Tough Times Don't Last; Tough Folks Do

 I went to two shows for the same band in three days, told they put on a fun show by someone I would have called a friend. Motherfucker was right. Damn him. Saturday night in Atlanta is one of the better shows in my recent memory. I'll always be able to tell about music. When nothing else moves me to words, someone else's set to music can bring me back up.

BJ Barnum writes a song that's sad enough to be relatable, but not so sad that your drunk ass cries in public. Probably why the motherfucker loves the band. I sure as hell screamed along to "I Hope He Breaks Your Heart" and "Burn. Flicker. Die." It would be a sad thing for me not to lend my voice to a song that starts "Dollar bill prescriptions in the bathroom stall. Red-headed women and alcohol. Say it ain't so, say it ain't last call. Whiskey on the rocks and Adderall." Is it a little too on the nose, absolutely. But that's part of the beauty in this writing, you can feel it on your skin and in the outside layer of your heart but it's mostly the below-the-neck kind of music. I think I feel very much the same about Luke Bryan. Poor kid gets a lot of undeserved hate and I don't get it. I think he's going to mature nicely. And he did basically write a song about me. "She likes honey in her coffee and boys that use their backs." Not a damn thing I can do with a man whose hands are softer than mine.

Oh, but let me get back to that opener for American Aquarium. I like this kid, with his fourteen harmonicas and only one additional band member on fiddle. Lance Roark: https://youtu.be/egIse8Pdpu8?si=xjRGajx_GWq4APyx 

Don't sleep on him. He writes a damn fine happy, peppy, slightly damaged love song. Just exactly my type.

I thought to make a playlist for this blog. All the titles are lyrics. I added some that I mention lyrics from or titles in here. A few that  I just knew I was thinking about when I wrote.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6nRPPj8gCTyK2L7i24xYLn?si=564a765a4c544554

I'm working hard to drag myself out of what must be a proper depression. This shit is hard. I'm sleeping too much, eating too much, drinking too much, and not moving my body enough or creating enough or being present enough. I'm trying really hard, y'all. Of course, all the information says at least two constant weeks and that's not me at all. I have moments of real joy. And it's not lingered on for two weeks yet. And maybe this is just me dealing with all the shit I'm dealing with right now. Because it's a lot of shit. I'm fighting this urge to be angry at the people who have unnecessarily exacerbated all of it. For fucks' sake, be careful with a fragile person. "Be careful with me." I don't understand not treating a person experiencing a lot of sudden change with care. But I guess I always tend to expect as good of others as I do of myself and truly, they aren't always. And they won't do better. I guess some predators always look for the weak antelope.

I write furiously because it's the only thing that seems to help. I've written a few poems in the past couple of months. Was it really only one month ago? The date seems to confirm. I don't even know what to say beyond I'm shocked at the passage of time moving this way. I guess hurt drags on. And it's funny what -  and who - hurts you the most.

And the past week or so, I find myself uninspired to write about any event. Not that I'm not doing so many things: working on February's fundraiser donation, going to so many shows, reading books, going to the gym, and spending time with my friends and my boy and the rest of my family. I listen to others tell me stories and I've met some interesting new people, but it feels muffled when I try to write. Like it's less real, somehow in my memory than my memories were just a little while ago. Like wearing cheap earplugs to a rock show. Do not recommend.

I've fully uninstalled Facebook from my phone. It wasn't serving me. Instagram still posts automatically there, so I guess folks know I'm not dead, but I don't want to be out there. It was just making me feel like shit most of the time and there's plenty of that without social media jumping on the pile. I hate being the subject of ugly talk and boy, was some of that ugly. It makes me feel sick. So maybe if I'm not there, it will all quiet down. Anyone who said something like that to my face would probably lose some teeth. Oh, the white hot rage in my stomach just thinking about it. But they won't. Every damn one of them in on it, complete chicken shit, masquerading as apex predators. Lions and wolves don't have to announce that they're lions and wolves everywhere they go. They just are, and people see it.

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