a cat and a dog...

this unfathomable mystery that is life continues to surprise and lead me in all different directions. i've given up on planning, really. life presents, and i react. that is all i can really do. well, no, but whatever, maybe you understand.

i'm in bayfield right now. haven't written on here in a while. did you miss me? maybe. i missed you. this i know. thanks to the black dog pub for their wireless interent connection, while i enjoy a st. ambroise apricot wheat, and write to you, my long lost loves.

what's been going on? well, a lot. and nothing. simultaneous co-nonexistence. allow me to explain. months ago i quit my job. i decided to take a couple of months off, to, ahem, "work on music." accomplished? nothing. i recorded one song. i sank deep into a place i don't want to return to ever again. i drank. drank. drank. and other things. sometimes i didn't drink. i stared at the wall. at the wall. at the wall. for hours. hours. days. days. weeks. turned into months. turned into "shit i'm out of money and haven't accomplished shit!"

somewhere along that line, ***** and i broke up. i'm not sure really how it happened. or when. or why. but it did. and it was the right thing. things weren't right. i think we both finally realized it, and switched lanes.

(maybe something new will make sense, maybe it'll be a while. no way to know.)

i was broke. no work. no music. needed a job.

so i took one.

and kind of lived in limbo for a while. two months of talking to almost nobody. watching a zillion movies. sleeping too much. maybe doing some yoga and jogging but mostly sleeping. sleeping. sleeping. sleeping. go to work. sleep. again and again.

i just quit that one too. over this winter, i've been working hard at some things. really hard at some things. superreallyfuckinghard at some things. some things i don't know if i can tell you about just yet, but shit, some of the toughest battles i've had to fight in my life. like that movie bloodsport, where you keep fighting, and each time, your opponent is even tougher than the last, and you just keep going, because you know that the second you give up, or doubt yourself, or decide you might quit, you know you will die. inside, at least. or all over. what is the point of life if not the neverending - futile - war against death?

so here i am.

i'm in bayfield.

i just quit my job. i gave notice to my landlord. i'm moving here in a few weeks. my friend ***** works here, bartends, offered me the job. i made a list in my head...

1. i'll make more money over the summer than i'm making now. a lot more.
2. the rent is less than i'm paying now.
3. it's a small town, cool bar, great beer selection (imports, micros), scotch, wines.
4. it's a block from the beach.
5. there is a yoga studio across the street from the bar.
6. it's a block from the beach.
7. it's a block from the beach.
8. it's a block from the beach.
9. it's a block from the beach.

so much changing. but i made a decision. i'm sticking to it. and it feels fucking good. i'm getting kind of sick of living below my potential. i'm just not good at promoting myself. i detest dealing with people who are talentless. unintelligent. visionless. so many editors, label people, etc., are just bullshit. makes it hard to be an artist, when you don't want to play the game. fuck the game.

i guess i will do what i do, and die broke, and i have to live with that.

so, while i'm doing it, i might as well have one fucking helluva time, no?

yes.

i'm moving to bayfield. i will bring my gear. maybe i'll make some new music? maybe i won't. maybe i'll be a worthless drunk who isn't living up to himself. maybe i'll be brilliant. maybe no one will give a fuck. maybe i never will.

but i'd like to start...