Another Day, Another Night

Time is speeding up in Nashville, Tennessee. Patterns are beginning to show themselves, streets are starting to makes pathways, things are happening or appearing at regularly scheduled intervals; yes, I think its true, the honeymoon is over and this is my island now—coconuts, thatched roof, and all.

I’m kidding of course—about the tropical island theme, that is. Despite an unusually warm winter for me (I’m from the north, remember; I’ve lived in Ohio, Boston, and the second wettest place on earth, second only to the Amazon jungle, Swansea, Wales) including a day or two at 70 degrees, today it is snowing. And this time a real snow, with big New England-sized snowflakes that dust the windows and stick in your hair.

I know I should embrace the winter here because it won’t last long, and I really like wearing coats and jackets and scarves, but it’s hard because my house, beautiful as it is with is dark-stained wood floors, mahogany and tile kitchen, and large-stoned fireplace is cold as a son of a bitch. We can’t turn the heat up because we’re poor, and when we do, Harlan can only lay in bed at night counting the times the furnace turns on, calculating the fiscal damage each firing incurs.

Last night, probably the coldest of the year so far, I headed over to the Mercy Lounge, a venue housed in an old cannery warehouse, down in the industrial lowlands of midtown Nashville. The place has a great stage and sound system, with a tidy, loft-like vibe, all steel, concrete, and wood with red velvet trimmings. Outside the big-paned windows trains roll by frequently, though without any aural disruptions; they must have insulated the shit out of that wall. Watching trains roll by in the dark, a Guinness in your hand, makes the music that much more romantic, and that’s why I like the place. I was there to see my friends The Bittersweets, a band from San Francisco who also recently relocated to Nashville. They been in the throes of finishing a new record, one that I’m very excited about, and so last night was the first time I’ve had the opportunity to hear some of the new material. Afterward I tried, inconclusively, to offer my services as a pedal steel player, but I’m still not really great at being suggestive of my worth to potential suitors, musically or romantically. I, of course, blame my long and multifarious history with women.

Another boon of my late-night winter-laden traipsing was that the whole show was full of great acts. The night was opened by the banjo-tinkling Julie Lee, who sang quietly and quoted Emily Dickenson, and was concluded by sets from Robby Hect, a soulful, finger-picking, beanie-cap-wearing fella with a great band, and Judd and Maggie, a duo from Nashville via Baltimore. I went home, feeling restive and fully awake, so I paced around the kitchen, eventually pouring myself some cereal, and read some of Dave Eggers new book, What is the What, a semi-biographical novel about Valentino Achak Deng, a Sudanese refugee and American immagrant; thus far, the book is, like Eggers’ first, both heartbreaking and genius (Eggers’ first book was called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius).

I did get to thinking last night, however, and it occurs to me that one habit I’ve been getting into here, thankfully, is the willful embracement of each day. I don’t feel paralyzed by options, or tortured by my dreams and aspirations. There are a whole lot of things that I want to do, yes, but I do have time. I probably won’t be famous, and I probably won’t be rich, and I probably won’t see nearly as much of the world as I’d like to, but at least I’m trying now, and not just worrying like I had been for the last two years. I think I’d like to call it the post-collegiate stress syndrome, or perhaps the 21st century freeze-out, but whatever it’s called I’m glad that it has passed. As weird as it feels to say it, I’m just happy to be alive and doing stuff, and excited to see where it all leads. And, no, I’m not on Quaaludes.

And there you have it, another day and another night in Music City. I better find something to be pissed about before this blog gets excessively sentimental and cloying. F*%# Santa! Yeah, that ought to do it.