New York is hard.
I live the typical cliché in an overpriced, undersized apartment where I leave every morning to work the job I love but will never amount to the money I spend each time I step outside. I wonder how long I can keep up with this lifestyle, whether all the bands will meld into one indie rock category, night after night in the same three venues, ears ringing throughout the next morning. Whether I'll wake up one day and realize that maybe I should have majored in math instead of journalism, and that my conscious was right all along. Will I be chasing after bands when I'm 40? Maybe by then, I'll actually understand this thing called music.
I hate to sound disgruntled. But sometimes it's just easier to write it out, a practice I've become familiar with even when I didn't know I was familiar with it, back in the day. Memories of embarrassing journals flood my mind, and yet the most productive period of my life was living by myself in Brooklyn. Restless nights spent at my desk, staring out to the subway stop across the street, smoking packs of cigarettes and drinking far too much. But I would write. Pages upon pages of nonsense that once in a while turned into a piece I'd want to actually read when I awoke the next morning, hazy and confused. I can't do that anymore, I've either grown out of that phase or just cant smoke inside my apartment anymore. Perhaps both.
So I sit here searching for a song that will make me understand everything. I'm sipping wine and sneaking out for cigs here and there. Flipping through artists both old and new, waiting for the moment that the light bulb turns on and I'll be able to move onto something that doesn't swell inside my head. And there it is. Right in my face all along. The Tim Williams album has become my go-to of the moment and somehow Tim gets it. Or maybe he gets me. Or himself. Who knows, but somehow it allows me be at peace. At least for a couple minutes.
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