I will not vomit all over my blog, as I know better, and I do realize things are great enough that I am magnetizing super cool circumstances, like winning a raffle at Euphoria Loves Rawvolution's anniversary party. My main concern is that I'm anxious when I'm supposed to be poised, which only exacerbates emotional tensions. I'm mostly up, but the tiniest departure from magic takes me to places that feel gross, so bad that, from such a vantage point, I am tempted to wonder if the pleasant parts represent a flimsy default mode donned last fall when less-than-ideal arrangements left me in fetal position but auspiciously plopped next to a pair of rose-colored glasses. I crawled away with sweeter vision and eventually danced, but it was a rough road.
And it's not just the little bad things. I overreact to little good things, too, which makes basic living a bit weird. For example, I was at the piano several weeks ago when Blake jumped up and began to observe my tinkering. He seemed very involved in the music, and his expression was so cute and the moment so precious I started to cry. I do this all the time. I'll listen to Dinah Shore's "Like Someone in Love" and join in for most of it until the end, when, overcome, I collapse. "It's Magic" by Doris Day will also do me in. Or I'll hear Callas' Tosca and weep while driving. What hope do I have of surviving the live performance of La Traviata this June? I mean, these are daily episodes, people.
I asked Luke what he thought. "It's fine. It's like you're on mushrooms all the time. Permafried."
Sometimes, when music doesn't appear to be moving linearly and exponentially, I question my purpose and passion. The madness of such lines of reasoning is obvious when taken to the sphere of love. I don't think that because I haven't had a boyfriend in five years I won't have one soon; I must proceed as if he's already here, awaiting my recognition. I send out more love, trusting it will come back somewhere, sometime, giving without needing that return. This is a learned procedure that only started to click recently. I make music harder than love, though both deserts are difficult to endure. Will my songs boomerang, too? I ask for a sign and wait.
I get one while stepping out of the shower. Having mulled over potential forays into health or food or writing or anything else, a bigger thought unearths itself. "Uncooking doesn't bring me joy. I'm not jonesin' for experiments in haute gastronomy. I don't even like getting my hands wet. So eat that, poopy guy who told me I had a cookbook in me. I mean, you're nice enough, but that's so not my calling. I'm perfectly happy eating delicious food prepared by people who get boners from smidgens and dashes. Music makes me happy. Love makes me happy."
I am happy, despite the volatility, and ready to be happier and happier. I just don't know what to do, and I have been advised, in such situations, to instead concentrate on who I am and how I'm thinking. At some juncture, though, you've got to make a move. My beloved life manual, Shinn's Game, says to follow your hunches and do what you feel like doing. Well, the past few weeks I have felt like sunning myself, drinking honey mango smoothies, planting seedlings, petting my cats, and reorganizing my living space, this while the band has enjoyed a surprisingly fruitful existence on the side. The challenge is believing that lounging will get me where I need to be, when the distance between that treasured tomorrow and this passable present can, at times, seem so daunting. I feel like I should be at the studio all the time, but when it isn't where I want to be, I stay home.
Am I hibernating? Am I nesting?
There's not much connecting me to the outside. I am increasingly turned off by invitations to parties for people I rarely see, as my idea of friendship is a lot more than being one among a roomful of warm bodies used semiannually to appease a needy ego. I understand which events will be a waste of my energy, and I choose to sit those out. Besides, the bar scene has nothing I want; my idea of a drink is a freshly pressed organic kale apple lime juice.
There is a solitude here, as I carve a creative and loving space for myself in a world that doesn't seem to honor this consistently.
I've bet everything on this journey. The best of me is precariously situated upon a cliff. I've cast off convention to reach upward. The world would remind me of the price I pay to continue, when many women my age have already hurled themselves toward husbands, houses, and Huggies, but I am clear enough on the penalty paid for not doing what is yours to do. I won't drive within the lines, as I am eager to draw my sustenance elsewhere.
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