| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

October 30th, 2003.
What do you put in one's journal while one's at home? Appreciation of friends and family, I suppose. Little details about practice n stuff. (Ha, we're working up a cover of Ministry's "So What" for our Halloween gig tomorrow.

Perhaps I should just expound on my wonder at autumn? An old girlfriend wrote today, reminding me how beautiful the world was, and reminding me how beautiful her writing was. She reminded me of the leaves and the creatures and the threatening crisp outside.

It's hard being out on the road when one is affection-oriented as I am. You want hugs and constant contact and fluttering eye-lashes, and you have to take what you can get in concentrated by fleeting doses as you pass through your hometown. Old friends and old girlfriends, friendly words and friendly fingers. Someone brushes my hair here, and there's no threat, no misunderstanding there, we can just be comfortable to one another.

Out in the real world, if I look at someone the wrong way, I might get maced.

No good, no good at all.

Tomorrow night is a full-band show at the Vault. I'm nervous about it, and angry. What WAS going to be a huge event has been somewhat downsized by the venue at the last second, and I'm somewhat displeased about that. I advertised to my FANS that it was going to have all these cool things... re-enactments of horror movies, a haunted house... none of these things shall exist. I worry that we'll be letting people down.

I guess we just play harder... but I always worry about letting everyone down.


November 2nd, 2003.
Long nights. Halloween was spectacular. The show went way better than I expected, with really good turn-out and such incredible energy. There's this feeling of bent up joy that I get - I want to cry because the moment is perfect - and I have my friends and creatures and girlfriend and bandmates all rolled into the same room. Only a few faces were missing.

The high tension of sexuality pulsing through the room, the music, the chaos and the last minute panic. So What went off pretty well, with few people knowing the song well enough to see where I'd forgotten the words. Always my panic - that I won't remember the words. I often fear that I am the weak spot in my own band. Weird, hey?

Such highs and such lows. Every time we come back from our wanderings, I'm amazed by how tight the band remains. I'm almost angry about it. The more time Heather and I spend together, the more our cohesion falls to bits, the more my relationships turn to shit, but the band itself plays better and better.

Maybe that's the pain speaking? How cliche. I know I'm sort of a failure as a rockstar. I don't drink - where's the heroin and whores? But the mood swings are fast and furious now. More black and white than they'd been since college, and the peaks are coming fewer and further between.

I'm reminded of my high school math teacher, who "held out" against anti-depressants till his late twenties - I had confided in him some time in twelfth grade - but he gave in. I've been told it's a losing battle, and that at some point your choices narrow down to A or B, with B being medication.

Well, if nothing else, my health insurance won't cover B, and we force an option C - music and art... will it keep me even SEMI sane? Who knows, but whereas Prozac won't get covered by health insurance, I CAN claim strings as a tax deduction...

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