

I just really didn't want to go out to busk.

It was a Friday night.

I logged on to the Bourbon Street webcam and saw a huge swarm of tourists. This was at about 8:30 PM.

I decided to rest and to try to "center" myself and maybe psych myself up.

By midnight, it had just gotten worse. The music on the radio seemed to mock me by being performed by musicians whom, although I had never heard of them, were playing at a higher level than I do.

I initially chose music because I loved it so much; all I needed was a good album and the day was made.

But, it was also a vehicle for self expression. And to "connect" with other people through it. And, to leave something that will endure after I am gone. But that is another thing; how fast music is forgotten.

Eddie Money died last week, for example, and had his last 15 seconds of fame when the news stations reported it, played a few seconds of his hit songs, and then moved on to the weather.

I decided to just try to go to sleep.

I could have had a hundred plus dollar night out there, but I felt stupid, and that my songs were even more stupid and pointless. I imagined another group of musicians set up at the Lilly Pad with their tip basket overflowing, and ready to tell me that they had been there all week and had spoken to Lilly, who had told them that I hadn't been around lately and that I must have quit busking.

They are "pickling" the pipes that are connected to the heating and air conditioning systems here at Sacred Heart, and I wouldn't be surprised if noxious gasses are leaking out of those ancient units.

It's kind of weird because just recently I couldn't believe how happy I was. I felt guilty about feeling so much joy.

I feel like, to those whom a lot is given, a lot is expected in return.

I half expect that any day now, some group is going to knock on my door and say: "You've been here for seven years and have produced no albums, written no novels or done any great works of visual art. You live in an all expenses paid studio, with all these tools at your disposal, and yet, have wasted it all, now get out!"

But, it is now Saturday night, and very windy out.
I suppose I could just dial Lilly's number and talk to her; explain that I've been taking a lot of time off to mess around with the keyboard and the electric guitar that I now have around the apartment.

Hopefully tomorrow's post will be much more upbeat. I haven't been posting much lately because most of them would have been just as dour as this one...

Thursday, September 19, 2019

Gone Fishing

I am dividing my time about 9 ways, with the studying of the Photoshop type book being near the top of the pile.
Plus, I have at least a couple more "songs" that just need one or more parts to be complete enough.
Plus, I'm in the middle of reading a dozen books.
There is lot of classical music I want to check out, with downloading more Schumann and more Brahms, Bruckner and Stravinsky being at the top of the list.
I am still doing the self help dialogues, when not setting them to music.
And, I think that, by the time I can play the stuff in the Mel Bay Modern Guitar Method, Book 2, to my satisfaction, then I will just about be able to play the stuff in Book 8 just as well. It is kind of like learning to read. Once you can do so, there is nothing that you can't read. Comprehension is another thing, but.
Jacob and I were just talking about how there are some very amazing and "gifted" musicians out there, but some of them are so "good" that they are not accessible to the common man.
Stravinsky was arguably in this group, as is the guitarist Alan Holdsworth, who is idolized by some for his technical abilities, but dubbed "Mr. a-million-notes-that-say-nothing" by others.
I guess there will always be a longer line outside a Madonna concert than the one outside Symphony Hall, on any given night...