Monday, 8 July 2013

Yep

Tonight I am in my apartment drinking gin and listening to music by all the insanely talented people I've been lucky enough to befriend // tour with // put on in my venues // make fires with in the woods // makeout with in the cities // dress up silly alongside and fall over around Edinburgh // book for festival stages // have happenings with // sit in a tiny office printing album covers for // throw feathers at // forever adore.

It is very sweaty and balmy and summertime and I am in my underwear. The balcony has red lights. The record player is loud.

I have just taken my cello out of its case for the first time in a while and, while I am confused about where my sequined hotpants ended up, I am excited about making noises again.

Things of late have been some heavy shit.

By that I mean: depression, mental breakdowns, tears, breakups, the end of good things, financial freakouts, shaky foundations, woe, oh, such woe.

Still.

If you can't afford your life, you might as well be living in a penthouse, playing at being a poet until the world works out.

If you can't stick at one job, you might as well be a writer and a cellist and a philosopher and a promoter and a drunkard and a lunatic and a terrible singer and a brewer and a venue manager and a lady who howls at the moon.

If you can't persuade a boy that it is better to twist like sunflowers, ever-towards the grin, you might as well hold out for yourself.

If you can't play in tune, you might as well play loudly.

You might as well sing like a doofus in your apartment. You might as well go out again. You might as well stop shaking the batea in the mud, you might as well break a window instead and grab your handful of gold.

This is my promise to myself for now. 

1 comment:

  1. You are a good woman, Jane. Lx

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