My books made their way out of the boxes and onto the shelves. The records are still boxed up, in the closets. Yesterday, a friend stopped by and asked if I would set up turntables. I hadn't thought about it, but maybe. It would only make me regret having given away so many of my records. I would likely become bored of dj'ing, though. Could be fun for a while. Who knows.
I could make a mix tape.
I could also set up my studio gear. That seems more satisfying, though I haven't made music in years. Everything requires space that you must be willing to sacrifice. The surrendering that becomes increasingly difficult as you get older. Aging is as much about space as it is about time.
In the nineties, when I was in my twenties, most of my friends had entire rooms in their Florida homes dedicated to listening to music and consuming ecstasy. Seems so improbable now.
Are there still pockets of kids out there somewhere, holing up in rooms together, getting loved up.
I wonder. I'm sure there must be. I hope so. It seems inconceivable that I would not know about it, and be invited, but it must be true.
Nobody wants me doing drugs any more. I've taken an informal poll and the results were unanimous. I'm not sure what happened.
Yes I am.
Each respondent gave specific anecdotal support for their vote of no confidence.
Jesus, I'm sitting here listening to Dolly Parton. Why did I just invoke Jesus? He knows what I'm listening to. He is the great Spotify in the sky.
I love country music, but it is some sappy stuff. The seventies were weird, man.
I'd like to do a country/bluegrass radio program.
I may have missed my true calling.
Speaking of, the boy will be up soon, then it's bacon time...