Today I'll be starting a new URL again, because we're totally removing any closeness we've had and that requires that he no longer have the option of reading my "Everyone" blog entries. I'll leave this blog here, but will start again elsewhere. Not that I predict I'll have anything to say in the immediate future that doesn't involve words like "empty" and "dead" and "lifeless" and "pointless" and all those optimistic kinds of things, along with a tsunami of self-doubt and fear of my own emotions.
I will PM you with the new URL when I've created it.
I never thought I'd have to do this to him. I hate that I'm doing this.
I told him I wouldn't leave his side, but I am abandoning him. I'm stepping out of the circle so that he can find clarity, but maybe in a few weeks he won't see it that way. Maybe he'll just think I've left him, because all this time, we've held hands and looked at the world together and found that clarity in each other.
I have no idea how to do the days without him anymore, even though all I've done is lose the battle of trying to do without him.
Lost for words.
The grief, the jealousy, and the unspent love... it is unbearable.
What am I going to do with all of it? It's not meant for anyone else.
Just as there is a lot to be said for a Wednesday morning quickie, there is a lot to be said for distraction. After laying the groundwork for a demo to one of my old songs until 3:20pm, then inspecting an apartment, then hurriedly filling out forms for said apartment and literally racing across the suburbs with child in tow to beat another applicant to the post, and then having backyard beers with Spike, my day is done, and now I am left with the hardest part of the day: the night. There's only so much analysis I can do, and then after that, it's all the damned rhetoric that keeps me awake. Except now it's going to get really fucking hard. Instead of spending the nights in hell and at least hearing his voice in the morning, you'll spend your nights in hell and wake up and hear nothing. Nothing at all.
There is nothing further you can do. There is nothing else you can say. Say it all one more time if you like. But that's all you can do. He has everything he needs now. He is an intriguing, beautiful creature and you wouldn't have him any other way. There's probably just over 24 hours left. You won't spend it any differently. He'll be over there, and you'll be here. And that's okay. You don't know any different. Just say goodbye as if you never taught him the way back home, because if he comes home, it'll be a miracle.
I always thought jealousy could only come from insecurity.
But that's not true. I already know I'm the better woman here.
Jealousy can come from plain injustice. Seeing someone get their way by being aggressive and unfair and having double standards and being vindictive and manipulative and cruel. Jealousy can come from believing that love prevails and then, devastated, seeing that it isn't winning. When love is genuine, it is also willing to lose. So therefore of course it loses against someone who is set on winning. The prizefighter just wants that woody they get every time they have a petty victory. The loser doesn't have her eye on winning and having ultimate control. So she's willing to lose because winning is not important to her. She wants to lose if that's what it takes for love to prevail. So of course, against a prizefighter control freak who masquerades as "love", genuine love's just totally gonna lose, coz it doesn't care about winning.
Like when you were little and you had a mate who said they wanted to have a running race and you didn't feel like it so you only half-ran, because you felt like sitting on the grass and reading your book. Then the person who wanted to race you jumped about all victorious when they won the race. You don't even care. You just wanna get back to your book. Then their gloating starts to piss you off, because you didn't give a shit about the fucking race. You only did it to shut them up. Of course you can run faster than they can. You don't need to race them to prove it. But there they are, jumping around and pointing at your face.
Comic relief. I just remembered my dream from 7am this morning when I fell asleep for the first time all night. I had a dream I was down the coast in the little seaside town I stayed at a few weeks ago. I was talking to a sea snail and trying to tell it that the tide was coming in. I thought it was going to drown. I couldn't work out why it wasn't talking back to me.
December 3, 2008 - Just ignore me. I'm having a moment.
This whole situation is ridiculous. It is so fucking ridiculous.
The person who comes in and does the right thing by someone shouldn't the one who's pointed at as having been the one who did the wrong thing just because there's a stupid fucking archaic law that says I have no right to love someone that I just knew needed it. The person who holds the piece of paper wins, no matter how right I am, and no matter how badly he'd been damaged and mistreated before I came along. Stands there with the self-righteous "FUCK OFF" on her forehead but won't let him fuck off. You have something you wanna say? Just fucking say it. What are you waiting for? You embarrass me.
It's not fair. I'm the one who gets it, and I'm the one who is being punished for all her fuckups and excuses for being less of a woman. I can barely get through each day without having a nervous breakdown. She's left me a fucking horrid mess to clean up. Wants to be able to use the accusing tone but hasn't got the guts to follow through with it. Just fucking do it, you embarrassment to womankind, and put all five of us out of our misery.
This morning Bassplayer knocked on Drummer's door for his routine Wednesday morning carpool to work. Drummer's car was outside his house, but there was no answer at the door. Bassplayer got a message from me.
"Oh to be a fly on the wall."
"What? Where?"
"Aren't you in the car with Drummer? I'd be interested to see what he says should my name come up in the conversation again." (it's a long story. No bad vibes between me and Drummer but there is mystereh.)
"I got stood up. I'm on my way back to Central."
I got all icky and annoyed that my lover would have to catch a train ALL the way BACK in the other direction to work and it's a nasty annoying train ride. And he has a cute bottom and could be prey for evil bad women who might put him in their handbag and take him home and make soup out of him. So I offered to give him a ride. I had time before my meeting.
"Catch a train to my place and I'll take you from here."
"Ok."
Knock, knock.
*smoochy-smoochy*
"I should go to work."
"Mmmhhhhhhh...."
[twenty minutes later]
"I er.... ahhhhhhhh........ I really should go to work."
I take the Bassplayer to verk. I drive back to my place, and spend part of it wondering what the hell is up with Drummer. I go to my meeting. At around 1:30, Drummer staggers into the studio. Ehh??? What the hell's he doing here?
"Morning."
"What happened to you?"
"I'm never drinking again."
Drummer doesn't know I drove BP to verk. I don't think he's even realised that he was supposed to. He hung out with us instead of going to verk himself. Eeek. What's the go? I think he is sad. He told me a while back that he was holding off the "dealing with it" part of his recent breakup. I saw this coming but I was thinking that maybe he'd not let it affect his professional life. But hey. The poor guy. I'd be like that too. I'd be worse.
It's all happening. Meeting with the sound engineer was a success. Despite his pasty-faced state, it was good that Drummer was there. He sat squished up beside me on the couch and let me fawn over him. He's a massive bloke. Chunky. I didn't really realise that until I was squashed into a couch with him.
I'm about to schedule the album recording and begin to re-think all the songs and how I truly want them to sound. I'm ready to write three more that will be up and groovy and guitary and cool. I hope. I need my bassplayer to help me consolidate the overall sound. I have this love/hate thing about the diversity of the songs. I don't trust myself with them. Well.... I do, but I don't want them to be just a whole lotta me. The songs are just bare bones. I want to make them sound like the band and the producer as well. Coz.... that's what it's all about. I love music so much. It's magical.
My daughter is singing.
"Mama mia, here we go again. My my, hands on California."
She has a Delaware accent on some words. Especially words like "California" and "can't" and "sure". My ex is a dickhead, but my daughter spends two and a half days with him every week and the resulting slightly-twinged accent is cute.
She keeps asking me to provide her with a sister. Over and over again. Once a week. I keep matter-of-factly explaining the sex/pregnancy thing. It's not getting through. She wants me to just pull a sister outta my back pocket. Aghhh..... it's all good until someone demands a sibling. That I cannot do. So she says, "You should go on that tv show when you find a husband and you get married. Then you can have another baby." It's all apparently a means to providing her with a sibling.
I don't want to have another baby. Last time I had a baby it really hurt.
All we do is follow you around deleting everything you post on our blogs.
Everything you are doing is pointless.
Now that I have that out of the way, I'd like to say that there's something to be said for a quickie on a Wednesday morning. Quick rush of endorphins never did anyone any harm. Give the old man a once-over and send him on his way. He walks different when he's had a bit of prrrrrrrrow. I was waiting at the lights and I watched him walk to work. See? There he goes. His arms move more freely. Looser in the neck and shoulders. Face is peaceful. Meheh. Job done.
Hmmmm. I haven't heard from you in like 12 hours. That's a record.
Why do I worry so much when I haven't heard from him? It's not like he's dead or something. The irrational voice goes, "...he hasn't texted or emailed. He must have had a car crash and died, or worse.... someone is making him feel like shit and I can't stop it because I don't know."
I think it's weird that you can be so attached to someone that you have to check three times a day on whether they're happy or not. That's what I worry about. I don't like not knowing how he feels at any given point in his day. Coz if he feels shit about something but I don't know, I have no way of making it better. Even if there's nothing I can do... maybe if he just knows that I know he's having a shit time of it, maybe it helps...?
Sometimes I know something's wrong but don't say anything and then later I find out I was right. But sometimes I'm just paranoid and overprotective as well. And sometimes he doesn't tell me anything at all and I never know if my gut was right or wrong. I don't ask anymore.
But on Tuesday nights he goes to bed early.
Gah!
CHILL OwwwT.
.....he's ok.
Go to bed you worrywart.
I can't!
Yes you can. You're exhausted. It'll come if you lie there long enough.
No it never does. Lying there just turns into a shitfight. Imagination runs wild.
I didn't get the apartment. The dude who showed me through it hadn't been told that it had already been rented by somebody else.
But you know what.... I've looked at some more places online today and seen that for the same money, I can get something a good deal nicer. With hard floors. (I prefer polished wooden floors... so sue me...)
So all is well. I have my beady eye on two more, one of which is a GORGEOUS old apartment with a beautiful balcony and unfortunately won't be available until the 20th. But I am patient. Oh yes indeed. I am patient. Meehee. The agent says I can have a look at it this week even though there's a tenant there at the moment. If I can look through it in the next few days and I like it, and then I flash the cash and be very charming, I may be able to secure it early. Then all the paperwork is done and paid and all I have to do it wait like a wicked little spider (squee!). Come December 20, we move. Just in time for Christmas.
And the lady just called and said the tenant is vacating earlier than the 20th! Schwah!
If I can't get that one, there's another one near the river. With air conditioning. Oui.
I am still in the process of minimising my belongings.
It is a very enjoyable inner cleansing activity, throwing things away. I don't know. It kinda comforts me and reminds me how little all that "stuff" matters, and that it's all temporary, and all the little things that surround us are really just like all the trinkets the Ancient Egyptians used to stuff into their sarcophagus thinking that they could take it all with them. I like to keep myself in check now and again, and make sure that in this life I haven't become caught up in things that just don't matter; that my priorities are where they should be. I probably carry that philosophy around because I don't ever want to be like my parents. One was born into wealth and the other was not. Regardless of that contrast, they've both interestingly become people who think that money and "stuff" is everything. My father went out at the age of 15 and by 20 he owned a house. And it just kept going up from there. He just kept earning more and more money and thinking it was all that mattered. Watching Mum and Dad squabble when they separated - and trying to mediate between them the whole time - it really left a bad taste in my mouth, and I swore I'd never allow myself to think that money means any more than it does. Yes it's important and you have to have it, but it's just currency we need to enjoy our lives and get on with focusing on each other.
Yes, I had lots of privileges my friends didn't. But you know.... I'd rather have just been happy and safe and loved 100% of the time.
Oh, and I thanked my mother yesterday for being June Dally Watkins for 18 years, in case you're wondering if I got around to it. The hosting jobs have really made me appreciate that. And you know... teaching me how to be a lady (on the rare occasion that I feel like it) didn't cost my mother anything.
Shame I now spend most of the time rebelling against it. On stage the other night I sat crosslegged as I played piano and thought how funny it was that my mother would've been aghast, had she seen me.
Anyway....
I have bought four CD wallets and am in the process of throwing away all the cases and keeping the inserts and CDs neatly stashed in the folders. I have decided that plastic CD cases are evil. I have a massive garbage bag full of the things. Can't be environmentally friendly. I don't know what to do with them. Do they just go to landfill? Surely not. That seems a bit stupid. Remind me at pressing time to go for an environmentally friendly cardboard packaging for my album. I feel that I must make a point of it.
Another reason why the shift to digital music sales is a good thing.
The child practised violin without me asking her to, and she also cleaned her room last night without me hassling her to. I think that calls for dinner out.
Most days I send a greeting of some sort to the bassplayer via text when he's on his way to verk. This morning it was "Grrrrrrrrrawr." Because I am extremely toey. Because he is sexy and I can't get him off my mind. And yesterday he wouldn't stop being awesome and it made me overflow with meow for him because he deserves it because he is so very awesome. And I love waking up when I've been "sleeping" in freshly washed and sunned bedsheets and had a nice scrubbly bubbly shower with nice-smelling soap before bed. I am a night showerer and sometimes I shower morning AND night. Apparently this is because I am a Gemini. I personally think it is because I like being wet. (!) In any case, being clean and fresh makes me toey. I dunno why. When he came over the other day he arrived while I was still in the shower and when I came out I couldn't control myself. Bathrobes are superfluous at such times.
What was I saying?
Oh. Yeah. I texted him with a "Grrrrrrrawr" this morning at around 9am.
He had no credit left to reply with. So when he got to verk at 9:30, he called me and talked to me for 15 minutes to make sure I didn't think he was ignoring me. I didn't think he was ignoring me. I thought he was out of credit. I was thinking about stripey bags.
Am I high maintenance? I don't mean to be. I hate high-maintenance women. High maintenance women are losers. I like to think that I'm a low-maintenance woman, but I guess all I ever do is chase him around trying to take his clothes off, so perhaps I am kidding myself. In that way, I am very demanding for him. Indeed, indeed. Grrrrarr. I can't help it. I want to eat him. I want to trap him between my thighs and I want to lick his shoulder. He turns me on just by looking at me.
Sausage is being a big fat fucking headache today. He's stuffing up left right and centre. He just made a mess of my Friday night and now I have to clean it up. At least I will be finished at my job in time to go to the city and watch the last bit of the gig I was SUPPOSED to be in.
I handed in my application this morning. I will probably find out this afternoon if I got the apartment or not. If I do, you will no doubt be attacked with large purple font of some kind.
11am. Time for breakfast.
Then time to put things into stripey bags.
Then time to tweak demos. Unfinished bass line groove one needs drums up. Organ up. Vocals up in doo-doo bit that doesn't go anywhere. Yet. Girl needs vocals fixed so they don't distort every time I go, "In Maaaaahhh arms!"
Hmm. First things first. Free range egg, poached, wholemeal toast, coffee.
I have only had one coffee. But I had a cigarette because I was talking on the telepoon. I can't stop talking. I'm nervous about the apartment and I'm home by myself.
December 1, 2008 - BP Blurt Alert. And some meandering thoughts. But what's different about that? Zip, really.
It's a really beautiful night.
I looked at two apartments today. The first one was nice and big but the stairwell and the garish blue carpet is kinda dodgy. Yet.... you know... I can't help myself. I like it. I don't think I should live in an uppity "swish" apartment. It's just not me. I could afford the second one I looked at, but I'd rather use the extra $40-$60 a week to get out and do something. Eat nice food. Go to Darling Harbour with the Spawn. I dunno. Stuff like that. Another $40-$60 a week equals either a fancier apartment, or a fun afternoon or two with Spawn, and/or shouting a mate their dinner. I choose the latter two options.
Plus, the "nice" one was too hot and stuffy even though it LOOKED airy and bright. The first one was cool and breezy. It was good to be inspecting apartments on a hot summer afternoon, because I could tell which one was cooler in summer.
Tomorrow morning I put in my application. Wish me luck. I could be to-and-froing with carloads of stripey bags come Monday morning. Or even as early as Thursday or Friday. Goodness me... I need to wail at my brother to help me. Three flights of stairs, I'm pretty sure. I can't push my washing machine and my fridge up there all by myself.... I don't think. Can I? No. Certainly not my fridge. I am strong and I can do all of it myself except my fridge.
I have given my two couches to my housemates because I can't be arsed moving them, and I also wanna get a nice new couch. But I will be sans couch until I have decided on a new one. No doubt the couch purchase will be at least half a day's indecisiveness. Do I just go to Ikea? Or do I go to the futon shop on King st? Or perhaps go sniffing around for a groovy secondhand one?
Ew.
No.......... I want a couch that is guaranteed to know nothing of spew or other peoples' sex lives or grotty animals or incontinent nannas.
I am really very in love with my bassplayer.
Oh... have I told you that already?
Sorry.
I put him in a position that required that he show a lot of strength and emotional maturity, and I knew he would, because I just know that's who he is. But also, just seeing him display his quiet strength even when he's shaking inside makes me think to myself, "Yep. This is why I believe in and love this person so much."
He's just special, and he just gets it.
And he gets me. Nobody bloody gets me. But he does.
And he is always so funny and sexy even when everything is so shitty.
And he makes me feel pretty when I'm really tired and my hair is all fluffy and I'm makeupless and wearing my day-off-daggies.
He buys me Cherry Ripes because he knows I am a Cherry Ripe piggy.
He has a filthy mind and has now begun beating me to all the dirty jokes.
He feels the cold. He has a thing about car air conditioning.
He knows more than I do about music and can talk about it as long as I can.
He gets lost really easily when he's in unfamiliar surroundings and it's really cute.
When he first sees me, he looks right at me. He's checking. I avoid his eyes and squash my face into his neck because I feel shy.
He has this thing where he starts to fall asleep and catches himself. I know when he's dropped into sleep. But then two seconds later he suddenly stirs and he's awake again. Then I say, "You are tired. Just have a sleep!" and he's like "No!" and I'm like, "Why?" and he's like... "It's rude!"
He really relaxes around me, and I know it's a massive compliment because the man does not otherwise relax. I like to watch him flop on my bed and I like watching him have a stretch and a yawn, like a cat. I know when he's relaxed because he doesn't notice when we've been silent for more than 60 seconds. And when he snores it relaxes me because I know he's completely relaxed.
He lies there when we've just got busy and we've gone quiet... and his hand runs up and down my back and down my thigh and up again and into my waist and across my back again and squeezes me a little here and there and massages my neck. I don't know. I just love it. It settles me down inside.
He knows that I need touch from him more than anything else to feel that all is good in the world.
He enjoys moments and stretches them out and rolls around in them and savours them.... you know?
Even though I'm always wrecking them because I just can't help myself. Two weeks ago, I was lying all over him in a peaceful post-coital lovey moment and suddenly asked him which kind of cheese he buys.
December 1, 2008 - Reason #749066 why the Spawn is cute.
On my solitary voyage (me harties!) to the South Coast for the weekend a couple of weeks ago, I went to a deserted beach in the national park and in my sad aimless wanderings and beachcombings I chanced upon an enormous cuttle bone, about as long as my forearm. I am loathe to interfere with the ecosystem, but because I am a selfish twat, I picked it up and took it home for my daughter. I knew she'd be interested by it, but I didn't know she'd be fascinated with it. I ended up teaching her all I know about cuttlefish (I was always actually pretty good on the whole marine life thing because I've just been into it since I was tiny), and in the process I ended up also transferring my enthusiasm for how totally cool they are. The more facts I enlightened her with, the more her eyes lit up as she turned the cuttlebone over and over in her little hands, running two fingers along the tiny corrugations in its shallow tongue-like cleft.
This was about ten days ago.
Just now, I was Googling something about music, and as I typed, as usual, the menu popped down and showed previous searches that have been made on my computer.
In the list, I saw that someone had searched for "cuddle fish".
My day is done. I got up and did stuff and then I got ready and I went to work and then I went to the shops and then I drove across town and back again and it took us forever to get home, and now it's time to breathe, and I can't... I just don't want to. Everything is just so out of place, and I have said things despite what my heart is screaming at me the whole time. Easy to ignore myself, though, when I have what I know he needs in mind. You can't truly be loving someone if you are drugging them and binding them to their own comfort zone. A junkie begs you for money, but you know what they're gonna buy with it, right?
November 30, 2008 - {{WARNING: SUPER-LONG CHERREH-LIKE POST}} ...and I should probably come to an understanding with my laugh.
I am about to ramble.
I can feel it.
I need to get new strings.
I have to go to work in about half an hour and my neck feels fuddy.
My ears are ringing.
I just ate a meal for the first time since Friday.
I need to debrief. I debriefed on my poor lover last night but it just looks like I'm fishing for compliments and reassurance all the time, and I hate that. Probably because I subconsciously am. But I also know he'll tell me where I need to improve and not bullshit me, and I really love that about him. But when he says I was really good, I squirm. Coz..... there must be something I could've done better. Like last night's show. I slowly get more confident with the repertoire on these shows, but I still play stupid mistakes that I have no excuse to make, and I'd like to be getting better faster. But gah. That requires the kind of practise time I don't think I can scrape together.
I've tangenterated.
Why not go on another tangent, then?
Yesterday I was so nervous and so busy late into the night that I didn't eat anything. The Bassplayer fed me bits of my favourite chocolate bar on the way home last night, which I gobbled unsexily from his fingers. He likes to feed me. Every time he does it, I pretend that I don't know I'm supposed to act all sexy and sultry as he puts the morsel into my mouth. When I make fun of myself in a really dry way, he doesn't know whether to go ahead and laugh at me or not because he's not sure if it will hurt my feelings, because perhaps I didn't mean to be funny....? Did she mean to be funny or is she for real?? Meheh. And that makes it even funnier in my head.
Yesterday, as predicted, was huge. I was on the go from 8am and I have no idea when we actually got home, but I think it was around 2am. Then the Bassplayer had to drive another half-hour from my place to his place. We worked together all day. Was nice knowing he was around when I was doing the first gig, because while I was in professional mode, deep down I was stifling a deer-in-the-headlights feeling, having not done a gig of this kind before. People want to see you come up with the goods. You're supposed to be the personality-plus chick that they can count on to make their event really snappy and cool. I felt like I had to look perfect and stand perfectly and walk perfectly and speak well, and I silently thanked my mother for telling me for so many years to keep my shoulders back and look pleasant at all times the way ladies should. Fucked, really. Rock chick in me wants to stick it up that whole school of thought. But when I need to be well presented, I know what I'm supposed to do, and how to speak properly, and I have her to thank for that. Actually, I should thank her for that the next time I see her and I feel like being soppy and ........ and shit.
All the same, my legs were killing me last night.
Standing nicely for five hours hurts.
I interviewed three panels of experts in various fields of my industry, and it took enormous amounts of concentration and focus for five hours straight, which is actually something I only ever have to do for three hours at a time in my occupation. I was also using parts of my brain that I haven't used in a long time.
As I drove from that gig to the next, I felt really fulfilled and happy that I'd had a crack at it, and got through it without making too many awkward errors. There were moments of awkwardness when I'd ask a curly question and the panel would look at me blankly. But that was probably not because I'd chosen the wrong question.... but because I'd chosen a good question. There were, however, other moments where I'd settled and felt really at ease with the audience and my panel, and I'd laugh at something someone said, and then realised I'd laughed really very loudly, and on-mic, and it'd echo through the large room and the very elegant female artist closest to me on the panel looked up at my face in an "oh my god, you're not a normal person, are you?" kinda way.
My laugh is too conceited and bossy and uncontrollable. I kept forgetting myself and laughing too loud and forgetting that I was supposed to be extremely in control of myself and aware of my body language and my elocution and poise. But the stupid loud laugh kept coming out every time the audience or the artists did or said something funny. And I'm aware that it's quite disturbing to look at. Before I realise it, I'm bent at the knees and am holding the microphone out to one side, in a kind of upright vomiting position. Either that or I'm leaning right back with my mouth agape to the heavens, in an alarming convulsive fit of mirth which breaks the suburban noise pollution laws. I just can NOT control my laughter. Well-brought up ladies should titter politely into a white gloved hand. Well, okay.... I'm exaggerating. But if something tickles my funny, I am not above snorting, and throwing my head back and doing a pompous "HAR-HAR-HARRR!" If there's food in my mouth I kinda heave downwards and try to keep every orifice in my face shut, in which case I still end up convulsing but in a silent way, and the food my mouth is then kept for several seconds under enormous pressure and I am seriously under great risk of cranial explosion, my head being a kind of pressurised pinata full of roasted vegetables and turkish bread which could blow up at any moment, splatting my immediate surrounds with a colourful Pro Hart-esque pumpkin and ricotta and rocket debris.
The Laugh Thing bothered me all afternoon, and in this morning's wee hours on the long drive home, I let it out on the Bassplayer.
"Have I got a weird laugh?"
"Er..."
"It's so loud. It's stupid. It's all childlike. It doesn't sound like a woman. I mean.... it's cerainly not a sexy laugh."
"Well, I like it."
"Hahahahaaa! ....... oh bloody hell."
"Ah, see.... that's the laugh I like."
The final panel was the most challenging, because it was a panel of extremely talented and accomplished musicians, who, unlike the two panels of experts before them, really thought about their answers laterally and creatively and spoke with complete honesty, being extremely generous with their wisdom. Unfortunately, that meant that they also made their bitterness evident.
I also met my lover's 10 year-old daughter and fell completely in love with her as well. Dang it. I actually didn't expect to be so affected by her. She just kinda kept making me laugh, and kept calling me over to her, and asking me to go with her so she could show me something, and I couldn't say no. Hearing her say my name was really strange. I was just enchanted, and I couldn't stop talking to her. Her big brother is less approachable, and that's probably all on my side of the fence. I know he is extremely bright and intuitive and I didn't approach him because the last thing I want to do is accidentally give away how fond I am of him, because it would only weird him out. He doesn't know me from a bar of soap.
Sausage was supposed to give me $400 last night. He gave me $300. I was just incredulous. He just keeps doing it. He's a fucking idiot. I just stood there laughing at him. There is nothing one can say. It was a Minties moment.
I've banged my head on something and I can't remember when it happened. But there's a 4cm spot on the left hand side of my head that really hurts, like it's really badly bruised or something. I am a bit weirded because it's directly over the spot where my cyst is, and the same size as the cyst. But that doesn't make sense. Why would it hurt on the outside of my head? It just hurts as if I've banged my head really hard. I just can't remember when I did it.
Being hired for one's personality makes for even less sleep the previous night. You gotta wake up ready to be a goose. But a goose with style. Ready for many, many eyes to be looking at you and listening to what you are saying. There is no script. It be just me talking and being.... me. No hiding behind guitars and songs and my voice. Just.... talkativeness. I am a bit scaredy-like. I have only done this once.
Oh well. I get to have dinner with my lover. There be my reward. Even though we probably don't get dinner until about midnight....
Tonight we got stuck in city traffic because a building burned down. We always take the street on which the rehearsal faciliteh is located, because it leads directly to the bridge. By the time we neared the rehearsal studios, we'd been waiting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for 45 minutes and the child was reeeeeeeally huuuuuuuungry, and we knew the band were inside having fun without us. So we of course decided to stop and wait out the traffic jam in a more fun way, rather than inching along for another hour trying to escape the city. The kid smacked eyes on the bassplayer and involuntarily and instantly squished up her nose. She loves him. She thinks he's a god. Cracks me up.
She watched the band playing all the hits. She's such a musician's kid. Rehearsal studios are nothing to her. She just sat on the couch, ate the toasted cheese sandwich that she charmed out of the lady in the office, and enjoyed the show.
Yes, I'm jealous. :)
I got taken to see orchestras and piano recitals. Not bands.
She had her feet stuck out over the edge of the sofa and was twirling one ankle and chewing thoughtfully on her hot sandwich. She observed the guitarist for a bit (a guitarist she hadn't met before tonight) as he readied his effects pedals and strummed a few times to check the delay, and then she leaned across to me.
"He's like a real rockstar."
Later on, it was, "This song is stronger than the others."
Nothing beats what she said to me about one of my songs, though.
"Hey mum.... this song... is it yours? Yeah.... I really like it. It makes sense."
I hadn't even put the vocals on it yet. She'd listened to other songs that I thought were cleverer, but she preferred the one I'd not yet finished. I should make sure that song makes the record. Children know these things.
Tomorrow I have a massive day.
I am really tired.
But I have to study the things I have to say. I have another hosting gig out west. I don't really know if I'm gonna cut the mustard. Only one way to find out, really. Then after that, I trap the Beepee and his bass guitars and my keyboards into my car and drive for three hours to a job we're doing in the deep south.
talky-talky-talky
I haven't had time to make the cd he wanted me to make. Got home too late. Dang.
