Being the silent masculine half of a duo isn't always easy:
So, yeah, we're having a special guest member at Monday's free show at the Echo. We will also introduce two of the newest babies. It's going to be badass. Don't miss it!!!
The boys are recording as I type.
P.S. Alex, "Are You Even Sorry?" is on the set list.
17.2.10
9.2.10
Parasites Lost
My room is draped in receipts. The laundry is arranged in two tiny piles by my closet. It's nearly 6 PM, and I haven't yet taken a shower. Grandma, by contrast, has just taken her second because her dementia makes her incredibly unpredictable like that. I arranged a song with Luke early this afternoon over a plate of crudité, raw hummus, and roughly-chopped tabbouleh. With the 2.5-week Europe jaunt and my sister's 3-week stay directly after that, I've been neglectful. And the only redress that appeals to me right now is complete metamorphosis.
I've been happily busy, mostly, which is exactly what I requested from the powers that be. I have these friends, though, as I'm sure you do, who aren't in alignment with my new schedule. They continue to demand huge chunks of my time despite explanations that I have none to give. My experience of their enduring expectations of extra attention falls somewhere on a spectrum between humorous and offensive, depending on my mood. If I do return a call, my destiny drips laboriously down the drain, and, at this point in the game, I am not keen on throwing these precious hours away. This is not to say I get absolutely nothing out of such conversation, but we are certainly not talking bang for your buck here. At best, I'll take with me a single interesting morsel; at worst, I'll feel completely drained by my interlocutor's stories and utterly bored by her petty concerns. Clearly I have outgrown the friendships in the latter group, and, when I really think about it, those are the ones I never consciously chose to nurture in the first place; I only unconsciously allowed those people to choose me.
Every case, though, stands under this umbrella of truth: I need less and less from people, thereby making others' requests to interact seem more and more intrusive. My reaction also stems from resentment, as there is no one in my own life to take on the patient, sagacious role I play in my friends' lives, except for maybe Luke. No matter what I say in passing about my musical co-conspirator, here is my take on him: he is naturally astute when it comes to the things that truly matter. Whatever I have been able to eke from the tumultuous pseudo-existence that was my adolescence, whatever wisdom I extracted in the years that followed, whatever I have become is attributable to him. Maybe I should start sending my advice-hungry sisters his way...
Not so fast. Luke would never be in line to replace me, to grimace while on the receiving end of perpetual foolishness. Luke is smart enough to apportion time wisely. I want to be smart, too.
My current protocol is not calling people back, yet they continue to buzz and beg, and just saying this makes me sound like an uber-bitch, but I'm not. Not because of this, anyway. I just want--and I know it may sound radical, but--I seriously want my time. I mean, it is, after all, mine to use, right? Why can't I choose to nurture myself during what I feel to be a critical time in my life? Does that mean I don't care? No. Does it mean I'm selfish? Maybe. But if I am, then it's the good kind of selfish, no matter what is said. My parasites need to find new hosts.
Maybe I will have to suck it up and friend-break up with some of the vampires, even though it is against my nature to disappoint via formal declaration. Maybe the less leechy ones will have to be relegated to phone calls made strategically before meetings or practices. I don't know. These things will have to be negotiated.
To be sure, I'd rather be creating. More consistently. Lately, with my social situation as it has been, I've especially dreaded the blog. It has become the equivalent of the unrewarding 90-to-137-minute girl gab I will do almost anything to avoid. I do want to write, but I find the pressure of writing something both substantive and spectacular each time so overwhelming that it quickly extinguishes the initial desire to communicate. The reception of my last several posts was, I must admit, a bit cool for my taste. I don't even know if people read this thing anymore. Or if people even listen to our music. Luke posted a couple of the newer songs, some of our best work, in fact, and, last time I checked, they only had 8 plays!!! Eff.
Nevertheless, I have resolved to save the blog and to save everything, really, by reshaping my relationship to it all. Here I will do this by not making every post a big deal. I'll write a measly paragraph if I want. I'll sketch something inspired when I feel like it. It won't be a chore anymore. It will be an authentic mode of self-expression.
For the time being, I won't worry about who's reading my blog, who's listening to our music, who's waiting for her phone to ring. This thought alone energizes me.
I've been happily busy, mostly, which is exactly what I requested from the powers that be. I have these friends, though, as I'm sure you do, who aren't in alignment with my new schedule. They continue to demand huge chunks of my time despite explanations that I have none to give. My experience of their enduring expectations of extra attention falls somewhere on a spectrum between humorous and offensive, depending on my mood. If I do return a call, my destiny drips laboriously down the drain, and, at this point in the game, I am not keen on throwing these precious hours away. This is not to say I get absolutely nothing out of such conversation, but we are certainly not talking bang for your buck here. At best, I'll take with me a single interesting morsel; at worst, I'll feel completely drained by my interlocutor's stories and utterly bored by her petty concerns. Clearly I have outgrown the friendships in the latter group, and, when I really think about it, those are the ones I never consciously chose to nurture in the first place; I only unconsciously allowed those people to choose me.
Every case, though, stands under this umbrella of truth: I need less and less from people, thereby making others' requests to interact seem more and more intrusive. My reaction also stems from resentment, as there is no one in my own life to take on the patient, sagacious role I play in my friends' lives, except for maybe Luke. No matter what I say in passing about my musical co-conspirator, here is my take on him: he is naturally astute when it comes to the things that truly matter. Whatever I have been able to eke from the tumultuous pseudo-existence that was my adolescence, whatever wisdom I extracted in the years that followed, whatever I have become is attributable to him. Maybe I should start sending my advice-hungry sisters his way...
Not so fast. Luke would never be in line to replace me, to grimace while on the receiving end of perpetual foolishness. Luke is smart enough to apportion time wisely. I want to be smart, too.
My current protocol is not calling people back, yet they continue to buzz and beg, and just saying this makes me sound like an uber-bitch, but I'm not. Not because of this, anyway. I just want--and I know it may sound radical, but--I seriously want my time. I mean, it is, after all, mine to use, right? Why can't I choose to nurture myself during what I feel to be a critical time in my life? Does that mean I don't care? No. Does it mean I'm selfish? Maybe. But if I am, then it's the good kind of selfish, no matter what is said. My parasites need to find new hosts.
Maybe I will have to suck it up and friend-break up with some of the vampires, even though it is against my nature to disappoint via formal declaration. Maybe the less leechy ones will have to be relegated to phone calls made strategically before meetings or practices. I don't know. These things will have to be negotiated.
To be sure, I'd rather be creating. More consistently. Lately, with my social situation as it has been, I've especially dreaded the blog. It has become the equivalent of the unrewarding 90-to-137-minute girl gab I will do almost anything to avoid. I do want to write, but I find the pressure of writing something both substantive and spectacular each time so overwhelming that it quickly extinguishes the initial desire to communicate. The reception of my last several posts was, I must admit, a bit cool for my taste. I don't even know if people read this thing anymore. Or if people even listen to our music. Luke posted a couple of the newer songs, some of our best work, in fact, and, last time I checked, they only had 8 plays!!! Eff.
Nevertheless, I have resolved to save the blog and to save everything, really, by reshaping my relationship to it all. Here I will do this by not making every post a big deal. I'll write a measly paragraph if I want. I'll sketch something inspired when I feel like it. It won't be a chore anymore. It will be an authentic mode of self-expression.
For the time being, I won't worry about who's reading my blog, who's listening to our music, who's waiting for her phone to ring. This thought alone energizes me.
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