This has been the blog version of a dead letter office for way too long. I’d had another writing project, a personal one that has nothing to do with publication, hanging over my head for a good amount of time, and I got away from posting here. Which is a mistake, really, because getting back that writer’s discipline is going to take some work. I probably won’t be here every day, but two or three times a week ought to be a reasonable goal.
Anyway, good to be back doing this, at least right now in this moment. What’s been going on is work (this is a good thing, for someone who spent two and a half years out of work), recovery work, and then just the leisure of coming home and trying to improve my guitar technique from working out of tablature books. Mostly I’ve been doing a slow boat to China through a couple of books of songs by James Taylor, which is kinda funny because that was so not my taste in music for a really long time. But one cannot deny the absolute mastery and depth of his guitar style and technique, and learning even a few of his songs has helped me deepen my own finger-style guitar technique.
So, well, my life is pretty boring these days, really. I live alone, got no cat or dog or even anything remotely resembling a sweetie, and I’ve just been trying to be a better person. Some days, that works out pretty well. Other days, not so much; I make a bad decision or revisit an old resentment I should have let go of long ago and give it renewed life, and that really doesn’t do anyone much good.
So here it is a Sunday morning, and I’m sitting in a laundromat typing this as my stuff spins in the dryers. I got up pretty early, a little later than when I normally get up to go to work, but still pretty early for a Sunday morning, and early enough to beat the rush here. Pretty soon, people will be shlepping their baskets and hampers in here, and it becomes harder to find an open machine, not to mention a place to sit and relax. I’m kind of surprised that I got here before 49ers Guy, who occupies the only bench that’s close to a power outlet, and sits, sans computer, reading Star Wars “novels” while decked out in Niners swag. Maybe it’s because his teal plays this morning at 10 a.m., and he didn’t want to miss the game. That, of course, is fine by me.
I’m going to clear out of here in a bit, maybe swing by the open air Farmer’s Market but probably not, and then hit this meeting I go to on Sunday mornings, because an old friend who was here when I got sober 19 years ago is chairing, and it’s his last meeting here before he moves to Oregon where the more humid air and weather suits his medical condition better than this hot, dry valley. I keep telling myself that I’m going to stop going to that meeting, because it’s a “tag” format — one person talks, and tags the next person, who tags the next after he or she is done, and it usually turns into a daisy chain of the same people every week, many of whom ran out of cogent things to say a long time ago. There’s this one clown-like guy who shows up halfway through the meeting, sits right up front, and invariably gets called on. I’m pretty tired of hearing his shtick at this point, so oftentimes I vote with my feet and leave. But today is goodbye to my old pal Dave, so I’ll have to stick it out.
How’s that for boring? Time to fold my schmattes already. See ya. —Jackson Griffith