By September it seemed the concrete had set; I told myself each night that I would rise with the sun, but instead pried open crusty, dispirited eyes each morning at 11, like stubborn oysters, begging another minute of mute confusion before the inevitable,sobering, raw exposure of waking life brought a much despised focus to it all. I had always been a list maker, but this practice had been elevated from a helpful organizational technique to a survival strategy in the months since graduation; today I was to check job listings, send out resumes and cover letters to new prospective employers, follow-up call those prospective employers that I had initially contacted a certain period of time back, and read a chapter or two of laborious historical criticism in order to keep my academic mind from spoiling in the daily toxic ritual of repetitious restaurant labor which I had become so accustomed to. Do this, it always seemed, and you will make it through the day. And I always did.
But the turning of the seasons had reframed this routine with a new urgency; September, the month I had forever associated with new beginnings, ever since that first brisk morning at the bus stop when the older kids taught five year old me the coolest way to wear my baseball cap, September, the month of new friends, new teachers, then new professors, new opportunities, new experiences, a new start to an old cycle, not merely a spoke to the calendar's wheel but the originating moment of the annual circuit, September, this most stalwart of traditions had, this year, brought no changes. Instead, it's first few weeks blended so completely in my mind with the preceding month of August that I barely noticed the steadily dropping temperature and meekly curling leaves, forfeiting their moisture drop by drop until the annual browning and oranging had visibly begun. I remained oblivious to the fact that summer had, in keeping with its own unchanging annual customs, given way to autumn. Then, a thought; perhaps the entirely predictable growth and change of nature was only jarring because the restaurant, the context for my most distinct moments of angst and anxiety and self-loathing, has no windows. I sigh deeply, completely, and decide that perhaps it wouldn't be too detestable a thing to sleep another hour.
And then...a phone call.
credits
from ...Is This Part Of The Art?,
released March 18, 2013
Anna played harp and sang on this track, while TMC did the mandolin rhythms and the spoken word part.
It's political music, whatever. Based in Boston, MA. Absolutely willing to drive very far to play for you and five of your vaguely alternative friends in your combination kitchen/laundry room. Hit me up. I'm fully serious.
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