Driving in the dark once again, or being driven. I’ve left a bunch of articles open on my laptop to go through slowly. I’ve been reading about Japan, I’ve been reading about the stock market, I’ve been reading about whether artists have the “right” to make a Living off their art, I’ve been reading about the next couple of shows and I’ve been reading about the special effects for the upcoming Battlestar Galactica prequel / Caprica sequel and I’ve been reading about respect for teachers and about the dance with the United States government shutdown. I’d like to think I’ve got some semblance of breadth. Do I have any depth? Oh, I don’t know – I sure am opinionated though.
We’re driving to Pittsburgh through the darkness of I-70. We’re not playing tonight, it’s merely a stopover so that the drive to Ohio doesn’t make us want to die. Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day and what is an excuse to drink in the States and a genuine religious holiday overseas, for us is just another gig though fortunately, one that falls on a weekday, breaking up a time that can be kind of financially tricksy.
Ha. Financially tricksy.
So, the morning when you head out on the road for any given tour, you want to have a nice leisurely morning, free of such things as chainsaws, cranes and flying trees.
We’re tight right now. Health insurance goes up, CD sales are going down. I sure hope NACA turns some dollars our way because we need a bit of a leg up. I worry that we’re Living a bit close to the edge and sure enough, my cushion has been swiftly eroded by a faster-than-usual deducted auto-pay (thanks Blue Cross) and a slower-than-usual paycheck (freelance clients are often a little elastic when it comes to the truth of just WHEN they put something in the mailbox). By Monday I’ll hope to have two new checks deposited, plus the pay from one of our bread-and-butter gigs in our wallets, but betwixt now and then I’ve got a slightly-stressed credit card in the back pocket, ramen in the trunk and a Saturn who is a bit late for her oil change making me paranoid about every little clunk and grind.
It’s hard not to get a bit depressed. People are lucky to have jobs, Hell, people are lucky to have their Lives in some quarters. Photographs from Japan as freight containers are scattered like children’s toy blocks and many mini-Chernobyls threaten tens of thousands in a way similar to my oil change: Even if the doctor says nothing is wrong the fear will amplify every ache those people feel for the rest of their Lives. Losing hair will mean not simply “oh man, I’m getting older” it will be a ghost of radiation poisoning and every childbirth will be a greater miracle than it was before, wreathed in paranoia about birth defects with people double- and triple-checking the counts of fingers and toes.
I wonder what’s filling the minds of the truckers passing me by. We are all far more than our professions and if I prayed, probably one of my favourite prayers for those around me would be this: I hope you enjoy whatever it is that you do, because we shouldn’t have to work to Live, but in a practical world we do. And so I hope you can Live for your work and take joy and triumph out of it.
I truly believe that Heather and I have made the world a richer place through our gifts to those around us. We have inspired and uplifted. We’ve nursed people through bad times and suicides and we’ve introduced people to one another, couples who celebrate anniversary after anniversary with ilyAIMY shows. I dreamt great things for us. We’re aspiring to make a Living. Just making a Living, however, is something somewhat short of the mark of what I’d dreamed.
