We are in that transitional time between late summer, segueing into early fall. I have felt a sense of being adrift. Six months into Covid, with little abatement in sight, the looming darkness and colder days don’t bode well for anyone preferring light and summer breezes. Simply, summer has offered some respite from Covid lockdown. What’s coming, I’m afraid, is a dank, Dickensian dystopia to be endured over the course of the winter.
Last week, a well-known local musician touched down on Facebook about his bookings drying up as the summer places began shutting down for the season. A drive along East and West Grand in Maine’s premier tourist Mecca, OOB, on Sunday revealed summer’s dying embers. Many of the places that had outside entertainment like the Sunset Deck and Myst have closed until next May. Others are open for another three weeks at best. Who knows if The Brunswick will have indoor entertainment come late October.
For the past 44 months I’ve been journeying through the loneliness that apparently is endemic in those relegated to living with the loss and associated grief that accompanies the death of someone deeply loved. During my sojourn, former associates have disappeared. Not sure why. I’m guessing that surface relationships can’t come to terms with darkness of death, subsequent depression it delivers, and all the associated fall-out from an event inflicted on someone.
On days like today, my first inclination used to be to sit down and write a blog post. Given that Mondays don’t require me to check-in at Whitey’s Farm until later in the morning, I went down the stairs to my bunker and picked up my acoustic. As I’ve intimated before, I’m not certain I’d still be here if on that dark day in August of 2018, I hadn’t opened the dust-covered guitar case housing my Yamaha guitar, rather than seeking the alternative hidden in the closet upstairs.
Over the course of the past 2+ years, I’ve learned song after song, while also writing 15 of my own. Anyone connected with music will tell you, playing it has the capacity to deliver healing, while diverting someone from the trauma that comes with sudden and unexpected loss.
As my playing has evolved, I’ve been thinking about possibilities: is it even reasonable to think about playing gigs at some point? I mean, I guess I can sit in my basement/bunker until the end of my days, playing to the cement walls that encase my home-based performance space.
A month ago, I resumed the practice of heading out to open mics. I’d been told that open mics are the requisite initial step towards getting someone to book you to play at their coffee shop or pizza parlor, or even a dive bar.
Weirdly, just like I did with writing, I set out on a path of my own. Granted, with the former, I consulted the experts: writers like Stephen King and a host of other “how to” treatises on writing. It worked. I’ve been at it for 20 years now with some success, although I’m not a household name by any means. Having said that, I’ve hit targets I set for myself long before I ever had my first piece of writing published.
For some reason, my initial thoughts related to playing guitar for someone other than my cat seem to have gotten derailed. I’m not sure why. In part, I think I’ve allowed myself to be pushed towards things I didn’t think were in my best interest six months ago. Some of that is due to limited places to play, even at open mics.
Last week, I came home from an open mic and realized I’d totally lost my way. I ended up playing stuff I wasn’t well-suited for, rather than focusing on my stronger material. I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m going to fail or succeed on my own terms.
Waiting for work today, I mapped a plan for tomorrow night and a new open mic stage. I might end up falling short yet again. But I’m going to play three songs that work for me.