Let's say that this is my 1000th blog and pretend that I've written 500 songs and suppose that I've played 750 shows and hypothesize that I've sold 666 "Sandman" shirts and/or pillow cases.
Would you admire me? (Please don't answer.)
My morale is low. This happens sometimes. Maybe it's the hay fever vitamins I'm taking.
My friend Calvin wrote from France. He's there with other friends: Khaela, Anna, Mirah. They are getting paid to play music around Europe. He wanted to know what music festivals around the NW I'm playing. I can't play any this year 'cause I'm now a Curator.
I haven't sold a CD since April! What's going on? I used to get mail orders all the time. People would want everything I had. That's how I gauged my self worth and so now, well, I feel pretty damn worthless.
They love me at the museum. I'm a celebrity there. I've been told that I'm on the cover of the Dunn County Herald today. It's too depressing to get a copy; all symbols of success, here, translate to being a failure as a musician.
I sound like an aging actress. A boxer. I coulda been a contender...
I'm not fishing for compliments or reassurance. I know how feelings pass. But it's good to be honest. It's good to document the truth.
Tomorrow I'll remember that I'm here to be close to my aging family. That they're more important to me than any small amount of fleeting fame. That North Dakota has as much soul as L.A., New York, and Paris. It just looks different. Like a meadow lark. Like an antelope. Like sage. Like my farmor's hand on my grandfather's cheek.
