Home > Uncategorized > Pep talk for me-self

Pep talk for me-self

Snap out of it boy.

I shall try. I promise.

My guitar sits in the corner collecting mountains of dust, which makes me feel very neglectful. I’ve got a million ideas swirling around in my head, but I can’t focus on a single one of them long enough make it worth anyone’s while. It’s like trying to grab a fistful of water.

Loss is not good for creativity, nor is lack of creativity good when dealing with loss. I speak only for myself of course. If I’m not creating something I feel like a giant sloth, as opposed to only feeling like a tiny sloth when I’m waist deep in new words or melodies. It’s not like digging ditches all day after all….although come to think of it, based on previous record sales at least, that might be too close a metaphor for comfort.

So why not just merge things….and write about him?

Now there’s an idea. Actually, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Surely he’s worthy of a song or ten. As long as I don’t come across sounding like Dan fucking Fogelberg, putting the “mawk” in mawkish. Pop’s life. His loves. And his struggle with Alzheimer’s. Surely this is toe-tapping stuff right? Well, maybe not that last bit, but stranger things have happened with a boy and his guitar, especially this boy and that guitar. Sadness is only part of all this for me. Rage is right up there….along with incomprehension and a peculiar lack of what others call faith. I witnessed an astonishing fight against no odds whatsoever….and nobody can tell me he didn’t decide to move on when he was good and ready. So yea, there’s some truly inspiring stuff there too…..the kind of thing you witness with your mouth wide open and your eyes bugging out of your head. And of course all the people, places, and things that are left behind, which includes me.

“The healing has begun”. So said Van Morrison one time….which is easy for him to say with pipes like that. Van may just be the most miserable git on the planet, but he knows that music is sometimes all there is when the blues overtakes you and drags you to the ground. Sure it can disappoint. All you need to do is listen to Van’s last dozen or so records to feel that sting. But I can always turn to “Sweet Thing” or “Gloria” or “Caravan” for a steroidian lift. How many things can you say that about that aren’t…you know….steroids? Or otherwise illegal? It’s impossible to listen to those songs and not feel something good. To not feel lifted in some way.  Spiritual. Or just plain hornier than usual. I spoke of odds back yonder. How ’bout a sure thing? You tell me what compares to a great song? Sex maybe, but sometimes mre mortals manage to muck that up too. You can’t muck up “Gloria”, although countless bar bands (and the Doors) have tried.

So there ’tis. A bit of a pep talk. For me-self.

In a bit…


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