Sudbury, Massachusetts — Mopey and sad, heavy, droopy, I walk through the wet sand of melancholy from which every view looks hopeless.
I don’t want to do my practice and I’m deeply committed to doing it every single day, so there’s nothing else to do but sing the blues.
Today my blues are dark and minor, down in my register, an Eastern European mournful dirge. It feels good to have my feeling state so fully inhabit my expression.
There must be so many ways to sing the blues, I wonder whose moments of despair generated the American blues sound in the chord sequence it inhabits still.
As I sing my mood shifts slightly and as I’m writing this it lightens a bit more. Sing through to get out.