September 15, 2008

10:25 p.m.

Moments of loathing the tour... is loathing too strong a word? Yes, perhaps. It's more like stretchy pulled-out sections of time of being bored or irritated or just all done with these repetitive inconveniences, this constant low-grade throbbing homesickness, this absence of caring about being here. I remember jobs I quit in my 20s, jobs I hated and walked away from, and the feeling of liberation that accompanied those decisions. I would either have something else to go to, or else I'd go back to dad's for a while and pick up a temp job until I figured out where to move next. Of course I don't have that luxury now, and I have a responsibility to my bandmates to a certain extent. But it doesn't seem to be enough to have talked about 2009 and sectioned out some months away from touring. All the "on" months seem to still contain these longish, far-ish, nasty tours -- the Midwest, two or three times, Texas once or twice, Florida. I tried to consider taking this three-day per week job at Rose's office and, going over the calendar with Carol, I saw that it was impossible. How can she still be so driven, after all these years? Isn't she as tired as I am, more tired? I don't have that crying thing that she does, when I think about not touring. It just feels like a relief.

I miss the early days of learning the guitar. I want the cello to be like that, just me and my invention with no goals attached. I want, even more, to get away from their voices -- Carol, yipping like a dog when she feels all perky, making protracted noises for no reason, Chris always wanting to stick an oar into my business and change the way I do something. Carol's voice. There are times when her singing is just beautiful, and other times, when she's riffing on some song trying to sound like a jazz singer, when I just can't stand the sound of it. She's not a jazz singer, sorry. Some of her notes are strident and her passing notes are often flat. I've heard it too much. Chris leaving the bathroom floor soaking wet, or stinky, and not opening the window. Moaning about how fat he is and then eating fish and chips and sweets and potato chips and shortbread cookies. Us all getting short with each other. I'm tired of the stress, the disagreements, the working out of it all and having to focus so much on my stomach and bowels just to try to make it home in one piece.

No, loathing isn't too strong a word, actually. I loathe the tour. I'm merely enduring the tour.