Almost 3 days straight of getting up around 4AM, and staying at the mixing board until 11 or 12 at night, just to happily get up and do it again.
If my body can keep up, it's my version of Heaven.
My brain basically
shorted out yesterday, leaving me to wake up (in bed somehow) not knowing who I was, where I was, what day it was - anything.
Still, I'm a traumatized man who hasn't felt this content - this normal - in years.
Drop me an email at The Macho Response (at) Gmail and I'll start sending you free music, as it's being created.
Looking at the newspapers, there's still not much going on, so the media's still
playing charades, hoping someone will make a guess that, somehow, will finally make-something-happen where they didn't notice anything before.
Drudge, like everybody else, is making shit up, changing his focus daily, fishing for something - anything - that'll have legs.
There's a fungus among us.
I learned that last line in the foster homes, heard usually as a greeting.
Not to be technical or anything, but that's really how it works, honest.
Instead, raid the library's documentary section and catch
51 Birch Street, a fine little (somewhat disturbing) film about
marriage and family, that had a lot of parallels to my own story,
settling something within me.
I'm never quite sure if true acceptance of what's happened is possible for me anymore, so that's quite the feat.
Or leaving the house even, now that I think about it,...