I've reached deep down to figure out whether I should post about my life lately, mostly centered around this past year, I guess I'm gonna, right here and now. Here's the disclaimer: A trail of my tears is not enough to put out the eternal hellfire that burns ahead and behind on this path. There is nothing musical about what I'm about to write. But I don't have another blog on which to spew my venom or wail in wordy pain. This is the place. This is where I release any beast that happens to inherit my blood and bones. If it reeks of reaching out, its probably something else you smell. But it is undoubtedly rotten.
Three days ago, I hit a new low for this year. By low I mean I just cant take any more hits. If any more mental shrapnel even brushes against my brain, I'm done. I'm going hermit, recluse, embracing silence, like an excommunicated luddite, genetically fused with a mild case of Kaczynski.. I've got to go middle earth or desert search and bury myself in white noise and flatline panoramas. I'm not talking about ending it. That's cowardly, I've got a son who needs me and the last thing I want is for my endless punches of pain and a selfish act like snuffing it to cause more pain to the few people I love.
But I'm beyond tired. You want the laundry list, or maybe you don't.. Fuck it.
My sister died 2 years ago, she was young and innocent, but cancer doesn't care about that shit. Cancer found my family and it will go on finding others while endless wars and banks get bankrolled into oblivion. I never got a chance to mourn her, I promised to be more involved with the children she left, I haven't.
I'm 42 years old and feel 62, going through a divorce that shreds my psyche on a daily basis. I don't have the money to pay for it. I can't even talk about my soon to be ex as much as I would like, because wrath brings wrath tenfold. It's like tossing grenades into the rubber room with me. Not worth the endless shrapnel that just keeps deflecting back into my face.
For the first time in a decade, I've got to get a place to live, a vehicle, and health/car insurance. All in one big messy money shot. Then I've got to live here with no friends or family.
I cannot write. I cannot bring any passionate/sarcastic commentary about music to the surface. It's all clotted up like a pipe hairball in the folds of of a dull grey matter. I cannot find the energy to write at night, which is the only time I can with a fully frantic four year old taking up most of my time in this cavernous and blemished mini mansion on the hill. After he's in bed, I just want to lay down, watch Dexter, swipe the annoying cats from my slow breathing chest, flick the stink bugs from my beard and hoppily drown in my sorrows. Good times, I tell ya.
I've got at least 15 reviews due, that I ain't getting paid to do anyway, on a couple websites that nobody reads..so please don't waste your cautious breath asking me if I care. Most of my new followers are following to follow, with no real intention to engage. So why not just write whatever the fuck I want, alienate, illuminate and humiliate. Nobody knows me and the world keeps spinning busily enough, while Kim and Kanye continue to make news nobody can use. Almost 85 percent of what you read online is disposable family van facebook fodder and you know it.
But this latest story.....This one spun my withered last bits of out of control and into a strangulating fit of exhaustion. It ended with the bulk of my hospitality gone horribly wrong while Leslie, a young touring band from Charleston, SC(who are good friends of mine) lost $10,000 of their equipment between the hours of 3am and 6am on Fri Nov 12 while they slept soundly in my house on a quiet street in the suburbs of Philadelphia. My sort of good moods have been tethered together as blood covered buoys in a blood blue sea. Most of the time, I'm either drowning to get there, coming up for air and grabbing for a lead laced life preserver. Now, my barely good moods are gone..I'm negative zone forever.... after some crackhead scumbag pried open a trailer on my street, which nobody heard as they shuffled around heavy equipment and made off with a vintage Gibson SG, a Fender Jazz Bass, a Gibson ES 335, a Hiwatt head, a Fender Hot Rod deluxe amp, 2 loaded pedal boards and the morale of three fantastic musicians.
Yeah, the police got a print, yeah I've been troubleshooting every pawn shop in town and trolling the Craigslists of the tri- state area. Leslie has a family of great musicians and fans down in Charleston who have really rallied behind them with, benefits, money and love and support. But to me... its yet ANOTHER loss. A level of stress and sorrow tossed on my pile and this one while I tried to do something nice for someone. I've had it. I want to leave Philly, and I can't . I need to be somewhere where the corruption, blatant racism from both sides and corruption don't exist. Shit, I lived in NYC for six years and nothing ever happened like this. Not even close.
I want the last 15 years of my life back, but its not going to happen.
So honestly, I just want to be left alone with a life time of crushingly loud music as a bitter soundtrack shielded from anything but the necessary rituals that make up being a single dad. No sympathy needed.
I'm tired of riding the cliche wave of being a tortured artist. Shit, I don't even feel like an artist anymore. I feel like a sperm donor and a chauffeur who throws a witty quip your way every so often.
Most of all, I'm just tired. Faceless and moodless and spent.
And I'm making no apologies for the shape or sporadic input to Circle of Fits right now.
It is, what it is.