at my so-called regular pub for brunch, can’t really call this my regular these days. i think i was last here 3 weeks ago, but it seems longer. or feels longer. no one is here but me the bartender and the roar of the subway passing overhead one block way. last time i was here i felt terribly sad upon entering. kind of the same feeling today but for other reasons, as the sadness was with me already on this dreary, chilled day. A friend from here has rather persistently texted me to come out and have a beer.
Yesterday is the first day in memory in which I never left the apartment. Just did not want to. october is coming and the annual descent into melancholy will accompany it, as usual. i feel a strange tension in my head, at the top, like a tiny muscle spasm or something.
Was thinking I might ride a subway today. I don’t think I’ve done that in about 3 weeks, though like this place the hiatus feels longer.
Think I’ll go home instead. Going to write and write and write when I get back. Did not actually intend to be here as I could stand not to spend the money (even though the sausage burrito is a damn good deal) but it started raining, which was surprising since my trusty weather app said there was a 0% chance of precipitation. Rain only added to the melancholy. Truth be told anything could make me sad. The roar of that subway train seems to echo an emptiness filled with intention and ambition. There was n Onion piece once in which someone lamented trivial things, conflating their importance beyond any sane level.
It’s amazing how I can play something at the piano for hours and come back to it the next day feeling I’d never seen the music. Imogene Giles’ “Red Peppers” 2-step was an hour-long fascination for me yesterday but today I can barely recognize it. I had it up to tempo yesterday, thinking I had it in my hands, but today it was like I’d never seen it. I would think I’ve played hundreds of page of music that would be new to me should I encounter them again. I think Garrick Ohlsson once said that every day sitting down at the piano is the beginning of a process of rediscovery, of remembering how this works. It may not be true for every pianist but I think this is true for me. Each day I sit down is different. Some days it feels I’ve never touched the instrument. Other days it’s like I am one with the piano, even if I’d been away from it for several days.
Remembering what I hate about this place. Half the music is missing from a lot of songs. David Bowie’s Major Tom song sounds especially ridiculous when played here, since instruments and sounds are isolated in channels, and one or more channels are simply not present.
And the flies. And the bus and car exhaust fumes. And the noise.
And the firefighter dude who just walked by. He punched me once. I was sitting at this exact spot. he cornered me. That should have been my cue never to come back here, esp. after he was not even barred from the place.
It’s strange how often I see that guy around here. He lives one street over from me. I saw him yesterday on 36th Avenue and at least three times last week in all different places.
Suddenly looking forward to going home. To my new regular.
