Schlocktober
Hangover Cure: 3 advils, water, day-old Starbucks coffee, The Milk-Eyed Mender, Finally We Are No One, Summer Make Good.
This is not so much a cure as it is just what I’m doing. I don’t think the coffee’s helping, for instance. But the music is crucial.
It’s going to be a sunny week in the 50s, which I won’t mind at all. November’s on its way, one of the most favorable months, I think. I will not be going to London, it seems, sadly, but instead will be staying in Cambridge and seeing Múm, Ariel Pink, and Battles, assuming I choose to break my trend of completely failing to see the shows I’m interested in. It wouldn’t kill me to see Boris tomorrow, either.
Everything is being squarely put away lately; the present is becoming less cusp-like, more seat-like; the tugs from the past and the future are approaching equal footing; the analog is making a really strong showing; something that resembles happiness and perspective is becoming evident.
It’s pretty weird. I haven’t had a panic attack in months.