A year ago, I made my usual March entry noting with increasing nods of the knowing that March is my launchpad month.
Alas, I had no fucking clue what was about to happen. Last March launched a series of non-events that have left me in a lurch of creative diffusion. I lost focus on specific outlets of my creativity.
In some cases, the pandemic made those outlets impossible to access. For example, my weekly jam session with Ian was indefinitely put on hold. While I continued to dabble on the keys, I was no longer continuously held accountable by the jam. Prior to that horrible March, I went into those jam sessions with a slate of pieces that I was making progress on. I knew that I HAD to practice lest I arrive with the same level of mastery of Bowie’s Moonage Daydream or Riders on the Storm I had exhibited the week before. I held myself to progress. It was making me a better musician, and I believe it was driving Ian to practice more as well.
My writing suffered. My blogs through April, May and June descended into rehashing of old Daze of the Weak posts. I made the choice to work from home and that invasion of the workplace into my home life ruined my home life for a time until I was reluctantly forced to return to an only slightly safer workplace than the one I had refused to go to for several weeks. I think the only true creativity I exhibited was in reworking a line from a past post:
And you may not realize how you you are until you are you knowing the you you were before you were the you you are.
I abandoned the three or four novel-in-progress projects I had. That hurt. I was making real progress in some—immensely pleased with my evolution as a world builder.
In July I canceled my much anticipated jaunt to Colorado to celebrate my 42nd birthday by climbing a 14er in the San Juan Mountains. That hurt. I had it all planned. I had bought a “DON’T PANIC” towel and was going to take it to the summit.
I wasn’t alone. We all suffered this same low. Even though there are those out there that pretended and continue to pretend that this pandemic didn’t happen/isn’t happening, they can’t deny the impact it had on their lives. And, if they do deny it, well that’s even more proof. Lies beget the lie.
I have emerging from this darkness with things I didn’t have before. A degree—paltry as it may be. A disconnection from most social media. A new cat. His name is Finnegan.
Here he is:
His full name is Lord Finnegan Fergus Fenton Green, late of the Red Gate, Heir to the Duchy of Davis. He has many nicknames: Finn (least favorite for obvious sequel reasons), Finnster, Finnsky, Smol Frye, Fry Guy, Weedol Kitty.
Kelly technically saved this guy. He was a street cat and has the scars to prove it. He had been frequenting her doorstep for a few months and was just a tiny meowy thing that she started feeding because he was skinny as fuck. He had disappeared for a time, and then showed up with a bad wound on his back paw. Kelly immediately took him to the emergency vet, and got him fixed up. And then I took him in, because she couldn’t. He and Gatsby get along fabulously, but we’ll explore that in another post. I need to wrap this up.
Something else I’ve come away with more recently: a fucking vaccine!
Yes, by some miracle and asthma, I got the first jab and will get another in a couple of weeks.
This will be a singles season for the ages if I’m so bold. I may be at that *wink wink, nudge nudge, eh? he asked him knowingly* wyv a laydee
And so, circling back, it’s March. Again. And again, after two solid months of failing to start a serious schedule of forward progress, March is once again my launchpad. I’m more confident now than I ever have been in my life.
I bought a fucking NORD STAGE 3 88-KEY KEYBOARD. Expect some fucking developments on that fucking front fucking soon, sir.
We’re rounding the bend now, and the finish line is NOT in sight. What is in sight is that beautiful horizon that forever recedes away from my interminable march forward.
Alas, progress eternal.