Chronic procrastinator here
Well, I believe I’ve finally found something that approximates the sound inside my head most of the time. Especially lately, a weird slow grind of tension that I’ve been unaccustomed to in recent years, since I started practicing meditation daily, and since I stopped doing a lot of things that used to up the noise level in my head. I think this incipient anxiety may have something to do with some ongoing procrastination issues I’ve got going on.
The good news is, I’m feeling a bit better today than I did over the past few days The weather was darn near perfect, and then I hit a backyard get-together and talked to a bunch of people I’d never met, along with a couple of old friends, which is a real accomplishment for me. From there, I walked over to Luna’s Cafe and caught a knockout evening of jazz featuring Alex Jenkins’ Sound Immersion (Jenkins on drums, the unrelated Adam Jenkins and Tony Passarell on saxes, Alex Rieff on standup bass) and V Neck (Ross Hammond on guitar, Tom Monson on drums), which struck the right note between squiggly improvised experimentalism and more formalized accessibility. I went alone, because most of the women I know express the opinion that the only jazz worth listening to is NPR-approved and played by guys in undertaker-black suits who are trying their darnedest to sound like Blue Note recording artists circa 1957, and because, well, right now I don’t know any women who’d be interested in tagging along.
But there were a few beautiful ladies there, including a troupe who came in toward the end of the first set and included one particularly stunning Mediterranean-looking goddess who seemed to be into the music, which is a good sign, I guess. Must’ve been related to the guys on the bandstand, my inner cynic tells me.
And I am one cynical bastard, really, especially when it comes to women, their perceived over-riding need for security, financial and otherwise, and what that means for a middle-aged guy like me who’s only recently crawled back above and away from the precipice that marks the end of land and the beginning of the abyss. But I don’t want to launch into anything along those lines in this space, because I’ve hashed over this shit too much already and I will shut up about it now.
(A whoa-dude moment. I am sitting in a midtown coffeehouse as I type this. Just out the window in front of me is the douchiest-looking white guy with shades this side of the Kardashians’ Scott Disick, sitting with two very hot-looking, thin but shapely girls wearing tight, wood-triggering clothes. He’s about 30, and they look to be 16, and he’s rubbing the legs of one of them, and I have no Jerry Lee Lewis on my iTunes to provide a soundtrack. But I digress.)
The thing is, I’ve got homework to do. I’m finishing up some deeply personal writing that should have some theraputic effect once I share it with another person, and I’ve really been dragging my feet on getting it done. I need to do it, but it makes me feel pretty awful about the person I’ve been in the past, and so whenever I start feeling really funky, I find something else to go do: Play guitar. Go for a walk. Come down here and whine into my blog.
I think I’ll go home and shave off my beard. More later. —Jackson Griffith