It always feels like something's missing. I missed a lot this winter, in this Winter Sur. I missed the summer, skipped it's summer mood. I missed my best friend's birthday, the 4th of July, always spend it did I in the throws of drink and good company and familiarity at the sense that things would always be like that. What's that called... that revel in the wonderful routine, the commonplace, the expected and afforded to plan. It's a submission to comfortable surroundings; a stunt to growth.
Who says how much we are to grow? Well, I guess we each do, each of us. There's not much amusement in growth (we all remember how much schooling sucked), so I understand the thinking; grow enough, grow into something, into a place and enjoy it. Growing's no walk in the park, but it provides wonder and the awe of learning.
Or whatever, you know?
Maybe you can grow too much, get too big you know, like the Roman Empire or Alexander the Great and his Greece. It was really much more than Greece really, but it all came crashing down afterwards. Is that what happens? A big explosion, an expansion out into greatness and then cracks in the shield under the weight and then turmoil, disillusionment and chaos.
Or is growth like a redwood tree, steady and strong, and stronger and taller still, slowly each year for eons. But nobody knows your name.
That's right, I missed Outside Lands too, speaking of Northern evergreens. Outside Lands and San O, and practically all the summer pier concerts.
All for an exploration of self-imposed depression. In a fucking beautiful city in its winter rest. It's death.
I feel like the hardboiled egg, not the coffee bean right now. At least I'm not the carrot. Let's see if we can turn that hot water into coffee, shall we?
What I learned is this: there is no escape in running away. Escape is in the music. Escape is the music. No, reverse that.
Never go deaf, my darling.
