I just finished watching Barton Fink for the nth time (from my sickbed, so please take the fever into account in reading the following comments – hell, I’ll probably delete this tomorrow).  This movie is still, unfortunately, the most accurate depiction of the writing process that’s ever been filmed; certainly, the most accurate depiction of my experience writing Departure and Farewell over these past two plus years.

I think it takes a certain amount of grandiosity to even believe that anybody save your own mother would be interested in the art that you produce.  If you have any self-awareness whatsoever (or shame – both of which seem to liabilities and/or in short supply among artists as far as I can tell), you spend most of your time second-guessing your ability to ever produce anything worthwhile ever again. Personally, I spend approximately 9 months out of any given year in this frozen state…and then, in the time it takes to smack a mosquito, work can come bleeding out of me (the Underwood in overdrive), and I am equally confident that this work – my work – could speak to millions.  My little brother (of "Horsey" fame and now a brilliant Neurologist) has labeled this artistic state “hypo-manic”, which I actually love. I used to say that I was “flowing” during these periods of plenty – and during the fallow periods, I would feel ashamed of such vanity; now when the songs are pouring out, I’ll just say I’m feeling hypo-manic (with a wink/smile), and when the tap turns off, I can refer back to the time plainly, clinically, “I was feeling hypo-manic”.  I feel fortunate that I am still able to recognize good work during the dry seasons, and I can use this time to polish, edit, and rewrite songs based on craft alone – I'll obsessively rewrite until the songs can stand on their own without me – whatever my mood/diagnosis.

Right at this moment, to continue using the film as a metaphor for this album: Charlie Meadows has left town because things have gotten “all balled up at the head office” and I’m walking around with a sealed box, wrapped in paper and tied with twine.  I’m not completely sure what’s in the box, and I’m not completely sure it belongs to me, and I’m afraid to open it…