There are some days that are just kismet, or something similarly serendipitous.
Last night was Filmstar rehearsal. I’m learning now that band rehearsals ebb and flow. For months you are learning new songs and battling new riffs, and then suddenly you realize you’ve arrived and want to work on something new.
I got there halfway through rehearsal last night, after powering through a particularly strong version of “Promise Me, Promise Me.” I think it is giving me arthritis, actually. The gradual decay of my aging husk aside, it was a good rehearsal. Good enough that I asked when we’d be learning another new song.
The space between rehearsal and bed is slim, if I want to possess even a modicum of sanity the next day. A few minutes prior to exhaustion overtaking me, I checked my blinking phone to discover we had the chance to play the Tin Angel the week of my birthday. I fired away some emails and nodded off, bedside light still on.
Today I woke up too early and thought, Oh, to hell with going back to sleep. I got to the office before anyone else and started my day in peace.
A few hours and several dozen emails into the now-broken peace, I noticed my phone blinking. It was David, who books local shows at the Tin; we were in for September 24th.
I didn’t have time to celebrate. Instead, I put out some fires, did crazy Batman-esque calisthenics with my personal trainer, and delivered a 90-minute long presentation complete with a little 5.5″ x 8.5″ instruction booklet I composed for the occasion.
(Actually, if you know me, that probably did constitute a celebration. Few things make me happier than crises, superheroes, print collateral, and public speaking.)
Eventually I wound up at home, after nearly missing my trolley stop as I nodded off to The Format crooning in my ear. E and I sat on the couch.
“Are you writing your anniversary post yet?”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t you?”
“I feel like playing guitar.”
Having long since given up on serving as a traffic cop to my creative whims, E noodled on her iPad while I strummed. I could tell that she could tell that I was working out something new. She stayed silent but set a curious eye on my over the edge of her iPad.
I hummed a little. I found where two different chord progressions connected. I picked a starting pitch.
I played the new song, rather coherently, with a few stops and starts to fit the uneven lyrics into the chords.
E has seen me birth many a song since we moved in together in 2004. The process doesn’t typical elicit a comment until I fish for one.
I played it again and she fixed me with a look over top of her iPad.
“New?”
“Yeah. Just now, actually.”
She waited, just long enough that I almost had to ask.
“It’s a good one.”
“Does it work?”
She laughed her little non-laugh that she laughs.
“Yeah. Really. Really.”
She gave a satisfied smirk. Later, she asked me, “Do you want to go out for water ice?”
I nodded back at her.
“Just let me play it once more.”
I played it twice.
I am exhausted in bed, again, with bleary eyes and sore muscles, but a new song and a belly full of water ice for my trouble.
I’ll take it.