I did it again. I rushed things. Time crumbled like any non-existent thing would crumble. Quite unnoticeable until it occurred to me that the boundless ease with which my mind wandered fantastically–as in magical naïveté–was lost (my upper right elbow reads "my mind wanders here and there and everywhere and also to you every now and then," from what I remember; I can't give a real peak at the full extent of my elbow to read the whole tattoo). As compensation for rushing, I got a glimpse of the rest of my life. Slippery, inconclusive, chaotic like bubbles in technicolour crowding the screen of my ancient, glitchy laptop, forever locked in this screensaver that prevents access to my subconscious. I set that myself, quite involuntarily though.
The rest of my life unfolds. Two new wrinkles appear on my forehead every autumn. My hair grows strong, yet its vibrant light brown hue fades. I gain some weight but I'm okay with it since I enjoyed the food I cooked for myself. The real ick is that I've lost that obsession for research. I read books whose authors' names aren't familiar beyond their covers. Music becomes a background for mechanically executed chores. Sometimes I can't help but wonder: is my brain rotting? Then I unnecessarily remember that I need to buy new sponges, the yellow ones, because they're handier to squeeze. I find myself hustling between wiping dry a shower's glass and timing the washing machine so I can dry my clothes in the sun. Unsolicited planning that shuts my brain deeper and deeper in the fog.
Suddenly the vision of the rest of my life crumbles as my body gets the warning. I get a severe cold just in time before hitting burnout. The most precious gift: sick leave long enough to get excited again for morning porridge. I call in sick to the office because of “flu-like symptoms” and collect all the energy I have left to take it slow. I watch the crows pecking at the good persimmons unreachable on the tree's higher branches. In the morning I let breakfast last as long as it takes to read a short story. Yoga is no longer a practice to overcompensate the lack of stretching and good movement after a long time, but rather a ritual of quality breathing.
I no longer care about the most convenient choice. I smash my head harder on abstract thoughts. Music is exciting; it's the portal to a deeper connection to the inner self. My garden smells like wet moss, roses, and a stale wine cellar as the acidic stench of rotting fruit rises from the mossy yard. I can’t get my eyes off the deep blue sky behind the fiery persimmon tree.
My mind circles back again and again to impressions of New York City. How much food do industries and farmers have to produce and harvest to feed the entire city? How many corner delis are enough for a neighbourhood? People will rush forever for good reasons in New York, forever striving and also thriving on a flourishing ground for ideas. There’s no real need to rush here. I’m dreaming of doppelgänger and getting lost in a world full of clear directions. I look up guitar tabs of songs that excite me, maybe I learn a few new riffs. I get emotional at the grocery store, finding treats my mum used to buy for me when I was a child. It’s the purest form of joy I can fathom.
This is the first day of the rest of my life, a regular day except that I have access to expanding knowledge, a good book to read, a voice to rely on.
Album: The Doober (Sam Gendel, Sam Wilkes, 2024)
My jazz heavy rotation.
Album: The Saint (Nic T, 2024)
Fortuitous great discovery at a live concert, as sweet as Chad Vangaalen with spotless chord progressions.
Tune: Sweet Come Down (The Black Ryder, 2009)
Another fortuitous discovery thanks to Spotify’s algorithm; I was playing The Night by Morphine when at the end of the song this one came up and I had to listen to it three times in a row to make it real.
Tune: Wristwatch (MJ Lendeman, 2024)
It makes me smile, damn, in such a tender way every time this particular song comes up from Lenderman’s latest album.
Tunes: Do You Love Me? (Pt 2) and Loverman from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds’ album Let Love In
Warm, important, fine music.
“How do you maintain a flow state in waking life throughout the mundane, how do you embrace the mundane and find the muse without having to go to the sacred space? I have to go and plug into something else to connect versus just being connected.”
Reservation for five
A good question to raise over an uneventful dinner with your friends: who would you have dinner with rather than being with us? This can include both living and gone celebrities, notable people, or anyone who could bring something unexpectedly exciting to the table. That would be you and four other people.
This month my reservation for five would be: Matthew McCounaghey (for some Texan romantic tales), Amy Taylor from Amyl & The Sniffers (for high energy and fun), Richard Brautigan (to balance out all the exploding energy and some trout fishing advice) and Cindy Lee (for a chic dainty atmosphere).
What’s your reservation for five?
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