EGO.
The people we love the most; the attractions they hold for us; the hand they reach out to us--the aura that pulls--that magic magnet. It's that thing about them so strong that makes them unique. Interesting to contemplate and inspiration when we ned a shot. But it's that thing we love that just runs over; leaks out from their souls; oozes and engulfs. Enveloping us all; blinding us with the thick haze of certainty, hurt & insecurity. Shoulders chipped and issues long stripped of any true meaning except to be used for another easy beating.
I throw out my back picking up my wurlitzer. I do this twice a year. For the past 20 years. Always the same--leaned over a bit too far. Forgot to pull out the output jack--had to lean over while I was already grabbing the instrument. 1 second; one wrong decision and a week's perspective is altered. All timing. I lean over and as I pull back, I can feel the ripples through the muscles just east of my spine; like twine twisted one way and uncoiling the other. Real fast as everything slows down.
And so then the promoter of the packed show in Innsbruck gets a little piece of my bad back. A little venom spits out with the pain of so many years picking up that lovely machine. And then my emails home; to friends, family, lovers, co-conspirators of grand plans everywhere; all bear the weight my back momentarily must escape; can't carry. And so a momentary slip late one night in the Austrian alps ripples through my circle--out from the moment when the muscle said enough.
Then we go to Linz. We get the "torte"--that special pie from this city in the north of Austria. And I'm driven to the 73 year old, blind masseur at the other end of town.
The wood burning fire is comforting and provides half the light and all the sound. A four-foot wooden Jesus on the cross decorates one wall. The tweed-wrapped radio in the corner is silent--50's vintage, but I bet it still works. The promoter sits at a table reading the local tabloid-"how about that Lindsay Vonn," he asks. I lie naked, face down on the massage table and the man--Herr ?, calls me Herr Wallfisch and asks me questions. He says my spine is fine. Asks if I enjoy my job, because there are no spots of tension on my back. None of those huge, tight tangles. I find this incredible! I'm always tensing up; piano shoulders. And just the endless anxiety of it all... But it's true--the tour hasn't been especially stressful. The travel party a wonderfully familial and congenial bunch. PMA, Viggy says I have--positive mental attitude. I could ascribe that to all of us, actually, as Claas guides the big silver sprinter through the sunny alps. The venue is packed in Innsbruck; and in Prague--the crowd dancing. In Linz, more sparse, but they are never less than rapt. We are just starting to approach cruising speed with this lineup. It's a bit different and always exciting every night. My back is the only thing that has given out, succumbed just a bit to all there is...And so the old man with the oversize, tinted brown frames slathers on the cream that heats the screaming muscles. And when I put more of that sharp smelling ointment on myself later that night, the odor of the herbs infuses the room and I think that it's this layer of discomfort; of lack of clarity that I'm trying to fix that has colored these minor interactions over the past 24 hours. Made it just a bit harder to keep the ego inside; keep the bigness in there where like a tall rod in your spine it keeps you straight and true, instead of hurting those in front of you. Those with their own troubles, triumphs and twisted tendons. As the Eels sing--Goddamn, it's a Beautiful Day!
