Seems all very fitting to the way I brought the month in and the way I feel about April. I suspect my father will die this month. Like I always knew he would. I had to turn the heat back on.
I spent a couple hours scanning in pictures for a friend from work and put them on a disc for her. Seems like a small thing to do. They were these amazing shots from the 50s and 60s of her family. I guess I could put some up here or on the Flickr account. I doubt she'd mind much and most of what I have there some one else took any way. I'm pretty nostalgic tonight in the most murderous meaning of the word. Putting all the SST pic and pics of myself together in some superstitious, semi-religious way. Something just made a big bang outside. Surrender Dorothy.
My blood sugar has been some place in the stratosphere for a couple of weeks now, suddenly slamming down into scary and then running off again. They tell you stress has a lot to do with it and that the loss of a family member is one of those great big stressors. All in all I guess I'm not surprised.
Bucket's out tonight again. She's been out a ton lately and I hope she's just having some fun and spending time on her relationships like I always tell her to and not avoiding me like everyone else is. Not that you should think that I'm particularly crazy about spending time with me these days. She just sent a text saying that the song from my guy from Scrubs is on at the restaurant. She means Overkill from Colin Hay. I have some grand idea of an album of home recorded covers. Mostly just because I hate covers, but some part of you wants to take great things and hold them close with the same ritual mentality that makes me put pictures of me in with everyone else and this thing I try to belong to.
I 'm typing out of loneliness. I'm just not sure out to kill it with out liquid. It's always there and there's no fucking reason for it. Jay and I talked for hours on Saturday. He said some kind things and some hard things and I love him. I forget that becasue I get so far away from everything and everyone that I doubt love at all. The thing I carry with me from that is how similar we are in our apparently oppposite kind of way. All the things we have and all the things we share and all the things we fight and all these things we hold so far apart and the things we can't understand about each other seem to grow from the same fat root. We're profoundly, amazingly isolated. Maybe that's the voice all of my friends share, when I look at them. We're fighting loneliness.
That's some thing we can share, even if method usually keeps all of us out and apart from each other as well. It's some fucked up thing to all hold up together and some fucked up thing to protect as our common voice.
We sing well together. Makes a lot of sense that we're struggling so hard to get the harmonies together in the studio when we have to deal with the concrete and physical reality of being separated in a small, dead box. The shitting metaphor is enough to wound.
Goddamn all this flesh and firm ground. I'm dealing, Matt, just like you said I needed to.
|'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,|
|'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!|