So I wrote gobs of stuff yesterday. I stayed up the night before puking out sheet music. I slept for almost five hours, then got up and spent the day puking out more sheet music and writing more songs. I felt manic. I felt inspired. I felt a little bit like a crazed lunatic. I took a few breaks to graze on various things in my refrigerator. A friend knocked on my door and brought me Vietnamese food. I left the room a couple of times but mostly I just let myself get lost in the saga of Goat Man. It was really great.
Today hasn't been as great. I overslept and my plan to clean/rearrange my room so I can use it as a recording studio tomorrow turned into quite the complicated affair. I even ended up leaving my cave (and my project!) for several hours to see some old friends from college that were briefly in town. I'm glad I got to see them, but all of the conversations were about practical, adult-type things like grad school, finances, and interior decorating. I sat there in my new fur beret and felt like I was on a completely different planet.
Here in the commune, we refer to "normal, functioning members of society" (those with corporate jobs, practical life plans, spouses, houses, children, etc.) as "balloons in orbit." I have never really fit into that "balloon world," but now that I'm living in a community of artists and am pouring hours of my life into writing a rock opera about anthropomorphic goat men, I feel as thought I've fallen out of the orbit completely and am floating around in an entirely different galaxy.
That sounded a lot more cosmic than I intended it to. But you get the point.
In other news, as I was cleaning my room today, I discovered that I still had a pile of crap belonging to Tweaked Out Elvis Costello. We really only hung out for about a week and a half, but somehow that was enough time to acquire the following items:
- a broken amp
- a shorted guitar cable
- two bad microphones
- a stove top
For whatever reason, he stopped talking to me and I hardly ever see him. But I still had all of his junk. So I piled it outside of my room with his name on it and sent him a "COME PICK UP YOUR CRAP" text message. The pile disappeared sometime early this afternoon while I was in my room cleaning, so I can only assume he picked it up.
But the pile was there long enough for The Poet to see it and ask me about it when I was in the kitchen making tea. "Okay, kid, I get why you might have his amp, but...a stove??? What the hell was that all about???" he says, raising an eyebrow.
I am laughing so hard that it takes me forever to tell him about the time Tweaked Out Elvis Costello insisted on bringing his stove into my room to cook spaghetti.
"Lauren!" says The Poet, laughing so hard he can barely talk. "Next time there's a boy, NO STOVE TOPS AFTER A WEEK AND A HALF!"
That sounds like a really good rule to live by.
Aaaaand now I should get back to Goat Man. I think I'm ready to focus again. I think I feel another episode of the crazy brain thing coming on. Time to rock and roll.
Over and out, comrades.