A Good Kind of Tired

I had a long weekend.  No, the space-time continuum didn’t shift or anything.  No bow-tied men in little blue boxes . . . no weeping angels.  Just a good old fashioned long weekend.

It’s something I haven’t done in a very long time.  It was just me . . . but not like in July where it was, all weekend, just me.  It was me . . . and others.

I did a little work, wrote a lot, and then met up with a friend I’ve known since I was . . . well we were both trying to figure this out over the weekend . . . 12?  13?  It was 5th or 6th grade.

My friend . . . who I’ve known since before I was married and have known throughout my marriage . . . is transitioning into a new job and was going to be where I was so I got to see her.  This, of course, after finding someone to watch the kids so I could work . . . do a little writing and meet up with a crew for a documentary on Saturday for a bit.  Even then, I made sure Saturday’s dinner was made the night before.  After the work with the crew and the writing I was free.

There was tons of music.  I got to see my friend Julia perform:

Julia Sinclair, at the Kessler Theater, Dallas
I got to see a live web stream with her and three other performers the next day.

But most importantly, I got to see people.  I was . . . well, I was Dave again.  Not widowed Dave.  Not father of four how does he do it? Dave.  Many of these folks had never seen me as “married Dave” and it’s nice to have a conversation without that hanging over my head.  Neither have any of the other musicians I met over the weekend.  We talked music.  Gear.  Band management.  Professionalism, recording, Hammond B3’s, Robben Ford, Derek Trucks (I had a British singer songwriter tell me “I f**king hate you!” when he heard I’d seen Tedeschi Trucks a couple weeks ago) and just played a little music.  It was nice.

But most of all, the few stolen moments I was able to grab with my friend were priceless.  She’s known me forever.  Knows my secrets (the worst of them, too, I’m sure) and my downsides yet still talks to me.  Most important . . . at no point in the two days did a specter of loss hang over my head.  The airport fiasco and blown up freelance work came to discussion – and she asked how I was so calm – wasn’t angry.  In fact, two other people have asked that same thing.  The answer is simple.  The weekend was so much a shift . . . a true start of a new beginning.  I had a weekend, a few days, where my life wasn’t defined by the events of March, 2011.  My friend has never treated me like it is . . . none of these others have either.  I stayed out too late, drank too much Shiner Bock one night, too much scotch another – and forgot to eat very much.

I ended the night having a late-night burger and fries at In and Out by my hotel. . . and talking for a long time.

I literally stayed up all night after that . . . wrote song lyrics . . . edited a book I’m writing . . . and exhaustion never factored into my mind.

It truly fit the tone of what I do here.  I haven’t forgotten my last 18 years, they help define who I am . . . but they’re not the sum total of me, either.  There were 24 before that and nearly two since.  I came to the realization on the plane home.

My story truly has begun again.

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