"Duh-uh," he said.
Our Portland rental has a practice space in it, of all things, so I'm back at work playing music every day, which is like falling in love every day. I leave my practice space dewy and distracted.
Last night when I finished practicing, Billy and I walked to the park near our house (for some reason last night it was like "adult swim" -- couples making out on swings, drunk guys going down the slide) -- and Billy asked me if I was alright. I had no idea what he meant. "I mean, look at you," he said. "You can't walk. Or talk."
He was right. I had hit the music wall. Playing music is like spinning and hitting the wall is when you fall down. Something about the intensity of math and emotions engaging your physical self means that you overload your brain if you try to do it for too long. It happens to me in the studio sometimes when I work crazy hours, but recording is by nature a slow process, with lots of listening back to takes. That breaks the trance.
I don't allow myself that kind of luxury when I play alone, so the trance goes on, unchecked, until I can't talk right, think right, walk right or even play right anymore. I just stop. That's what happened last night. I apologized to Billy, explaining that I played too long because and I'll quote myself, "I really love music".
"Duh-uh," he said.
I called Vic Chesnutt the day before we moved and we talked for about an hour. We agreed to worry about each other. Ostensibly because I had a broken house and he had a broken home, but really, we worry about each other anyway. We both go to the place "music" and each time we go, we don't know for sure that we're gonna come back. And then sometimes you do come back, but it's made you crazy or a junkie, or something.
Music is a hard place to go, but it's a harder place to leave, because it's logic and passions are more like the world of dreams than this world. It grabs you and it won't let go. That's scary. And we keep spinning anyway. Why?
I know what Vic would say:
"Duh-uh."
Love,
Kristin
Last night when I finished practicing, Billy and I walked to the park near our house (for some reason last night it was like "adult swim" -- couples making out on swings, drunk guys going down the slide) -- and Billy asked me if I was alright. I had no idea what he meant. "I mean, look at you," he said. "You can't walk. Or talk."
He was right. I had hit the music wall. Playing music is like spinning and hitting the wall is when you fall down. Something about the intensity of math and emotions engaging your physical self means that you overload your brain if you try to do it for too long. It happens to me in the studio sometimes when I work crazy hours, but recording is by nature a slow process, with lots of listening back to takes. That breaks the trance.
I don't allow myself that kind of luxury when I play alone, so the trance goes on, unchecked, until I can't talk right, think right, walk right or even play right anymore. I just stop. That's what happened last night. I apologized to Billy, explaining that I played too long because and I'll quote myself, "I really love music".
"Duh-uh," he said.
I called Vic Chesnutt the day before we moved and we talked for about an hour. We agreed to worry about each other. Ostensibly because I had a broken house and he had a broken home, but really, we worry about each other anyway. We both go to the place "music" and each time we go, we don't know for sure that we're gonna come back. And then sometimes you do come back, but it's made you crazy or a junkie, or something.
Music is a hard place to go, but it's a harder place to leave, because it's logic and passions are more like the world of dreams than this world. It grabs you and it won't let go. That's scary. And we keep spinning anyway. Why?
I know what Vic would say:
"Duh-uh."
Love,
Kristin
posted by Kristin at 7:09 PM
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