Of a Flakiness That is Criminally Vulgar

Typical me, typical me, typical me, I started something...

There’s really no rhyme or reason to the way problems come to me at night, when I’m trying to drown out the world and get some sleep. The ramifications of one issue and the subcategories of another all get entangled, bumping and grinding into each other like some sort of fucked-up problem orgy, robbing me of precious hours of rest. And because they all come to me at once and so wildly disorganized, there’s no way to make sense of it– no reaching resolutions, no resolving conflicts, no sudden nighttime epiphanies. There’s no way to work things out because it’s a veritable pandemonium of setbacks and quandaries, an amorphous mass of cacophonous exasperation. And so all you can do is get up and try to distract yourself by reading a book or, more often than that, browsing the internet like a fucking entertainment-starved zombie. Sometimes I’ll eat a bowl of cereal, listlessly.

The last week or so has consisted almost entirely of nights like this, which has left me a crabby shell of a man. It was the last-minute organization of a rather impromptu trip to New York City for work, as well as about a dozen other Argentinean-immigration-related issues that just magically happened to reach their climax at the same time like skilled lovers. I’ve been caught in a bureaucratic mess of an existence for the better part of a month now and life has crawled to a halt while I try to get the right pieces moving in the exact right configuration and rhythm so I can be where I need to be. And Murphy’s Law comes into full effect, ensuring that everything that could possibly fuck up did in fact fuck up (which is I suppose a more succinct paraphrasing of the Law). For a moment there it looked like everything was seriously going to shit, and just before I complete my descent down the pit of total despondency, the support of friends arrives like a gust of wind propelling me back to calm. Some people are just treasures.

This is all to say, things are going to work out, and I feel bad about having fallen so violently behind on my posting schedule. I’m going to try my best to catch up with it this weekend. It was perhaps foolish of me to try to implement a schedule right as I was heading into one of the busiest and most stressful months in my entire life, but you know what they say about Jorge Farah. “Jorge Farah is a fucking idiot.” Who says that, you ask? Don’t play dumb. I know it was you, reader. You broke my heart.  You broke my heart.

Hey. Isn’t this supposed to be a music blog? Here’s a track for your troubles. This is a gorgeous composition by Marc Ribot, guitarist for Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, Marianne Faithfull and many other luminaries, as well as making one of the best albums of the last decade in Ceramic Dog’s “Party Intellectuals”. This is from his most recent album “Silent Movies”, a stunning collecti0n of austere guitar pieces that sound like swimming in the ocean at night. This album will soothe your rattled nerves, just like it did for mine. Here is the track “Delancey Waltz”.

2 thoughts on “Of a Flakiness That is Criminally Vulgar

  1. I’m sorry to hear everything went so wrong at the same time, but I’m glad to hear that things are sort of looking better (even if it’s only because friends can keep you calm with life’s still under the effects of Murphy’s Law). (Another parenthetical, I like your succinct definition.)

  2. You are a great writer my friend. I like words to be used in certain ways, and put together in certain ways, and to be rhythmic and fulfilling. You do this so well.

    I understand about the sleep issue, my thoughts often keep me awake at night, to the point I barely try to sleep anymore, just ward them off ( with things like television and 20sb) until my body wins over my mind.

    But I am glad things are looking up, and that you managed to post ! I was waiting.

    One more thing… this song. It makes me want to just lay flat on my floor and just listen over and over and take it all in.

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