019

September 22, 2009 :: Mastery

Recently I'm taking stock of the things that own me and pass my time, and I'm wondering if I need to shorten my list. I'm what? A writer and an amateur photographer, a branding firm employee and a freelancer? A band manager and a website administrator, an eco-enthusiast, a gardener, a blogger and a cook and a decorator, a thrifter, a reader, a pet nut, a handyperson, a vintage car owner, a landscaper and the caretaker of an ancient house. (Also add to that wife, daughter, sister, friend and colleague, but those titles need to stick with me.) Where do my allegiances lie? Everywhere and nowhere, it seems. How many hats until my head tips just enough and they all cascade to the floor? Some of them are already slipping, and it makes me feel awful. No photographs this week. Or last week. No progress on the band website. No, I haven't finished the blinds in the house or the book I started reading.

But just now, I realize that I did do a bunch of things. I worked my butt off at the full-time job. I cooked three straight, giant, party-style meals and hosted all manner of folks at my house, then made lunch for 7 on another day. I cultivated a couple freelance gigs, saw four live bands, cleaned the house a bunch of times and budgeted my finances within a cent of its piddly existance.

But that's all. How come that's not good enough? And what do I do now to shuffle the deck back around to the things I miss?

018

September 5, 2009 :: patio music, 2 am

At 10, we grab the wine and head outside. Bats swarm the stacks, flitting, flickering UFOs swooping insectivous snacks. Cicadias razz the trees, the back-and-forth call of the end of summer. We set the iPod in place, run the cords, light the devotional candles and pray to the alter of Costello, Lovett, Cash, then Sia, MacLaughlin, Mitchell. We sing and harmonize, clap hands and vow drum-offs and new lyrics once the sun hits the sky. The neighborhood churns along--OTPers from the bars to their cars to their suburbs, taggers chased by bearded vigalantes, late-night dog walkers. It's midnight, one, nearly two, and I catch Blake in the dim light of the Powerbook, DJing Rhapsody, and I am suddenly so in love with this night and my life.

Henry Porter @ Kavarna