It's funny: Because I haven't listened to music in days, I feel as though I have nothing to say.
Let me try.
The "Deluxe Edition" of Sonic Youth's
Daydream Nation is sitting on my desk, and I haven't opened it yet. I haven't listened to music in days. Something is obviously, plainly, unambiguously wrong. Isn't it? My days go by without hook or melody, verse verse verse and out. I wake, force myself to do a few sit-ups, shit, shower, maybe shave, turn to channel 4 to get the weather from Al Roker, pick out underwear and socks and t-shirt, gather my jeans from off the floor, tie the shoes, worry about my hair, pack my lunch, note the time, lock the door, walk to the train, check the Mets score, get off the train, walk to the office, work, work, work and work, leave the office, walk to the train, think about nothing, get off the train, walk to my apartment, worry about food, get undressed, brush my teeth, wash my face, think about something, and go to sleep.
I wonder if I am depressed. I'm trying not to beat myself up about it. I have every reason to be depressed. Don't I?
It's okay. I'm okay.
Perhaps music would help, I wonder. But I can't bother. It doesn't feel right just yet.
The weather has been funny. Hasn't it? It has. It stops and goes like the traffic on Madison Avenue, sighing and whining insistently and without end. Sigh and whine, sigh and whine. Yesterday, steam flew in volcanic bursts from the innocent asphalt. Who would've thunk it? Today, oceans leapt from the tops of tall buildings. I swear it. I wonder what Al Roker has to say about this.
Al?
I blame everything on my father. I do. One day, I vaguely imagine, I will be able to create an image of myself that is not tethered to him, to the barstool, to so many fears, doubts, fears, doubts, outbursts and downfalls and cries. I will look up and he won't be there. Things will change like the weather, come out like the sun, I'll learn to be good, listen to music.
