thought of him. Nothing. Or almost nothing. It was nearly a relief. I’d been so wound up, the thought of him was scaring me a little. I could think now. I would not look at the text again. Not right now.
It was a cold, clear morning. I could see the triangle of frosty blue sky from the kitchen window in between the buildings. A perfect day to regain some control and get something done. I ground some fresh coffee beans and inhaled the deep, slightly oily smell. Fantastic. I sat down, feeling something close to happy. Not so jittery. I cupped my hands around the mug. I was back in charge. Thank god. I made a piece of toast and nibbled at it. Appetite still hadn’t returned though. Food made my stomach twist. And my mouth seemed oddly discontent with chewing. Weird. I made myself finish the meager breakfast, and I grabbed my refilled mug and headed to my desk.
I could so do this. No effect. Mind over body. Control.
I set everything up, headphones on, pen out. I pressed play, ready to work. And then his voice started. I had to listen to check something he had said on the tape. But I was completely surprised by the effect his voice had on me. That urban drawl, just torn between elegantly wasted and cool. Grammatical, even in between the “I don’t know” and “it’s not for me to say.” Unwilling to pin himself down, but eager, almost desperate to talk about the music. What he was trying for. How it didn’t always happen, but you had to keep trying, because that’s what art and maybe life was all about. How learning to listen to your own voice was the biggest lesson of all.
I wished I didn’t agree with everything he said.
• • •
By the early afternoon, I had shaped the piece into something I was reasonably happy with. It was a struggle to tone down the fan girl quality just enough, not too much. I had to share my excitement about the music with people; it was my job, and beyond that, I felt a certain justice needed to be done. He had gotten so much bad press. Why do the mediocre fear what they can’t understand? I had to put in some philosophy in there. And quoted a bit of Jung. I wondered what the magazine would make of that, but hey, they hired me. I was the social commentator, the pop philosopher. They had to take me as I was.
Did they? I sat back, almost stunned at my thoughts. I had always been more about what I liked to think was the truth. The soul of the artist. Only backing down when I thought it would serve the overall game, negotiating. But very rarely did I ever come right out and say something, and more often than not, my fights were for others, their injustices, not mine.
I could run from the whole thing all I liked, but there it was, his power and his sensuality forcing open energy centers in the back of my head, creating havoc. Fucker. Away from the pleasure, it felt almost annoying, like coming home to find all the furniture rearranged. Idiotic. I read it again and saved it. Almost done. I needed some food. And Alice. And her stupid party. I changed into my gym clothes and grabbed a bottle of water and my phone. I’d run this one out. No texts. Fucker. Can’t handle this.
I came back from the gym feeling sweaty and aching. My legs hurt from running. My ears hurt from turning up the music so loud. And I had tried to ease the tension in my shoulders by lifting heavy weights, so now they hurt too. I needed a bath, and maybe a quick nap before this shindig which was bound to be strange. Strange was following me these days, it seemed.
I opened the door and heard Alice call out instantly. “Hey Lily! Get your ass in here! We’ve got to start getting ready.”
I stumbled into the kitchen and said hello, grimly.
“Oh you’ve got it so bad honey doll. You just need to see him again.” Alice punched my arm.
“Ow. Listen Alice, cool it. You’re going to say the wrong thing and then I’ll get upset.” It just wasn’t funny anymore. It was my fucking deal. She could just shut
It was a cold, clear morning. I could see the triangle of frosty blue sky from the kitchen window in between the buildings. A perfect day to regain some control and get something done. I ground some fresh coffee beans and inhaled the deep, slightly oily smell. Fantastic. I sat down, feeling something close to happy. Not so jittery. I cupped my hands around the mug. I was back in charge. Thank god. I made a piece of toast and nibbled at it. Appetite still hadn’t returned though. Food made my stomach twist. And my mouth seemed oddly discontent with chewing. Weird. I made myself finish the meager breakfast, and I grabbed my refilled mug and headed to my desk.
I could so do this. No effect. Mind over body. Control.
I set everything up, headphones on, pen out. I pressed play, ready to work. And then his voice started. I had to listen to check something he had said on the tape. But I was completely surprised by the effect his voice had on me. That urban drawl, just torn between elegantly wasted and cool. Grammatical, even in between the “I don’t know” and “it’s not for me to say.” Unwilling to pin himself down, but eager, almost desperate to talk about the music. What he was trying for. How it didn’t always happen, but you had to keep trying, because that’s what art and maybe life was all about. How learning to listen to your own voice was the biggest lesson of all.
I wished I didn’t agree with everything he said.
• • •
By the early afternoon, I had shaped the piece into something I was reasonably happy with. It was a struggle to tone down the fan girl quality just enough, not too much. I had to share my excitement about the music with people; it was my job, and beyond that, I felt a certain justice needed to be done. He had gotten so much bad press. Why do the mediocre fear what they can’t understand? I had to put in some philosophy in there. And quoted a bit of Jung. I wondered what the magazine would make of that, but hey, they hired me. I was the social commentator, the pop philosopher. They had to take me as I was.
Did they? I sat back, almost stunned at my thoughts. I had always been more about what I liked to think was the truth. The soul of the artist. Only backing down when I thought it would serve the overall game, negotiating. But very rarely did I ever come right out and say something, and more often than not, my fights were for others, their injustices, not mine.
I could run from the whole thing all I liked, but there it was, his power and his sensuality forcing open energy centers in the back of my head, creating havoc. Fucker. Away from the pleasure, it felt almost annoying, like coming home to find all the furniture rearranged. Idiotic. I read it again and saved it. Almost done. I needed some food. And Alice. And her stupid party. I changed into my gym clothes and grabbed a bottle of water and my phone. I’d run this one out. No texts. Fucker. Can’t handle this.
I came back from the gym feeling sweaty and aching. My legs hurt from running. My ears hurt from turning up the music so loud. And I had tried to ease the tension in my shoulders by lifting heavy weights, so now they hurt too. I needed a bath, and maybe a quick nap before this shindig which was bound to be strange. Strange was following me these days, it seemed.
I opened the door and heard Alice call out instantly. “Hey Lily! Get your ass in here! We’ve got to start getting ready.”
I stumbled into the kitchen and said hello, grimly.
“Oh you’ve got it so bad honey doll. You just need to see him again.” Alice punched my arm.
“Ow. Listen Alice, cool it. You’re going to say the wrong thing and then I’ll get upset.” It just wasn’t funny anymore. It was my fucking deal. She could just shut
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