Thursday, October 11, 2012

Listening to Joe Sampson's album. Which is actually a thing. And I actually have it thanks to J, who gave it to me on Tuesday night after I gushed like a 13 year old girl about how much I love her husband[Nathaniel Rateliff]'s music, how I've followed him around for 6 years, how everything he makes makes me explode, how he is my home. He played at the Ford Theater the other night, and even though he played a short set opening for someone else, I paid the near $40 for a ticket because I will always buy tickets to every show he plays within 50 miles of me.
Hearing him play in not-Colorado, in a place that is warm and damp and not on South Broadway was disorienting, but nice. Like part of my home came to me, like I was given something by his presence that those who don't know him were missing. Due to a ticketmaster fluke, I got a front row seat, though when he was in Utah he actually just stood on the floor right in front of me while he played his encore. 
I wont ever be able to explain why he's so important to me or why his voice and his songs define my Colorado more than any other music. 


I walked home from that show. From Hollywood. It was stupid of me, as my brother kindly pointed out as we were on the phone the whole time. I feel safe here. I shouldn't. But I do. I feel safe everywhere suddenly. Not safe emotionally, but safe physically. And it's idiotic. 
So I took the metro the last mile home, because TB made me. 


The night after Nathaniel played, I saw Grizzly Bear with V at the Greek Theater. Also beautiful, but in a different way. I only listened to that music during a very specific period of months, and I haven't listened to it since then, and they did such a good job of changing the songs up that hearing their music again, only slightly different, after so many years, was a little unnerving. Good unnerving.

I'm not sleeping. This happens in the fall. I have an almost mental breakdown, I feel something squirming through my insides, and if I'm not creating, I fall into a hole of crap and ugh and insomnia and depression. But I don't always know that I'm in that hole. I think maybe I am. My brain is losing it. I've eaten like 27 eggs in the past week, which is too many eggs. That's all I know. I can't tell if this city is helping or hurting. Or just resting, benign, waiting for me to give it a reason to cuddle me or punch me in the face.


I bought a dresser from a man named Joe who makes high end, modern furniture out of reclaimed wood. I've pined after this dresser for over a year now, and I justified its purchase by calling it a piece of art. Because it is. I met Joe at his studio several weeks ago and we discussed what I wanted. Yesterday he delivered the finished product to my apartment. Delivered an almost 300 pound dresser to me all by himself. I'm in love with it. Because it's perfect, and because I know he made it, with his hands, with wood that used to be a building somewhere. And frankly, I'm falling in love with everyone these days. I'm not heeding Okkervil River who has an album called Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See. This happened last time. Four years ago. October. Someone important so far away. And everywhere I looked I was in love with everyone and everything and it's perfect and painful and unsettling and maybe kind of nice.

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