Every now and again, I am overcome by fits of inspiration. And if I don’t have somewhere to put them, they almost immediately turn into packets of anxiety. It’s what I imagine blue balls might feel like if there was such a thing and it wasn’t a term actually made up to make girls feel guilty enough to complete the deed. I don’t believe in blue balls, but I do understand the definition. That’s the way I feel a lot of the time when seduced by a new idea. And to further this really annoying analogy, I rarely ever get to climax.
I started a project about a month ago. It is a project I promised myself I’d complete. I’m still very much into it. I’ve even taken out ads on Craigslist in spite of my distaste for the site. I have also begun to hit up the other people in my life and they have been unbelievably helpful as well. I am grateful for all the feedback/help/suggestions I have been given. That particular project is ongoing, albeit, slow-moving. But it keeps a section of my mind occupied and for that I am grateful.
Even more recently, I took my Mountain Goat obsession to level Nicole Kidman and began contemplating dusting off the ol’ guitar again. I used to play. I learned some songs. I even taught myself how to sing AND play chords at the same time. (Believe me, this was a feat not nearly as easy as it sounds for me.) It’s probably a good thing for everyone that the idea of making music was side-swiped by the one where I thought it’d be great to record the voices of the people in my life. And then it’s even better for everyone when that idea was brought down when I realized that hearing my recorded voice was almost enough to look into the exit ramp of a loaded gun.
The other night, as I watched people use sticks to hit multi-colored balls into dark pockets surrounded by green felt, I started to think about all these ideas. My mind began to wander. I thought about the people close to me and wondered what they thought every time I bring up a new idea. I wondered if they sometimes thought, “This, too, will pass.” Sometimes, I even think that way at this point. (Do I start something and then just give up? Will I see anything through? Do I, in fact, tease my blue balls?)
A few days ago, Gerry and Toby Joe started giving me hell for not agreeing to give the Neutral Milk Hotel another chance. I refused. I told them about the time about 6 years ago when Ryan, an ex of mine, tried really hard to get me into them. I just was not having it. I never even gave it a listen. (Unknown to me then was that my ex was trying to get me to like the music created by a singer who my future husband’s then girlfriend would one day end up dating. But that’s a story for another day.)
On Wednesday, TJ sent me a song and said I had to listen to it. I didn’t even check what it was. I trust him, after all.
He sent me this song (3.5 mgs). I wholeheartedly love this song writer’s music. I’m kicking myself for not giving in 5 or 6 years ago. (Listen to it, and then, if you have a minute share with me what inspires you.) Maybe there was a reason I wouldn’t give it a chance back then. Maybe I needed to find it after I found Toby Joe. Maybe I needed the inspiration at this point in my life and not 5 years ago. I have no idea.
So, the inspiration I had last week from the Mountain Goats is back as of yesterday because of Neutral Milk Hotel. Truth of the matter is, every time I hear their music, especially the song above, I feel completely out of this world. I feel a little insane, like I found religion. I feel like consuming Toby Joe. I feel like eating the notes that make up the songs. I feel like taking to the streets, stark naked, and instructing everyone to just walk out. I feel like having babies. I want Toby’s head to rest on my bare stomach. I want to close my eyes. I want to tell an old stranger that they’ll be OK. I want to paint pictures of things that don’t make sense. I want to sing really loudly. I want to put certain weeks on repeat and other days on shuffle. I want to finish every project I never started and start every project I haven’t thought of yet. I want to tap God on the shoulder and totally surprise him. I want God to actually exist. I want to burn all the money, tear down all the scaffolding, and feed all the birds. I want to matter. I want to be able to turn off requested floors on elevators if I press the button again. I want to write the songs to make the young girls sing and the whole world cry (ha!). I want to learn how to do everything. I want the time to do so. And I really, really want to consume Toby Joe.
It’s unbelievable how tight expansion feels. And it’s oppressive how heavy air can be.
I’m tired of being unoriginal.
I’m tired of feeling mentally constipated.
And I’m tired of having blue balls.
Mihow 
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