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painting to the Cardigans
Monday, April 26 1999
The day at work had been especially bad. I'd already been thinking that Marty was just waiting around for me or one of my mechanisms to fuck up. Then, in the afternoon, that's exactly what happened. Thankfully it was me and not one of my mechanisms. I suppose he's under a lot of stress and it's understandable that he be so grumpy when we fuck up. But I feel so underappreciated some days it overwhelms me with despair. "Overwhelm" is perhaps too strong a word, but it gets at the idea in whose direction my writing leads.
I have a complete recording of the Cardigan's First Band on the Moon on my hard drive, and today I had it going in tight rotation as I worked on a long-neglected commission painting for a friend in Ann Arbor. There's something about the Cardigans that I really dig, but it's hard for me to put a finger on exactly what that thing is. The orchestration sounds superficially like elevator music, but then, when you pay attention to the sonics (and particularly the vocals), it's just so creepy and weird you find yourself wanting to hear it again. And again. Then too there's that sonic warmness that I love from such bands as the Fu Fighters.
At this stage the painting looks like so:
In the middle of the night I rolled over and beheld Kim lying there beside me and felt so priviledged that she was my girlfriend that I clutched her with all the strength someone half-awake can muster. Then, in about the time it took you to read that, I fell asleep again. When next I awoke, some minutes later, I realized I'd drooled all over her back.
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