Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Personal

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Sometimes it’s hard to think of myself as a musician when i’m not making any music. With my jettison of the tonsils impending i’ve been trying not to get too wrapped up in playing music & singing because i know that i’ll be out of commission for at least two weeks after the fact.

I didn’t have any warning when i broke my collarbone, and the following month with music was a horror; i had to sit with my back perfectly aligned to a concrete wall to even have a chance to fret chords, and anything out of first position was met with the indescribable discomfort of the internal versions of nails on a chalkboard. By the time i was healed enough to play again i had lost any sort of direction i had in July, and i had forgotten the chords to “Lost” to boot. It took nearly a month before i started writing and playing again, but what came then spoke for itself: “Will It Ever Come,” “Punk,” “One Way,” and others i can’t recall from the top of my head.

So, i’ve been ignoring my guitar, and it’s been hard. Worse is that i’ve suddenly become surrounded by gigging guitarists, professional vocalists, and one friend who is months away from a major lable deal. It’s become hard to stand in the middle of all of that with my impending loss of voice and to assert that, yes, someone should listen to me. When the blue layout went up i neglected to even add a Trio bar onto it – i haven’t done one since before i began the layout.

Somehow, despite this hiatus, last Thursday two songs happened. They caught me unaware.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85130288/

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When we finally descended the stairs in search of PB&J and evening activities we had been lounging around since 10am, having only interrupted our reclining to go downstairs to make omelettes for breakfast followed by a short engagement with Classic NES. As we each finished our third half-sandwich our eyes locked across the table, neither of us blinking or moving an inch.


“So, Elise, some more Nintendo?”


“Well, Peter, i might be convinced to thoroughly whup you at Super Mario Bros. 3.”


“If by severely whup you mean ‘attempt to take advantage of a poor only child who never had friends to test his vicious head-to-head Mario Bros. skills against each and every day after school’ but – eventually – ‘fail in the face of he who is brave at heart and fleet of thumb’ … then, yeah, i’m up for a game or two.”

” … Boys are such dorks.”

Suffice to say that what was “a game or two” at 6pm somewhere around 10pm turned into “i’m going to go home for a change of clothes so that i can come back to beat the Piranha Plant World that you claim to hate so much.”

And then, of course, came 1am, when it was something to the effect of “See, if you time your jump to match exactly with the beginning of his parabolic arc you very nearly stand a chance of landing on his back and then boost-jumping onto the musical note box (which, lamentably, possesses no musical qualities whatsoever), which will bring us one level closer to ending the evil reign of the despotic ruler that is Bowser.”

Right. Not to mention 2:15am, which went a little something like “OH MY GOD, HE’S COMING THIS WAY! DEAR SWEET LORD PRESS THE FUCKING JUMP BUTTON OHGODOHGODOHGOD.”

Suffice it to say, i had my ass thoroughly whupped, and i got to beat Mario Bros. 3 level for level without a single warp flute nearly a decade and a half after it’s release. Oh, and, had an amazing day just sitting around in my gym shorts with Elise.

Perfect. Just… perfect.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85118611/

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Funny that i wrote that last post when i did and forgot to publish it; last night after i got home i collapsed onto my bed into a sleep deep enough that it might as well been medical in nature. It was, really; my body hasn’t taken longer than eight hours to regenerate itself in longer than i can remember. Sometimes you just need more than half of a day to put everything inside back into its proper order.

It’s a lot of life to miss out on just for being worn down, though.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85115896/

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I am not a big fan of surgical procedures, but anesthesia definitely excites me. It excites me because, unlike the illegal drugs that any college student is bound to be offered, it does something that your body already does nearly every day – and it does it better. I am of the firm believe that nearly all ‘drugs’ emulate a natural perception or function that your body can achieve in the short term, whether or not chemistry supports my theory. Anesthesia is something entirely different though, pulling the a shade down on your consciousness in the blink of an eye and leaving you in a deep slumber that you are helpless to arise from.


I’ve only been under twice and both times when i was instructed to count backwards from ninety-nine i did so with quiet excitement – knowing that modern medicine was about to work its magic on me. I think that’s what keeps me from getting to unnerved by whatever they’ll do to me while i’m asleep; i am fascinated by my unscheduled nap, the utter blackness that exists without turning over or being bothered by noise. It’s peaceful.


Today at my appointment the doctor began to go through a litany of warnings about the inherent dangers of being put under, a speech during which my mother usually can be found nervously clenching and unclenching her fists. She wasn’t invited to this appointment though; she went down the shore instead. As the litany moved on to postoperative dangers i remained calm, just thinking about the unfailing quiet that awaits me in twelve short days.


The doctor was impressed by my lack of nerves as she spoke of bleeding out, i think.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85112403/

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I was singing at the time.

I am getting used to her “hold it” as she tightens the focus and adjusts her shutter speed. I am beginning to learn to breathe down through my chest so that its expansion doesn’t ruin my pose. At the time i was just on Walnut street, though, with my extra black dress shirts slung over my shoulder.

So far Elise has mostly taken my picture while i’ve been playing guitar, or reaching for my guitar, or relaxing after having played my guitar. Last night was just me and the shirts, and a single red tie. Somehow the thought of it was a little threatening, as if i’m not worth photographing while i’m not running through my rock-star routine – which comes through alright in photographs even if it doesn’t sound up to par in person.


I needed to feel worthy of her photographs, and so i had my demo playing on my headphones during my walk to her room. I was really listening hard – wrapping my mind not around the lyrics and the guitars that are so familiar to be but around the arrangements that sprung up in the studio… the subtle changes i made to the songs on the fly that created the solid front they produced on the record rather than the random chance that they might turn out well when i play them live. I was wrapping my mind around the concept that i am worth listening to beyond the immediacy of my rhyming and strumming.

Somewhere inside of that thought i began to sing… not singing along with my record, but singing with it; adding harmony where i was too naive to place it when it was recorded, adding subtle changes in lyrics to deepen the songs that weren’t fully realized at the time. Just singing… singing out, singing loud …to songs that no one else on the street knew at all.

I’ve learned to turn off my peripheral vision in moments like that so as to ignore the bemused glances i draw from passers by, but i could hardly ignore the rumpled man on his ten speed bike keeping pace beside me. I am a jaded Philadelphian at best, and a guardedly hostile one at worst, and so when he motioned for me to take off my headphones i was hardly expecting anything other than him asking for directions or money. Possibly both. I slowed down a little, almost maliciously, since he would have an even tougher time maintaining balance on two wheels at such a slow speed. I offered him my attention.

“You should be a singer.”

“I am.”

Headphones back on, speed increased, and by the time he was out of my peripheral vision again i had paused just long enough to realize that i had said what i said not to put him off, but because i meant it. I was listening to honest proof that i am a singer, and was singing along. I am a singer.

Half a block later he waved again for me to take off my headphones. “I didn’t mean to be smart with you or anything, i just think you have a nice voice. You should sing.”

I replied with just as much ease as the first time: “I know. It’s just… that i am. I do. But, thank you.”

I am miles away right now, but she’s got my essence on paper right in front of her face.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85103545/