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I recall when i first started this Friday afternoon radio gig... mostly the ego-bruising of not living up to my own expectations of doing the best show in hillbillyland. More than that: the complete mental exhaustion. Like when you come down off of that extreme adrenaline high after something really good, or really bad happens. Well, i've graduated to seven hours in the studio before the onset, anymore. But it still happens. And now, for two weeks, I am free again. Perhaps, freedom. I wish I could do this and get paid for it... but not in this life. There aren't enough people, ever, that care enough to be (hopefully) enlightened by hearing things they wouldn't ordinarily. Have their ears and grey matter opened. Not following the crowd. Disturbing the air in a positive fashion. Forever, my cross to bear. It doesn't mean I'll quit in the near future. Too many interesting orbits seem to intersect in those electronically-dry, dusty confines. People dropping by before their flight to Bonaire (and I'll have to look at a map to see just where that is). Others more progressive then I may ever be, professionally, making an extra effort to stick their head in the door in hello. Yes, the (nonexsistent) pay sucks, and it sucks the pay I do earn. But I always seem to leave with more. In some subliminal way. I'd forgotten to sign out on the log, risking a trip to the wall-of-shame, so I went back before the big trip to leave. Ascending the concrete steps, up into the courtyard bisecting the empty dorms, I was struck how deafening the roar of needless air conditioners assaulted the air. Made the mercury-vapor lights seem just that bit more repugnant. Set a scene most desolate and wasteful. Back inside the studio, all of the previous energy had drifted away into some other form... but absent. It made the top-down ride through the dusky Virginia murk feel much less poignant than it would have. Perchance one day I'll catch up to those vibrations I've made. And the circle will be complete. |
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