On the first night of the tour Matt Molarius was hoarse. He sounded like Bea Arthur after she narrowly escaped a burning building full of Goodyear tires and cartons of unfiltered cigarettes. His sandpaper voice dwelled somewhere between Brooklyn Jewish grandmother, disgruntled librarian and Marge Simpsons sisters and one expected every line out of his mouth to be dont forget your coat! Josh was the second down, hacking up green shit that hit the ground running straight to the dmv, got a license and drove away. I caught it on the way home, my body gave up, welcomed the sickness in and Id go on to sneeze so hard I would pull a muscle. Yesterday I had a day off with a million things to do. I took them all on and failed at nearly every one. Each errand was left one ingredient shy of completion. After giving up on a list of chores that included new brakes, setting up a home studio, teaching my mother, who has never been online and has no frame of reference, how the internet works (the ultimate derailer of the days attempts), I tried the one thing i could potentially accomplish. Writing. I had allowed a batch of unfinished lyrics to accumulate for the past year in texts sent to myself. its like Noahs Ark in my inbox, two of each message, hundreds and hundreds to go through. I managed to silence my phone, ban my eyes from seeing all the places currently I was not at on Instagram, refrain from bullshitting on Facebook and looking at 12 hilarious pictures of squirrels (I have something to do today). I finished about 20 songs. Theres some sort of clarity sickness can offer, it cant be wielded in every direction, but the sickness cooperated with my pen last night. Id still rather be able to breathe through my nose without sounding like an asthmatics death rattle or a Chevy Nova on its last days. Writing has seemingly accepted me in sickness and health and though I cheat on her all the time by binge watching Bojack Horseman, shes a great wife.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 17:01:18 +0000
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