Is Life a Swirling Circle of Friction? Carry Your Cat in Undignified Positions.

I have a lot going on right now. I’m in the middle of a large, intensive, career-related project, and I’m dealing with a terminally ill pet. My bandwidth is extremely limited. I’m also in a rut with my guitar playing. My guitar playing feeds my recording, which in turn feeds the content for this Substack, and the Substack is a contributing element of my career project. One big swirling circle, stealing resources and creating friction—just like life likes to do.

I started this Substack to talk about the friction I was experiencing writing and recording original music. I’m now realizing that the topic is too narrow; it’s too limiting. And all forms of creativity involve friction. I’m experiencing it right now: what do I write about if I’m not writing about creating music? For starters, I could write about the friction I’m wholeheartedly living and experiencing every night when I sit in my chair, stare at the guitar on the stand next to my desk, and my mind starts rapid-firing questions like an angry interrogator.

Is the cat ok? Did he eat? He has to eat so that we can give him his insulin. What am I going to play or practice on the guitar? I have to play; if I don’t, I’ll lose my ability to play, and when I go to write that next song, I won’t have the technique I need to get my idea across.

Then my mind starts cataloging and inventorying everything: Did I answer that email? Did I lock the office door? Do I need to drive to work to check? What if this project of mine fails? What if all the work I’m doing is for nothing? What am I going to do when my cat dies? The questions seem never to end.

For the guitar playing, I do what I’ve always done. I pick up the guitar, tune it, dial in a cool tone, and jam along to a song I love. Last night it was Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy using a trial of Neural DSP’s Archetype Gojira plugin. As for the writing, I’m doing that now. I’m pretending I’m working, pouring my thoughts into IA Writer, hoping that whatever I write reaches another human being and somehow helps.

As for the cat, I’ll do what I’ve done every day he’s been in my life: pick him up, carry him around the house in undignified positions (He loves it; he purrs his face off. It’s like tonic immobilization with a shark), talk to him, and make up songs about him all sung to the tune of Ozzy Osbourne’s Mr. Crowley. Later, I’ll curse him for scratching something he shouldn’t, attacking one of his kitty sisters and annoying the hell out of us. I’ll do my best to enjoy the time I have left with him.