I read a great description last week of that moment where you realize the coffee you’ve been drinking and thinking is the best thing in the universe for years is actually crap. I had never actually identified the phenomenon, but the very next morning when I made my single drip cup of Peruvian Organic Coast Roast, I took a sip and said, “meh”. Blah. Not bad, but just not ME anymore. The Peruvian Organic has run its course in my soul and it’s not gonna give me anything new at this point.
So once this was all out in the open other facets of my life began to appear dated. Like the couch. Which was a prized possession twelve months ago and is now shockingly and uncomfortably narrow for a pregnant lady, her wife, and a five year old. It’s green. Why did we pick green?
And the books. How long are the essays of Leroi Jones going to sit on that shelf before I pick them up? I forced myself to rummage through it and remembered why it never made it to the bedside table. I adore Amiri Baraka with all my heart, I think he’s wonderful and inspiring and brilliant, and sitting in a small room with his booming voice reading Somebody Blew Up America with an upright bass and jazz kit along for the romp was one of the high points of my life. But the Black Arts Movement commentary of 1968 is not doing it for me. Henry Miller’s Black Spring, even, sits unloved, unopened for years. Once it was a bible.
And finally, the music. Suddenly my entire music collection is dusty, creaky and completely unrelatable. Even things that seemed avant garde last spring are just played. We have seventeen thousand Ani Difranco records but why only the ones through 2001? Did she stop being relevant or did we? Would it pain us to determine what’s happening in hip hop right now and let go of the Method Man 1993? Can we listen to girls play guitars who DIDN’T grow up listening to Liz Phair?
I’ve ordered* a batch of musical joy. And am suspicious that we may be entering what I affectionately call a “bout of minimalism” where all the schmanvas (urban dictionary. look it up.) gets re-homed, and we smile big smiles.
I’m putting all that old stuff to rest and setting a new little boat to sail. I’m thinking of writing a new record (this would be 12 years after the first was released) but approaching songwriting from a more calculated perspective. As inspiration goes, I will no longer rely on the dulcet tones or words of those old reliables. No more repositioning on the sad little IKEA chairs. Time to buy a decent chair, for crying out loud. I need some fresh, new energy to match this summer sun.
Onward!
*that’s right, I said “ordered”. As in actual discs. You can roll eyes all you want. My uncompressed files and I will still be around when your ipods start seeming like little blinky toys.