Tonight, as I pulled away from a house I used to inhabit and a woman that I used to love in a plank-walking pirate ship sort of way, I wept. As the tears fauceted out of my eyeballs, and the weird hyperventilat-y noises came out of my throat, I clenched the steering wheel, turned off the stereo, and asked my brain “why the long face?” The house nor the woman were the cause of the emotion that came over me. Maybe the memory of both of them, a little bit. But mostly the fact that I was exhausted. Also the fact that my tiny little sore throat and sniffle situation had turned into a full blown snot factory. A full time work and music schedule is typically something I can not only handle but also thrive within, but when said schedule is accompanied by mucus and sinus pressure, even the simple act of leaning over to plug in an instrument cable can turn into a job worthy of a nap or a cry. What else could I blame? Maybe the gig I just left. Maybe the unparalleled joy of the short spurts of time I get to sing for roomfuls of people juxtaposed with the unparalleled anti-joy of the long spurts of time I don’t get to sing for roomfuls of people. Maybe the anxiety of smiling at strangers and fidgeting with finger foods whilst hawking CDs. Maybe my sponge of a heart that absorbs a roomful of music and emotion then disperses it throughout my body via veins and nerves, experiencing each note like it was a feeling and each feeling like it was a chord strummed against the soundhole of my stomach, reverberating loudly in the tiny little bell tower that is my spirit. Maybe the way being in the same room as Steve Poltz trips me out, given my first feeble attempts to play the guitar almost 20 years ago to a song he wrote with Jewel before I even had a damn clue who he was. Maybe the way Poltz played one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs because I once believed that I could make someone happy, make their dreams come true. I pulled up the drive and was met on the porch by another woman. One who would most certainly go hungry, go black and blue, hold me for a million years, etc., to make me feel her love. And I do feel it in the way she bombards me with tea and tissue and sweatpants and over the counter medications and cooing sounds of comfort. I realize it’s okay to bring the car-cry into her arms. I let go of the fear that she might think I’m bananas and run away. I crawl into bed; the day has made a shriveled raisin out of me. I let it wring me all the way out. Even though I can’t seem to find a way to cry, sleep and breathe at the same time, I am grateful for the luxury of weeping and reflection. The sun makes its first appearance through my window and I imagine dew drops on my skin. Oh wait. I guess it’s just more snot.
This is where a bunch of my writing lives.