Progressively Louder Laughter

I had this vague idea of how this past month would feel. I thought it would be the discovery of a city, a deep dive into art, music, comedy. I guess the truth is that no matter where you go, there you are. Same as it ever was. I spent about one week going to central park and seeing shows (that was great) but I still haven’t gone to see stand up or stepped foot in a museum. I did not picture myself in one of the best cities in the world, spending most of my time in one room working.

I went to see David Byrne on Broadway which felt like a religious experience. He is singular. He has crafted a show that is alive and mysterious and pulsing with joy. Lyrics from his song Once in a Lifetime have always stuck with me. They are lyrics that you might get tattooed on your arm so that you always remember:

Time isn’t holding us, time isn’t after us

The truth is, I’ve blinked and have missed out on an amazing experience. I’m that guy in the song. I’m asking: “Well… how did I get here?”.

I went for a walk and like a Springsteen song: I just kept walking. My headphones bailed halfway through and I was left in a silence. There I was, forced to be with my thoughts, questioning myself. Have I been rash? Have I been running away from something? What am I not facing right now? The list feels monolithic. 

I took steps to get here. I had this vague idea of how this past month would feel. It would be about discovery, right? But here I am, feeling lost, asking myself that question from the song. How did I get here?

Back in Toronto this week for a visit. Apparently it is winter there. Goodbye beautiful New York Autumn. Hello layers.

30 Minute Playlist: Once in a lifetime (again)

I took such care when I made breakfast this morning. I roasted the pearl onions, brussels sprouts and tomatoes so nicely. I cooked the rosemary into the potato and lamb hash and stirred the scrambled eggs in to bind it all together.

Still: under-seasoned.

I then proceeded to chip the top part of my beautiful desktop computer. The one I thought I’d sell if New York is still on the table in 6 months. The cost of the repair?

$900.

Uff.

It’s raining today. It’s not my day. It’s not my week either. The roar of summer has come to a screeching halt. Suddenly, everything I worked towards has been packed up and loaded out. It would be the perfect time to distract myself with a sunny vacation (an old post-summer tradition of mine). Instead, I am taking a leap into the dark. I’ll be packing up and loading out the comforts of my room, saying goodbye to my friends, my haunts, the beer that is Canadian, the one I drink when I have a bad day.

I think of the Emmylou Harris lyrics: Soulmate, the blues are deceiving, it keeps us believing we’re on the wrong road.

I remind myself of where I am headed. Patti Smith has written two books about it. I can find my own Cafe ‘Ino to work from. Bjork has a place in Dumbo. I can collect progressively more obscure outfits and feel as eccentric as ever. And the museums, and the park and the whole world in one city and the dream.

I wish that today I could armour up with a list of things that would convince everyone that I am worthy. Convince me. I wish that I hadn’t let myself be vulnerable this week and subsequently in need of armour.

I wish I could really appreciate every person that is rooting for me right now. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the multiple soft places that I have (if needed) to sandwich myself between. I know that I am supposed to be feeling good.

It’s like I’m homesick for something, but not for a place or a person. I’m homesick for a purpose. It’s as though I’m hanging off of the edge of one, trying to make out the shape, the beat, the rules. It will demand sacrifices: vulnerability, courage, and yes, some suffering. Uff.

30 Minute Playlist: Supposed To Be

I have now accepted that life as I know it means almost always being nearly a little bit, but possibly maybe very, sick. I have been achy for weeks with the type of sore throat that serves only to alert you to the fact that you have been infected and that your body is about to undergo a battle of white blood cells and bacteria (honestly, I know nothing about biology and I might be making that up). I do not aim to spend my full life working but in the moments I do work, may I grind. May I work until I collapse. May I wake up excited for the next challenge that awaits.

I’ve come to recognize that suffering comes part and parcel with the exhilaration of a job. The higher the stakes the better the reward. There were times in the last week that I felt helpless and discouraged. I agonized over decisions while trying to fall asleep. I imagined every worst case scenario.  When I woke up though, I felt the battery, like I could suddenly spin the suffering into gold. If I had failed the day before, I was plotting a comeback. If I had won, I was arduously resisting the urge to relax.

I recorded a version of Joey by Bob Dylan. It’s a song about a mobster Joey Gallo. It has that kind of anti-hero-hero theme we have come to love in television; not an unfamiliar trope to the arts, but one that has recently become more mainstream and celebrated. I think I love it because Joey is an outsider middle child. He is a leader. I’ll forgive the sins of the man who feels like a mirror to me.

30 Minute Playlist: Joey