Host of Sundays.

Ever since I was a child, Sundays have been lazy to no end for me. Sweeping up memories of being a wee lad, I remember going to church, being tired the whole time and falling asleep in the service after Sunday school. Usually after the tithe envelopes were completely doodled or the supplied tiny pencil was dulled from drawing. I remember coming home after church with my dad in our Cadillac and we fell asleep in the driveway with the windows down on a nice spring day. We were so tired we couldn't even make it inside to start our Sunday naps. I'm sure I wanted to go in but he was the one with the keys. A lot of my memories of my dad are sleepy, but that's another therapy session, errr, blog entry, altogether. There was a Sunday where I was terrorizing the anthill in the back yard with sticks and I got bit on the tip of my left (I'm left handed) index finger by a fire ant. My hand ached all the way up into my armpit. I couldn't rouse my dad from his Sunday afternoon amp so I just laid down beside him and slept it off. I remember feeling feverish and waking up sweaty. On a slightly unrelated note but a glaring nod to my childhood identity, after I awoke I razed that anthill with the all of the tenacity of revelations and none of its grace. If ants go to heaven, these sure went to hell first. I dug up the anthill with a shovel and poured red jugged gasoline into it. I burned that poor antropolis to the ground like late 19th century Chicago.
I'm not sure where my mom and sisters were on these Sunday afternoons; perhaps their Sabbath comas hit them before they could even leave the church parking lot. Now I'm a youngish man and I even still I can't shake the Sunday slumber. I haven't been to church in years. My internal clock shouldn't tick differently then it does on say Saturday. But somewhere in my brain all of my tired stores up and breaks out every seventh day. I mean, I'm tired the other six on most accounts but Sunday is the day I can't face it. I take it lying down. Now that this college boy has turned into something of a workingman doing the nine to five grind, I have some semblance of normality.
Routine?
I guess that's what it's called. Frankly I hate it, because it puts Sunday at the bottom the week-mountain and the weight of the week prior and the week post slide in from either side. Maybe I need to get out of this town, maybe the trees don’t seem sleepy elsewhere, I really only know this place that I’ve grown up in. I lived in a big city for ten months but I was too young to know anything. Show me a twenty year old who knows what it is to be too tired to sleep and I’ll show you the cans from the beer I drank last night just to fall asleep early enough to wake up for all of today. Anyway, If there were a way to unhinge Sunday from my week and slide in a Saturday, I surely would do it.

hear here.

I apologize if you check this blog very often. there's stuff I write here and then it just stays drafted. Counter-intuitive of a blogger's role I know.

I house sat a home studio last week and wrote a rock and roll song for my sisters.

it can be heard here.

Light out.

My best friend is flying to New York on Thursday for an interview for a job he was offered yesterday.

I think I've always been comfortable saying I'll stay in Norman because I've had the luxury of getting out so often going on tour every few months for the last couple of years. And in the winter months even knowing that three or four months in the future I’d be leaving for a few weeks, driving to a different place each day, playing a different town each night gave me a sensation of security I didn't know I relied on so heavily. Well now that's over, the band I was touring with has abandoned any sort of national traveling. And now I feel trapped. A rabbit with his foot caught in the steel trap in the middle of a wide-open field. I can see all of the places I'm not going. All of the things I'm not doing. Watching everyone leave. The first thing I thought when Tim told me he might be moving to Long Island within a month was "I want to go with him". I surprised myself. I felt that twinge I get just before flight. Escape. Abandon. At least for a little while. Then I started thinking rationally and felt the twinge I get just before feeling sad. Missing someone. The prospect of missing someone. The back of my throat sending Morse code spasms to the back of my eyeballs. Pulling the muscles tight like reigns, the headache that comes before the cry.

I want Tim to get out of here. He's bigger and better then anything here, nothing in this town has the capacity to hold the weight of his greatness. Nothing here challenges him to the point of pushing out all of his ability. His excellence has yet to fully bloom. So when He comes back a week from Thursday I want him to step out of that airport terminal and tell me he's got the job and he's moving soon.

Lately I don't know what I need or what I want or who I am. I'm 25, that is to be expected. To be perfectly honest I've felt that way as long as I can remember. But up until this point, I think I've always thought there was a light somewhere in some tunnel I'd accidentally amble down and it would lead me to contentment. Or inspiration. Completion. Perhaps the light of that candle is waning, or maybe my faith is slipping, but I don't feel it anymore. And the weight of that realization is crushing out the zeal of the young man I am. Was. And either I want it back or I want to forget it forever.

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Hello reader. This is day one of my new blog. I'm in a strange place in my life. Lots of transition, flux, things that overwhelmed, things that underwhelmed. Constant change, constant stagnation. Mid twenties and reeling. Stick with me. We can do this.