Things happen in cycles, sometimes, maybe.
First: stockpiling songs for an ambitious monster of an album, buying new equipment for it, shaping and preparing and then losing the ability to record anything for a protracted period of time thanks to the noises made by others.
Then: a new house, lethargy, time and opportunity but no motivation to make good use of either, the feeling of staring at something insurmountable and lacking the limbs necessary to get on top of it, lacking even a mouth to make a meal of its dirt.
The Then after this Then: stuffing the monster in a linen closet to concentrate on less intimidating things.
The Then after that Then: eight full-length albums in three years, rhythm, confidence, an out-takes collection thrown in just for fun.
The next Then after these Thens: return to the monster, gradual loss of confidence and rhythm, a lot of writing but not enough recording, more thought than action, no new albums for two calendar years.
Now: locking the monster back in the closet to concentrate on less intimidating things. Rhythm and confidence returning. Did they dye their hair? Get a tan? It’s been a while.
In other words, I am where I was when i started this blog six years ago, and I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, splitting my pants to split the difference between the two places.
Whatever comes out of this specific pocket of time and inspiration, there’s a feeling calling itself a need that wants to document as much of the process as possible — in words, in sounds, in images moving and still — because it might not happen again like this. There’s no way of knowing how many times the monster can be lulled into submission before it wakes up all wild-eyed and drooling, demanding satisfaction, refusing to sleep again.
And there’s something less insular about this time. It’s a quality that might not belong to any other time but this, here, now. It feels like something worth preserving. Maybe this is the place to preserve it.