Wane and the Drought

On June 25, '07 there was a break. The hand in the cookie jar was slapped, the Best Western housed the Worst of the Best'uns for a few days, then onward and downward. Then the owner of the cookies left (with the jar presumably -- or most of it), and now here we are. Waning interest in a variety of things. Steadily waning. The fiddle camps turned up the juice on fiddle, but it has waned. The meetings of the secret sobriety society turned up the juice on sobriety, but that has waned. Creative juices are drying up on all fronts. There was, last year, much journaling, poetry, ad music. Now there is no journaling (who wants to read this crap?), little blogging. We're in drought and there is for real extreme fire danger. My myspace profile is boring, and I barely blog. My most passionate feeling of the week after the 2 days of suicidal depression was feeling of "Pore Hillary!_
This is merely a phenomenon. a wet farft. a bit of puke in the gullet. It will pass. But I feel I will never journal again.
Thank God? No, damn shame. Drought. Extreme fire dangler. The journals are so nice to come across 14 years hence.
Because I've always been clever. Less so now as you see............

The inward chapping coincides (as God laughs) with a series of golden opportunities for creativity, devotion, insight, trustworthiness, fun, joy, fame, and even maybe chicks.... Junior Brown has asked me to produce a family TV show featuring his musical performances live in the studio. with famous guests no less. And asap!
Bob Schneider, the most inspiring artist with whom I have ever worked, has invited me back onstage with him. Challenges at work are manageable. Staff is supportive. But I don't got the juice. Not today. Although folks have fallen miraculously in place to help with the Junior deal and I truly believe Junior is ready, I am not hungry for this.
Bob gave me 17 mp3s to check out. I've barely listened. Of course I'll do a lot of wingin it on stage, and it will be fine, but.... a drought, a waning, a drying up, a shrivelling.

No more journals no poetry. No book I am excited about, although I still am liking the Jacobs book on city planning and dabbling ever so slowly in the Black Swan (which is secretly about how stupid I am, wanting to be empirical and all). And I'm supposed to do my second like lightning jazz (but I don't want it to be jazz) record in a day or so next week. The concept is to go down and dirty and simple with the awesome glitch that I will be a featured vocalists and will do at least 2 duets, maybe more, with Alice Mama Saffer and Emily Gimble. Maybe Megan Melara will sing one or two and co-write. Oh and I worked on 6 new tunes with Harvey this week, and many are good (since he's so darn poetic among autre choses.)
THe creative projects are overwhelming. It rains it pours, there is doubt and drought. Drought in the spirit. And I think it's so simple stupid. Sex! We ran plum out!

But don't let me bore you. Stop reading. "Cause this stuff is dry as am I as a bone.
My wife and I renewed our vows last week, and I think she didn't really even know it. Now I think maybe I can run around on her. Now that we're renewed and all. She has encouraged it. The good Italian wife. I thought I remembered her having some Irish, Cherokee, maybe Dutch or German and Native American blood. In any case, I think I'm either gonna try a couple hours with a professional hooker, or go eHarmony. The guys all look cute in the commercials, even if the girls are clearly not of the same aristocratic demeanor of my beloved. Former now renewed beloved. What a wonderful mysterious person. Wonder how her cholestrerol is. Wane north of here. I drought, it's a problem.

It is though. It is the hand of death.