Don't Want To Lose It

Please don't let me lose it altogether, I ask to unknown powers. It would be easy to float into a disconnected state of mind which shuts out reality for good. Actually, it wouldn't be for better, though. I can feel that, so I resist the current of the fog that offers to carry me there.

What am I doing? I don't know. There are Mormons who want me to play in their choral group which is doing a show of some kind. The music is mostly semi-soft rock covers, and they have a couple of guitars, a keyboard, drums, a bas, and approximately six singers. How did I land there is hard to say.

First the Lutherans have me playing the death march on Good Friday, now the Mormons want me for Johnny B Good. And some other tunes. It's complicated, but the Lutherans did not try to Luthanize me and, so far, the Mormons haven't attempted to Mormonize me, nor have they mentioned Mitt Romney. The bummer is they haven't offered me a collection of wives as payment. I guess that could be a good thing.

Once again, I wonder if these musical forays are worth it. If I thought I was as good a player as I ought to be, I'd probably push it harder and feel better about it. As it is, I fear I am probably where I belong, considering my level of performance ability--playing in ensembles whose source and purpose are unknown to me, and in shows I've yet to understand.

I'm supposed to play something in Santee Friday night. I do not know where or why, or who is the audience. Mormons, I presume. Part of the problem is that I don't want to know too much. I am leery of inner church workings, particularly when secret handshakes and ritual may be involved.

I wish CopperCreek would become more active. But, part of the group has lucrative career activities to maintain, and another part is not healthy at the moment, and seems to be questioning the direction. I see the possibilities because the collective sound and sanity are rare. When dealing with anything in the music world, you have 2.5 strikes against you from the start because musicians are involved and they are all nuts.

So, I'm supposed to be there tonight for the big rehearsal, but J has once again neglected to email the time, address, and other pertinent particulars. This is the 3rd or 4th time that I will have to call, have to alter my day trying to figure out time and distance. I've half a mind to do nothing and if I do not hear, not show up.

But maybe I am being a baby if I go that route. It is annoying. Somehow it reminds me of my late father, rip. He never called but when I would call he'd act like we are never in touch and every time he'd ask for my phone number as if I'd never given it to him. Then he'd never use it.

The score sheet was at least 100 to 1, calls I made to him compared to calls I received from him.

Not that conversations were that much fun. All he wanted was dirt on my mother and brother, both of whom he was free to call. To be fair, I've discovered a certain respect for some of his qualities, and a sympathy for his difficulties and confusion in life. The man could work like no one I've ever known. It wasn't often for the best in the big picture but there is value in process.

The IRS ruined his later years, and ten years after he kicked, they figured out they'd illegally raped him for close to 500k more than they should have. I wonder how that would have altered his later years had they left him alone. His last wife is to be well compensated, I understand. A devious broad, but she did keep him off the streets and put up with him for a time.

That is how it is has become with J, who recruited me for one project, and that spilled over into the Mormon hooplah. "Let me get your email written down so I'm sure I have it right."

OK. Now you have my email for the fifth time. How about making use of it. he doesn't phone text, so that method of dispersing info is not there. Phone message is less reliable because of spotty connection up here, but it could be used as well. Although, I dislike getting much info on voicemail because I have to replay the whole message over and over to get the stuff written down. "Hi this is J, the adrressisonethritytwoohfivefourteenthstreetatfiveoclockandyoutakethegoopletyplopexitoffthe

eightmakealeftnoarightandturnleftatthethridtothelastlightandtwomilesupontherightturnleft

butdon'ttaketheroadbytheminimarttaketheonebythebigtreeandyoucan'tmissit"

Due to my iffy reception, voicemail is often not received in a timely fashion.

Invariably no address will be given. All I want is an address, and if the venue has a name, include that. So, that is the trouble with the voicemail method where this J outfit is concerned.

I liked the old physical answering machines which had easier control to focus on the meat of the message so I could stop, play back, etc. This cell voice mail requires enduring the entire message then playing the whole thing again if some number is in question or it is hard to understand the rapid fire delivery of the caller.

All that is just a shred of the trouble in my mind. Sort this shame of a garbage pile of a dwelling. This cottage ought to be a friggin showplace; view you would fly to some resort to have, well built, very nice place. Not much noise, save the choppers in the distance installing towers which are part of the corrupt project I can't influence. I've not shown the gratitude or respect this stroke of luck deserves.

All of a sudden I feel sad and lonely. That hasn't haunted me much for awhile. It is the mind's way of tempting me to mentally drift off into lala land and never come back. It is also a chance to beat the blues by doing everything I don't want to do. Face your life. That is what sorting and cleaning up requires. It is very hard for me because it wakes up that free floating grief.

Then there are the projects over in the world of political puppeteers; the ones who get their pals cabinet posts in this administration and who were instrumental in putting this wannabe king in office. It is good to have it, I know. But I cannot feel anything but under employed and sad about the sort of people who will benefit from my efforts. The good part is that I get some of their money in exchange.

My general state of mind is what they call in recovery, a dry drunk. So be it. I think it probably goes a bit deeper than that.

Step one, clean out the refrigerator of all the six month old milk, spoiled produce, and things which defy identification. We will chalk that up as one tiny battle won. A small victory.