Sunday service.

They look into your eyes and see your gratitude.

Your face: Thank you for spending years building and maintaining your arms and lower back so you might spend every sunday afternoon on all fours, my feet perched on your spine.

Their eyes: Alright.

Ah, the internet. It is without boundaries. Unless, obviously, you want to find anything remotely interesting. If you want to find out what your Auntie’s dog smells like today or read about the effects of kale on the inflammation of the pineal gland, the internet is the most happening place to be.

So, putting it together, we’ll all be spending our Sunday afternoon using our loved ones as footrests and browsing MedLine articles (I have an itchy pelvis), won’t we?

NO!

Did you see that coming? Certain views of digital ontology might suggest there was nothing to see! But you did see it, didn’t you? Look! It’s there!

NO!

But weekends are a time of relaxation, yes? Whether that means forking in the flowerbeds or chucking some dough in a hot oven or sitting back and tapping a button or two, we’ll be taking this time to chill down and wind out, won’t we?

This life doesn’t work like that.

The new tour brings new material. Songs, as written, are like blueprints. You can listen to the recording as many times as you like, but live performance, like a group of swimming cows, is a whole different cattle of fish.

So this cold Sunday will see us all bejumpered and beleaguered, huddling over guitars, keyboards, and a trying to roast chestnuts on an open project file as, in our own separate domains, we practice and put parts together for the new stuff.

Then there’s the prospect of heading to the studio to sort out some technical issue or other that’s been bugging us for weeks to which I seem to hold the key. I’m a bit like a Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman for the 21st century.

Dr. Tim: Computer Man.

I’m not sure I like it, but I’ve pretty much become imprisoned by facts.

My morning was a glorious shuffle of croissants, coffee, and an awesome documentary about the first George W. Bush presidential campaign.

My afternoon and evening will be nothing of the sort. They will be pigeon-holes of pain and suffering. I shall have to play music, and I shall have to talk with people, fully clothed.

And my loved one shall weep, balancing my shoes on her back in my absence, looking up at only a rotten watermelon on a broom handle, and hearing only the gentle crushing of her spirit in my absence, like a polystyrene cup in a boxing match against the moon.

We shall overcome.

But learn from me: relax this day. Endeavour may only lead to suffering, and from suffering: endeavour.

Break open your circle.

 

Tim

 

P.S. I love working on band stuff. Come see us on tour to see what I mean. www.phoriamusic.com for dates and details. We really will be playing new material. Follow us on twitter and instagram @phoriamusic.