This entry is actually about songwriting, but some guy just said that on TV, and I was looking for a title.
I’ve been hunkered down and writing, trying to get a new record together. Waking up, picking up the guitar, writing melodies, going to the notebooks to pick out phrases to plug in. Loving the tune. Drinking coffee, walking across the Williamsburg bridge. Listening again: hating the tune. Going to bed, then waking up and listening yet again, and loving the tune. And so on.
I write in the morning. I don’t know why it works that way. I have a window of maybe three hours in which I’ll always come up with something when I pick up the guitar. After that, it’s a dice-roll. Sometimes I get a re-up in the early evening. But not always.
So going home at night and waking up in the morning has become what my life’s all about. It annoys my girlfriend, because it’s not so much about me not being able to hang out at night, but having to be at home and by myself in the morning.
Hating my little apartment. Getting cabin fever, because I’m at home most of day, working. I decided to stay in New York, really mostly for the girlfriend, but I don’t think I can do Manhattan anymore. I look around and think: Who are these people?
Anyway, I want to go someplace unhip, someplace I can have multiple rooms in my life–a room to sleep, a room to eat, a room to zone out in front of the TV, a room for the guitars and another room for the drum machines. Maybe Greenpoint, or the South Slope. Or maybe what Scrap calls an Old Man part of Brooklyn.