It’s 6:10 in the morning. I realize that’s not so early for alot of people, but I’ve been awake for two hours. Any second now, Abbi’s alarm’s gonna sound, she’s gonna pop out of bed, and we’re going to go running.
Not psyched for that.
So I woke up to pee at 4 a.m. My first thought was, “Don’t think about anything or you won’t be able to go back to sleep.” So, of course, I thought about everything.
Friday afternoon begins a rediculous period of time I’ve been relishing and fearing for months. By my calculation, I will be in my own bed exactly 50% of the nights between September 1 and November 1. During that time, I will travel to Nantucket, Las Vegas, Breckenridge, South Carolina, Dubai, and the Maldives. Ten days after returning from the Maldives, Abbi and I will run the NYC Marathon. In November, I will release an as-of-yet unmentioned benefit album. Likewise, Chris and I will finish shooting “Mister Rogers & Me,” then start editing in December for the March 1 Nantucket Film Festival deadline.
Tired yet? Me too. It’s a wonder I can’t sleep.
And did I mention my day job?
I know, I know: I’m a broken record. I don’t do enough. I’m doing too much.
Cry me a river.
What’s interesting (to me, anyway), or, moreover, what I want to figure out is, why? What compells me to be so overcommited? Why do I feelso compulsive about making stuff? And would I better served at doing less better?
Sometimes I think I’m going to die young (or, young-ish), and I usually think it’s going to be in a plane crash. I joke about it with Abbi. She knows what to do with my life insurance. First, re-master and re-release everything I’ve ever recorded (including the 140 or so Morning Mix MP3s here) as a box set. Then get all of my musician friends (Chris, Casey, The Nadas, etc etc) to cover their favorites on a tribute album. Then throw a big show where they play all the songs and drink lots of beer.
Do I sound delusional?
I’m kidding. Kind of.
Sometimes I think this hypomania of mine has something to do with wasting my twenties. Other times I think it has to do with my mother telling me I’m special too much. Or that I’m trying to fill that “God shaped hole.”
I don’t really know.
I could go on, but I hear Abbi stirring in the bedroom. I have to lace up my running shoes.
Have a productive day.