Consider the ravens. They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them.
It’s starting to get uncomfortably busy. There’s always someone else to visit, another person to catch up with. Projects have a way of finding me too; I’ll hear a song and decide that I need to make an arrangement, or someone will approach me for a website or video when they’re pursuing dreams of their own.
Me and Trolley and Steph and Aaron and not you. I win.
(I have yet to get a picture of Trolley with a full glass of beer.)
It’s the same way when it comes to figuring out what to eat lately. I open an empty fridge a half dozen times, each time thinking I’ll find a hidden cache of food that wasn’t there before, then someone will call me for dinner.
I’ve been fortunate enough to jam with a few people too, including Heather G, who pulled out her cello for the first time in her adulthood to give me root notes on the baseline. One draw of the bow across those strings has convinced me that I want one of my own; the tones are rich and meaty, something you feel through the entire instrument, and especially the tension of the ribbon (and I thought the guitar was tactile). We even convinced Sergey to pick up some mallets and strike the keys of a glockenspiel with us, the first time in his life he’s ever played an instrument.
I’m looking forward to the Fall, when I have nothing else booked. Part of me wishes I could take a year off and lock myself in a cottage somewhere and work on my own projects without interruption, but I don’t mind so much right now. Luckily, the work is always fulfilling, regardless of whether it’s for me or not, because so often I get to collaborate with such wonderfully creative people. I just need to ride the delicate line between distraction and over-stimulation.
I wish Trolley was here so we could play Starcraft 2 like we did when we lived on Island Park. I’d set up my laptop in his room — he’d have a beer and I’d have a joint — and we’d spend hours against some computers in Warcraft 3. Or he’d surf the web and listen to music while I wrote in this blog, sharing the apartment with his kitty and mine.
Those were the summers of No Motiv and Coheed and Cambria. The winters of Bel Canto and The Dears. I remember being happy then.
I wish Aaron and Trolley were here so we could get really, really drunk, even though I don’t drink anymore. Only when I wake up in the middle of the night, and all the thoughts I’ve been pushing into the back of my head come clawing out, leaving me with a restless mind. I pour a glass of Bailey’s on the rocks and practice scales until the alcohol makes me fall asleep again.
One time, we went to the Honest Lawyer to celebrate Aaron’s birthday. In our drunken haze, we thought it’d be a good idea to order some pizza when we got back to my apartment (there was a pizzeria right outside the side door). Aaron hurled in the garden rocks as we were waiting for the order. We brought him in, and gave him a pillow and towel cause he wanted to sleep in the bathroom. He told me later, “I only get that drunk when I’m really depressed”. Sounds good to me.
I wish my friends were here so we could drink like the old days, when we were between school and work, and women.
Found this old video of back when I lived on Island Park in a 16th floor apartment, with Trolley and another person who shall remain unnamed.
Trolley looks so young! It’s not his face, just his hair that does it. And remember when I couldn’t stop listening to that AFI album? Seems like so long ago. I guess you’d only remember if you’ve been reading since 2004/2005, when we did stuff like this.
I wonder if I’m still too young to feel nostalgic. It seems like the only people who reminisce are those who are much older than me, but I already get nostalgic about my university days, when things were relaxed, I could sleep in, or skip class, and I didn’t have a mortgage to worry about.
Last minute Halloween party means last minute costume.
I’m walking down the consolidated aisles of Walmart at 7:30 on Saturday night. The costume packages are all 50% off, and the models on the labels are all pre-teen. I don’t think I’ll fit in the tights of this Batman costume, and this vampire cape only goes down to my waist.
I’m suddenly struck with a fit of nostalgia. Remember that time when I was at that party with Becky, who was wearing a witches mask, trying to engage her in a conversation after we met at the Honest Lawyer1? Remember when we went as Supertroopers to the party at the girls house? Remember when I got drunk off that bottle of Earnest and Julio Gallo?
I hurriedly grab a black cowl and bloody knife, and walk to the checkout line. With my full-length leather trench coat, I’m hoping it’s enough to gain acceptance to the party, but not too much to stand out.
As I leave, I wonder if Halloween still exists for those of us past our trick-or-treating days.
So the plan is to get there early. That way I don’t have everyone looking at me when I walk in the door. Bail when it gets too loud, or the people too drunk. But everyone invited through Facebook was told eight while I was told nine, and I’m almost last one there.