I’ve felt horrible the last four days.
I’m lucky to have a peanut butter sandwich on days like those. Cooking a full meal is akin to climbing Mount Everest. If it weren’t for boiled eggs, oatmeal, and milk, I’d probably dry up completely.
This morning however, I woke up at 5:00 without a headache. This, in and of itself, already puts me in a more positive frame of mind. After cleaning litter boxes and filling food bowls, I sit to rest, and vape while I quaff two cups of coffee. These are the only two ‘treatments’ that I rely on to get me into ‘work’ mode. Sometimes they make a big difference. I don’t trust doctors or the FDA anymore. How can they prescribe something to treat my condition, when they claim that they don’t even know what the hell has caused it?
I look at the studio equipment that I disassembled over a year ago. I really want to put that thing back into the operational mode, but today there are more pressing matters to attend to. The house has gone to hell over the last four days and I simply have to clean up.
I start the dishwasher, and drag a load of clothes into the laundry room. As that process plays out, I run my big, yet lightweight microfibre floor duster, then draw a big pan of hot water, and add plenty of bleach.
I have a big kitchen, a big den, the laundry room, and a bathroom to mop.
I’ve been in the ‘process’ of tiling the floors for the past two years. A few years back, my son helped me take up all of the carpet, because vacuuming that nonsense was becoming close to impossible for me.
I have three portions of the kitchen in a sort of ‘grid’. I mop one grid, then rest, vape, and drink more coffee while it dries. Then move on to the next portion. I have the entire floor done within an hour. Sufficiently warmed up, I start on the den, which is also where I ‘live’. My bed and everything is in there.
The rhythmic back-and-forth motion of mopping is beginning to make my back ache and tire, but I do my best to ignore the pain.
Half-way through the den, the washer signals that the laundry is ready to go into the dryer, but it really is nice outside today, so I haul the bed linens out to hang up and dry. Sun dried bed sheets are one of the finer things in life.
Another hour later, the den and bathroom floors are finished. I rest up and look at the studio equipment again. I’ve got at least twelve sketches of new tunes recorded into my phone, and I feel pressed to get them properly recorded.
I haven’t produced a new CD in almost three years, and am beginning to think that the format is a waste of time and energy. Owing to the fact that I am a visual artist as well as a songwriter, it only follows that I feel it necessary to do all of the cover art and liner notes myself. I’d like to just quit production of CDs, however the artist in me eschews mp3 files, and feels that in order to truly release songs, they must at least be recorded to CD to count as a ‘work’. I come from an era that the purchase and ownership of a physical product was part and parcel of a ‘music collection’.
I reflect on my immortality, and hope to the heavens that I do not die, leaving a bunch of orphaned tunes on my phone.
After putting another load into the clothes washer, I sit down at my desktop to work on a generation of my on-line genealogical tree that has been giving me a problem, but this is not what I really want to do. I see enough of this on days that I can do little else. Besides, the light from the screen hurts my eyes.
I need to get back to work. After folding the dried clothes, I empty the dishwasher, and then sit down to rest and vape. Darn it. Where did the time go? It’s a quarter to eleven, I’ve drained an entire pot of coffee, and I need to cook something. Won’t everyone be surprised when they get home! Oh, boy! A hot meal.
But I’m already feeling the effects of my efforts, and I’m thinking that tacos sound extreme enough for what is left of my energy reserves, so I start cooking the meat and chopping the onions. Repetitive motion tasks seem to be the worst. Onion chopping kills my arm now. The onset of fatigue is so quick that it still leaves me incredulous, but there was a time that I was capable of butterfly curls – 50 reps of 25 pounds – without breaking a sweat. Glory days.
After eating, I’m shot. Food affects me like a Valium, and sleep becomes unavoidable. While lying in bed and checking my Twitter feed, I glance across the room at my recording equipment once more. How many times in the past few years has this scenario played out? I can only hope that tomorrow will be as productive as today was, but experience has taught me that tomorrow I’ll most likely feel as if I’ve been beaten with a rubber hose because of today’s efforts.
If I’m lucky, I’ll feel better in a few days and will be able to begin the cycle all over again, but my chance of ever getting the studio back together looks slim from this side of life.
By the way – in the event that something unexpectedly happens to me, the code to open my phone is PEnnsylvania 6 – 5000. If there are any tunes on there, I would like to think that one of my musically inclined colleagues will take it upon themselves to finish those tunes for me.